SIX OF CROWSSaga: The Dregs #1
Autora: Leigh Bardugo
Fecha de publicación: 6 de octubre de 2015
Sinopsis:
Ketterdam: un bullicioso centro de comercio internacional donde cualquier cosa puede ser comprada por el precio correcto - y nadie lo sabe mejor que prodigio penal Kaz Brekker. Kaz ofrece la oportunidad de un atraco mortal que podría hacerle rico más allá de sus sueños más salvajes. Pero él no puede llevarlo a cabo solo...
Un convicto con sed de venganza.
Un francotirador que no puede caminar lejos de una apuesta.
Un fugitivo con un pasado privilegiado.
Un espía conocido como el Wraith.
Un Heartrender que usa su magia para sobrevivir en barrios pobres.
Un ladrón con un don para los escapes inesperados.
Seis parias peligrosos. Un atraco imposible. La tripulación de Kaz lo único que podría interponerse entre el mundo y la destrucción - si no se matan entre ellos primero.
Extracto
Matthias was dreaming again. Dreaming of her.
In all his dreams, he hunted her, sometimes through the new green meadows of spring, but usually through the ice fields, dodging boulders and crevasses with unerring steps. Always he chased, and always he caught her. In the good dreams, he slammed her to the ground and throttled her, watching the life drain from her eyes, heart full of vengeance—finally, finally. In the bad dreams, he kissed her.
In these dreams, she didn’t fight him. She laughed as if the chase was nothing but a game, as if she’d known he would catch her, as if she’d wanted him to and there was no place she’d rather be than beneath him. She was welcoming and perfect in his arms. He kissed her, buried his face in the sweet hollow of her neck. Her curls brushed his cheeks, and he felt that if he could just hold her a little longer, every wound, every hurt, every bad thing would melt away.
“Matthias,” she would whisper, his name so soft on her lips. These were the worst dreams, and when he woke, he hated himself almost as much as he hated her. To know that he could betray himself, betray his country again even in sleep, to know that—after everything she’d done—some sick part of him still hungered after her . . . it was too much.
Tonight was a bad dream, very bad. She was wearing blue silk, clothes far more luxurious than anything he’d ever seen her in; some kind of gauzy veil was caught up in her hair, the lamplight glinting off of it like captured rain. Djel, she smelled good. The mossy damp was still there, but perfume, too. Nina loved luxury, and this was expensive—roses and something else, something his pauper’s nose didn’t recognize. She pressed her lips to his temple, and he could swear she was crying.
“Matthias.”
“Nina,” he managed.
“Oh, Saints, Matthias,” she whispered. “Please wake up.”
And then he was awake, and he knew he’d gone mad because she was here, in his cell, kneeling beside him, her hand resting gently on his chest. “Matthias, please.”
The sound of her voice, pleading with him. He’d dreamed of this. Sometimes she pleaded for mercy. Sometimes there were other things she begged for.
He reached up and touched her face. She had the softest skin. He’d laughed at her for it once. No real soldier had skin like that, he’d told her—pampered, coddled. He’d mocked the lushness of her body, ashamed of his own response to her. He cupped the warm curve of her cheek, felt the gentle brush of her hair. So lovely. So real. It wasn’t fair.
Then he registered the bloody wrappings on his hands. Pain rushed at him as he came fully awake—cracked ribs, aching knuckles. He’d chipped a tooth. He wasn’t sure when, but he’d cut his tongue against it at some point. His mouth still held the coppery taste of blood. The wolves. They’d made him murder wolves.
He was awake.
“Nina?”
There were tears in her beautiful green eyes. Rage coursed through him. She had no right to tears, no right to pity.
“Shhhh, Matthias. We’re here to get you out.”
What game was this? What new cruelty? He’d just learned to survive in this monstrous place, and now she’d come to heap some fresh torture on him.
He launched himself forward, flipping her to the ground, hands fastened tight around her throat, straddling her so that his knees pinned her arms to the ground. He knew damn well that Nina with her hands free was a deadly thing.
“Nina,” he gritted out. She clawed at his hands. “Witch,” he hissed, leaning over her. He saw her eyes widen, her face getting redder. “Beg me,” he said. “Beg me for your life.”
He heard a click, and a gravelly voice said, “Hands off her, Helvar.”
