Seven Faceless Saints E-Book

M.K. Lobb

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 514

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The sensational #1 Sunday Times bestseller! Romance, revolution and mystery intertwine as a young rebel and palace guard hunt a murderer in the first book of a gripping fantasy duology set in a world inspired by Florence, Italy. Perfect for fans of Leigh Bardugo and Kerri Maniscalco. Roz and Damian grew up in Ombrazia, a city ruled by the disciples of the seven faceless saints, where those with magic live in comfort whilst the rest struggle to survive. A city caught in a twenty-year war of attrition, a battlefront consuming a generation of conscripts. Roz serves as a disciple of the Saint Patience to support her mother, and to spy for the rebellion. Her Ombrazia is corrupt and unjust and she'll tear it down to get justice for the murder of her father at the hands of the Ombrazian military. The Military that Damian now serves. Damian is the youngest captain in the history of Palazzo security, expected to be ruthless and strong, and to serve the saints with unquestioning devotion. But he's haunted by the ghosts of war, and trying to rebuild his life as he rediscovers the love he once had for Roz. When a brutal murderer strikes the city, Roz and Damian find they are the only ones willing to hunt the killer no matter the consequences. Forced to work together, they must face their buried emotions, the past they once shared, and the dark and powerful evil that wants to consume their city.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

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Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

“A dark and delicious murder mystery. M. K. Lobb has created a fantastical and evocative world, blending the genres of fantasy, romance, and murder mystery into one epic story. With lush prose, gripping characters, and an intricate lore that will keep you turning the pages, Seven Faceless Saints is an absolute hit.”

Adalyn Grace, New York Times-bestselling author of Belladonna

“Seven Faceless Saints is the rich taste of ceremonial wine, stolen kisses at midnight, a gallery lined by shrouded statues, and the flames of a corrupt system as it burns to the ground. M. K. Lobb has crafted an intricate world that is both dark and alluring; the perfect backdrop for the tempestuous romance of the two protagonists.”

Lyndall Clipstone, author of Lakesedge and Forestfall

“With an impressive and balanced command of gorgeous prose and compelling pace, Seven Faceless Saints draws its readers into a mystery as intelligent as it is intriguing. I thoroughly enjoyed the richness of Ombrazia, which perfectly complements the fresh, compelling characters Lobb has so artfully woven into this story’s every page. Truly, this is an exceptional debut, sure to find many, many fans.”

Ayana Gray, New York Times-bestselling author of the Beasts of Prey trilogy

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Seven Faceless Saints

Print edition ISBN: 9781803363783

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803363790

Fairyloot edition ISBN: 9781803363806

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: February 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© M. K. Lobb 2023

M. K. Lobb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To those who feel too small tocontain their rageand too weary to shouldertheir heartache

They say it rained the day Chaos fell from grace.

Not in a mist upon a delicate wind, but in a torrential rush. He fell because his children did: their broken, mortal bodies trampled in the northern mud. When he retreated, it was with a scream that shook mountains. A scream that transcended worlds and settled in the cracks of every city, holding vigil in the spaces between light.

His lover, Patience, watched mournfully as he fell. And though her heart, so like his, was full of revenge, she did not reach for him. She only waited, knowing that every war has its end, and every sin begs a punishment.

Chaos is hasty. But Patience . . .

Ah, Patience knows precisely when to strike.

—Saints and Sacrifice, Psalm 266

1

LEONZIO

It was just past midnight when the paranoia set in.

Leonzio paced the length of the room, heartbeat so vigorous it was a foreign sensation in his chest. He was hyperaware of the cool air against his skin. The way his tongue—too dry, too dry—sat all wrong behind the cage of his teeth.

Unable to stand it any longer, he crossed over to the door, opened it, and peered into the corridor. It stretched out before him like an infinite passage, all but the first few steps consumed by oppressive shadow.

The guard who should have been standing there was gone.

And yet the disciple couldn’t bring himself to leave his room, unwilling to navigate the dark Palazzo.

The building had eyes. He’d felt their weight all week: first in the place where he prayed to the saints, then in the council chambers where he met with the other representatives of the blessed guilds. They tracked his every step, and not even the light of the stars could drive them away.

As he slipped back into his room, frustration nagged at the edges of his mind. What had he been doing prior to the fear taking hold? He’d been looking for the chief magistrate—that was it. Had needed to tell the man something crucially important. But what?

Leonzio swept a hand across his perspiring brow. The candle he’d lit cast slanting shadows up the walls, soft lines shifting as the flame quivered in the breeze from the cracked window. Staggering to the other side of the room, he shoved the glass pane open wider, letting the wind caress his face as he stared into the night-shrouded gardens below.

They stared back.

Pulse ricocheting higher, the disciple stumbled in his haste to yank the curtain closed. Something was out there. Something ghastly and inhuman prowled the Palazzo grounds. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the wrongness, the slimy, shifting weight of it a pressure at his throat.

He twisted his sweat-slick fingers together, muttering a prayer to the patron saint of Death. His saint. The one from whom his family was descended, blessing them with the gift of magic. And yet tonight his fervent murmurings brought little comfort, for the more he questioned Death’s power, the less he felt the saint’s presence.

Help me was the central request of his current plea, though he only grew hotter and felt sicker. Perhaps it was not enough, the disciple thought, to request protection with mere words. Compulsion gripped him as suddenly as the nausea had, firm and unrelenting. He let it carry him. He was a distant spectator, two eyes in a flesh prison.

