Shadow Touched

55. FINCH

I don't know why it surprises me Naima can't follow simple orders, but somehow, it does. I specifically said that whoever finds the section with the journals should wait before diving into the stacks.

Does she do as we agreed? Of course not. She calls out a barely audible acknowledgment that she found the section, and then, like magic dust — poof! — she's gone.

Keaton's shock of red hair peeking out from up high is the only acknowledgment from him that he's maybe, possibly heard something.

"Naima," I say her name through clenched teeth. Her name tastes like agitation.

Shoving the few books in my hands back into the shelves, I grab the ladder and begin climbing up to where she disappeared.

"Do ya want me to follow?" Keaton asks from up above. He's sitting on the edge of the balcony several stories up, his feet dangling over the edge, a book in his hands. I scowl at him.

"Oh, don't bother!" I call back, my voice dripping in sarcasm. "We've only got about twenty minutes before we've got to hightail it back to the castle."

"Great, I'll be here then," he replies. Clearly, I need to work on my tone.

I barely make it up three stories before a shriek of absolute frustration pierces the air. In seconds Keaton's thrown the book to the side and is sliding down the ladder. The clash of bangs and thumps pound from behind the stacks.

"To the left!" I shout at him as I pick up my pace.

Once my boots hit the floor I run inward, tapping my pocket flame to life as I do. The light shines bright enough that I can see books scattered across the lanes. A shelf tipped back, held up by a wall. The signs of a scuffle are obvious. Worry spreads through me. The entire time we've been in the library, we weren't alone.

"No. No!" Naima's voice comes to me from even deeper within the space. She sounds frustrated and annoyed. Whoever she's dealing with is not Shadow-Touched. "Give me the journals."

I can see the soft light of a flame up ahead, it illuminates two bodies, casting them in shadows. From the shape and the way it moves—cool and fluid like a pool of the clearest water—I know the one form is Naima. The second form, tall and thin, moves like a needle. Darting in and out, poking little holes in Naima's form.

The two bodies tussle, Naima's urimu still in its casing. Her hand comes up, aiming to strike the stranger, who, at the same time, swings out a long leg, sweeping Naima's feet out of from under her. As I approach, I can see the stranger has a sack thrown over their shoulder.

Naima, on her back, flips herself onto her feet. She crouches below the stranger. Her hands dart out, grabbing the stranger as they turn on their heel in an attempt to flee. Naima pulls back with all her might, causing the stranger to cry out. As they do, they release the sack, their hands shooting forward to steady their fall.

Faster than expected Naima scoops up the bag. A low whistle of warning tells me Keaton's nearby. Naima, eyes still on the stranger, twists just enough to throw the heavy bag at the redhead, who stumbles back from its weight. Naima scrambles to her feet as Keaton steadies himself.

I finally reach the melee, my hand on Sirocco. With the sack in Keaton's hand, things seem to calm down. At least for the moment. The three of us stand facing inwards, each point of a triangle, the Stranger caught in the middle.

Naima smoothes her clothes, running her hands over her form-fitting shirt and pants. Satisfied her clothes are fine, she straightens herself, flinging back the long sheet of her hair which must have come loose during the skirmish. How it manages to look impeccable is beyond me. She rolls her tongue against her lips. Agitation floats off her in waves.

"Who are you?" She demands. Her voice is low and dangerous. "Why are you here?"

The stranger says nothing.

"Answer me!" She takes a menacing step towards the thief.

"Naima," I say, my voice low, "we don't have time for this." Turning to Keaton, I continue, "Have you checked the bag? Are the journals in there?"

He nods at me.

"Yes, there's at least eight in here."

"Is that all the journals?" Naima asks the stranger. Her face is impassive, but the way her hand flexes, I know it's taking every ounce of strength in her not to unravel her urimu. Why she didn't to begin with is a question I tuck away for later.

The Stranger remains quiet. They stare at Naima through their mask. It's black and covers their head entirely. The only part of their face that's visible is their eyes. Shaped like perfect, sideways teardrops. They're wide and bright, the dark brown of toasted coffee, and lined with kohl.

Two things become glaringly obvious to me about the Stranger. The first is that they are Frisian. The teardrop eyes the giveaway there. The second thing happens when the Stranger, in response to Naima's question, slowly, casually shrugs their shoulders. The movement is dancer-like. Strikingly alluring and feminine. The Stranger is clearly a woman.

"Right," Naima replies to the shrug. The word barely hits the air before the Stranger takes a running leap, landing between Naima and Keaton, just beyond an arm's length away from both. She snags the bag in one hand, wrapping the loose end that's held shut with a drawstring around her hand. Dragging it behind her, she takes three big leaps—no, jetés, like a ballerina—across the row, making her way back into the depths of the stacks.

Naima is up and after her, her urimu unravelling as she runs. Keaton spares me half a glance before he takes off in their general direction.

Gods.

I double back to the other end of the stacks, cutting through an aisle that I know will lead out without having to weave my way between the giant shelves.

I barrel through to the library's center. The sound of scurrying feet muffled against the thick carpet. The library's light begins to break through the darkness of the stacks. I round the final corner and turn, landing on the outer corridor that overlooks the library. The stranger comes dancing out through the middle, the sack trailing behind her. I pick up my pace, rushing towards her. Her head snaps in my direction, and despite not being able to see her face in full I can tell she's smiling at me. The way her eyes close just slightly, brightening. She's smirking at me.

Two...three...four more elegant leaps, and her foot lands on the metal railing that encircles the outer ridge of the shelves. Her second foot follows, bringing her up high. Her long, lean form balances on the top of the railing. She stands there for a moment, perfectly still. She lifts her arms, the bag seemingly weightless to her and dips forward just enough as she prepares to dive from 12 stories up.

She takes a big, deep breath and jumps.

~*~

The dive would have been a thing of beauty. Truly. I've no doubt the Stranger would have landed it with the effortless yet detached coolness she's shown this entire time. But, just as she took her leap, Naima's urimu snaked out like a black mamba hidden in the grass. Faster than a crashing wave, her urimu wraps itself around the woman's ankle. Squeezing tight, cutting through her pants and into her skin. One twist is all it would take for Naima to sever the woman's foot from her leg. She, however, locks the tines and pulls back. Keaton, following behind her, wraps his arms around her tiny waist, giving her purchase. This keeps her from sliding after the Stranger as she falls forward.

Instead, the assailant hangs upside down, suspended in the air. The burlap sack still wrapped around her wrist, surely only adding to the dead weight of her dangling body.

~*~