Someone behind him had pressed a gun to his neck. Matthias didn’t spare him a glance. “Go ahead and shoot me,” he said. He dug his fingertips deeper into Nina’s neck—nothing would deprive him of this. Nothing.
Traitor, witch, abomination. All those words came to him, but others crowded in, too: beautiful, charmed one. Röed fetla, he’d called her, little red bird, for the color of her Grisha order. The color she loved. He squeezed harder, silencing that weak-willed strain inside him.
“If you’ve actually lost your mind, this is going to be a lot tougher than I thought,” said that raspy voice.
He heard a whoosh like something moving through the air, then a wrenching pain shot through his left shoulder. It felt like he’d been punched by a tiny fist, but his entire arm went numb. He grunted as he fell forward, one hand still clamped around Nina’s throat. He would have fallen directly onto her, but he was yanked backward by the collar of his shirt.
A boy wearing a guard’s uniform stood before him, dark eyes glittering, a pistol in one hand, a walking stick in the other—its handle was carved to look like a crow’s head with a cruelly curved beak.
“Get hold of yourself, Helvar,” the strange, pale boy said. “We’re here to break you out. I can do to your leg what I did to your arm, and we can drag you out of here, or you can leave like a man, on two feet.”
“No one gets out of Hellgate,” said Matthias.
“Tonight they do.”
Matthias sat forward, trying to get his bearings, clutching his dead arm. “You can’t just walk me out of here. The guards will recognize me,” he snarled. “I’m not losing fighting privileges to be carted off Djel knows where with you.”
“You’ll be masked.”
“If the guards check—”
“They’re going to be too busy to check,” said the boy. And then the screaming started.
Matthias’s head jerked up. He heard the thunder of footsteps from the arena, cresting like a wave as people burst into the passageway outside his cell. He heard the shouts of guards, and then the roaring of a great cat, the trumpet of an elephant.
“You opened the cages.” Nina’s voice was shaky with disbelief, though who knew what might be real or an act with her. He refused to look in her direction. If he did, he’d lose all sense of reality. He was barely hanging on as it was.
“Jesper was supposed to wait until three bells,” said the pale boy.
“It is three bells, Kaz,” replied a small girl in the corner. A figure covered in welts and bandages was leaning against her.
“Since when is Jesper punctual?” the boy complained with a glance at his watch. “On your feet, Helvar.”
He offered him a gloved hand. Matthias stared at it. This is a dream. The strangest dream I’ve ever had, but definitely a dream. Or maybe killing the wolves had finally driven him truly mad. He’d murdered family tonight. No whispered prayers for their wild souls would make it right.
He looked up at the pale demon with his black-gloved hands. Kaz, she’d called him. Would he lead Matthias out of this nightmare or just drag him into another kind of hell? Choose, Helvar.
In all his dreams, he hunted her, sometimes through the new green meadows of spring, but usually through the ice fields, dodging boulders and crevasses with unerring steps. Always he chased, and always he caught her. In the good dreams, he slammed her to the ground and throttled her, watching the life drain from her eyes, heart full of vengeance—finally, finally. In the bad dreams, he kissed her.
In these dreams, she didn’t fight him. She laughed as if the chase was nothing but a game, as if she’d known he would catch her, as if she’d wanted him to and there was no place she’d rather be than beneath him. She was welcoming and perfect in his arms. He kissed her, buried his face in the sweet hollow of her neck. Her curls brushed his cheeks, and he felt that if he could just hold her a little longer, every wound, every hurt, every bad thing would melt away.
“Matthias,” she would whisper, his name so soft on her lips. These were the worst dreams, and when he woke, he hated himself almost as much as he hated her. To know that he could betray himself, betray his country again even in sleep, to know that—after everything she’d done—some sick part of him still hungered after her . . . it was too much.
Tonight was a bad dream, very bad. She was wearing blue silk, clothes far more luxurious than anything he’d ever seen her in; some kind of gauzy veil was caught up in her hair, the lamplight glinting off of it like captured rain. Djel, she smelled good. The mossy damp was still there, but perfume, too. Nina loved luxury, and this was expensive—roses and something else, something his pauper’s nose didn’t recognize. She pressed her lips to his temple, and he could swear she was crying.
“Matthias.”
“Nina,” he managed.
“Oh, Saints, Matthias,” she whispered. “Please wake up.”
And then he was awake, and he knew he’d gone mad because she was here, in his cell, kneeling beside him, her hand resting gently on his chest. “Matthias, please.”
The sound of her voice, pleading with him. He’d dreamed of this. Sometimes she pleaded for mercy. Sometimes there were other things she begged for.
He reached up and touched her face. She had the softest skin. He’d laughed at her for it once. No real soldier had skin like that, he’d told her—pampered, coddled. He’d mocked the lushness of her body, ashamed of his own response to her. He cupped the warm curve of her cheek, felt the gentle brush of her hair. So lovely. So real. It wasn’t fair.
Then he registered the bloody wrappings on his hands. Pain rushed at him as he came fully awake—cracked ribs, aching knuckles. He’d chipped a tooth. He wasn’t sure when, but he’d cut his tongue against it at some point. His mouth still held the coppery taste of blood. The wolves. They’d made him murder wolves.
He was awake.
“Nina?”
There were tears in her beautiful green eyes. Rage coursed through him. She had no right to tears, no right to pity.
“Shhhh, Matthias. We’re here to get you out.”
What game was this? What new cruelty? He’d just learned to survive in this monstrous place, and now she’d come to heap some fresh torture on him.
He launched himself forward, flipping her to the ground, hands fastened tight around her throat, straddling her so that his knees pinned her arms to the ground. He knew damn well that Nina with her hands free was a deadly thing.
“Nina,” he gritted out. She clawed at his hands. “Witch,” he hissed, leaning over her. He saw her eyes widen, her face getting redder. “Beg me,” he said. “Beg me for your life.”
He heard a click, and a gravelly voice said, “Hands off her, Helvar.”
Someone behind him had pressed a gun to his neck. Matthias didn’t spare him a glance. “Go ahead and shoot me,” he said. He dug his fingertips deeper into Nina’s neck—nothing would deprive him of this. Nothing.
Traitor, witch, abomination. All those words came to him, but others crowded in, too: beautiful, charmed one. Röed fetla, he’d called her, little red bird, for the color of her Grisha order. The color she loved. He squeezed harder, silencing that weak-willed strain inside him.
“If you’ve actually lost your mind, this is going to be a lot tougher than I thought,” said that raspy voice.
He heard a whoosh like something moving through the air, then a wrenching pain shot through his left shoulder. It felt like he’d been punched by a tiny fist, but his entire arm went numb. He grunted as he fell forward, one hand still clamped around Nina’s throat. He would have fallen directly onto her, but he was yanked backward by the collar of his shirt.
A boy wearing a guard’s uniform stood before him, dark eyes glittering, a pistol in one hand, a walking stick in the other—its handle was carved to look like a crow’s head with a cruelly curved beak.
“Get hold of yourself, Helvar,” the strange, pale boy said. “We’re here to break you out. I can do to your leg what I did to your arm, and we can drag you out of here, or you can leave like a man, on two feet.”
“No one gets out of Hellgate,” said Matthias.
“Tonight they do.”
Matthias sat forward, trying to get his bearings, clutching his dead arm. “You can’t just walk me out of here. The guards will recognize me,” he snarled. “I’m not losing fighting privileges to be carted off Djel knows where with you.”
“You’ll be masked.”
“If the guards check—”
“They’re going to be too busy to check,” said the boy. And then the screaming started.
Matthias’s head jerked up. He heard the thunder of footsteps from the arena, cresting like a wave as people burst into the passageway outside his cell. He heard the shouts of guards, and then the roaring of a great cat, the trumpet of an elephant.
“You opened the cages.” Nina’s voice was shaky with disbelief, though who knew what might be real or an act with her. He refused to look in her direction. If he did, he’d lose all sense of reality. He was barely hanging on as it was.
“Jesper was supposed to wait until three bells,” said the pale boy.
“It is three bells, Kaz,” replied a small girl in the corner. A figure covered in welts and bandages was leaning against her.
“Since when is Jesper punctual?” the boy complained with a glance at his watch. “On your feet, Helvar.”
He offered him a gloved hand. Matthias stared at it. This is a dream. The strangest dream I’ve ever had, but definitely a dream. Or maybe killing the wolves had finally driven him truly mad. He’d murdered family tonight. No whispered prayers for their wild souls would make it right.
He looked up at the pale demon with his black-gloved hands. Kaz, she’d called him. Would he lead Matthias out of this nightmare or just drag him into another kind of hell? Choose, Helvar.
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