Vision beginning to blur, he dragged himself to the room adjacent, using the wall as an aid. He imagined he left handprints against the gilded paint, swipes of rusted crimson that would draw the saints to him. As if they were no longer deities, but slavering beasts seeking a fresh carcass.

The saints were merciful. All the stories said so.

But the stories also said they craved blood.

Leonzio dropped to his knees beside an incoherent arrangement of debris he’d collected from the Palazzo grounds. He didn’t quite know when or why he’d begun stuffing rocks into his pockets and snapping twigs off bushes like some kind of compulsive pruner. The process had simply felt . . . necessary.

His hands shook as he knelt on the floor, redistributing the debris into a different shape. The stone beneath his knees grounded him slightly. As the disciple aligned the sticks, he whispered not only to Death but to all the faceless saints.

Then he picked up the knife.

When the first drops of blood fell, it was almost a relief. Stark fear gave way to welcome inertia.

By the time he realized he was dying, it was far too late.

2

DAMIAN

Damian Venturi was weary of death.

Truth be told, he was weary in general. The night had long shifted closer to dawn than dusk, and it was increasingly difficult to focus on the dead disciple before him. He adjusted the collar of his Palazzo-issued coat, hoping it might ease some of the pressure building in his throat.

Leonzio Bianchi, former disciple of Death, showed every indication of having been poisoned. His pallid lips were slick with a distasteful layer of foam, and the veins lacing his forearms stood out in stark, bruise-like relief. Despite it all, his expression was peaceful, the curve of his mouth soft, as if he’d resigned himself unflinchingly to death.

Damian leaned away from Leonzio’s body, repressing a shiver. The disciple’s bedroom was cold, and dim candlelight cast shadows on the gilded walls. Perhaps it was merely situational, but there was something oppressive about the darkness nipping at the edges of that orange glow. Something unnerving about the way Leonzio’s face was turned so as to reflect in the mirror across the room.

“Well?”

The chief magistrate’s voice interrupted Damian’s examination of the body, startling him enough that he lurched away from the bed. Sweat beaded on his brow. Death always brought him back to his time in the war. It made his chest tighten, his blood race, and his feet feel as though they were being dragged through mud.

“I don’t know,” Damian said, turning to face the chief magistrate. He kept his tone clipped but polite. The chief magistrate’s fury was a presence of its own; Damian had felt it from the moment he’d walked into the room. “Is it possible it was a suicide?”

Chief Magistrate Forte, a tall disciple of Grace with impeccably combed hair and a thin moustache, peered at Damian over his spectacles. Forte had occupied his position for little more than a year, having been selected by the guilds’ representatives to replace his predecessor. It wasn’t often one of Grace’s disciples fulfilled the role, and Damian wondered if that knowledge had shaped Forte into the sharply uncompromising man before him.

“A suicide?” Forte echoed the suggestion derisively, hands roving the dead man’s clothes and bedsheets for whatever they could tell him. Disciples of Grace had a connection to such things: It was what made them expert weavers, able to manipulate fabrics into anything from trousers to tapestries without touching a needle and thread. “How convenient that would be for you, Signor Venturi.”

“I beg your pardon?” The reply slipped out before Damian could stop it. As chief magistrate, Forte was believed to be the saints’ earthly voice, but it hadn’t made him any more tactful. Damian had been back in Ombrazia barely a year, and already that much was clear.

“Were this self-imposed,” Forte continued, “it would mean Palazzo security hadn’t failed to protect a top government official.” He didn’t look at Damian as he spoke but pulled away from the bed, a frown settling between his untamed brows. “Leonzio certainly died in these clothes, but there’s nothing otherwise unusual about them.” With a wave of his hand, the bedsheets wriggled free and swept up to cover the disciple’s body.

Damian was grateful not to have to look at the dead man any longer, but his relief faded at Forte’s next words.

“Speaking of Palazzo security, where were you last night, Venturi? Is it not your job to ensure this kind of thing doesn’t happen?”

Frustration pulsed through Damian’s veins, but he gritted his teeth to cage in the retort he wanted to fling. “My apologies, mio signore. I was at the Mercato.”

The city’s weekly night market was a chance for disciples to sell and exchange their wares. The four guilds who dealt in craft—Strength, Grace, Patience, and Cunning—were the backbone of Ombrazia’s economy, and the reason it was the hub of trade. Grace’s affinity for fabrics was matched by Strength’s affinity for stone, Patience’s affinity for metal, and Cunning’s affinity for chemicals. As such, their major function was to churn out weapons, textiles, stonework, and all manner of potions to be shipped to other lands.

All disciples were descendants of the original saints, but not all descendants had magic. Sometimes, Damian’s father had told him, the revered abilities possessed by disciples skipped a generation or disappeared entirely when the bloodline became too diluted.

Descendants without magic—people like Damian—weren’t disciples. They were little better than the rest of the unfavored citizens.

As such, acting as security was the only way Damian would ever be able to attend the Mercato. Crafted items were not for people like him. Mingling with disciples was not an option for those with nothing to offer society. In case the unfavored chose to ignore that fact, security officers were there to keep them away. Damian’s occupation was the closest he would ever get to experiencing the life he might have had.

But he knew as well as Forte that, as head of Palazzo security, it was a job he ought to have delegated. Unless he was doing his rounds of the temples, his job was to be here, in the Palazzo itself. His number one priority was to protect the disciples selected to represent their guilds.

“You were at the Mercato.” Forte’s voice was bland as he echoed Damian’s statement. “Did you not make your rounds of the temples yesterday?”

“Yes.” He winced to admit it. “I thought—”

“No, Venturi.” The chief magistrate cut him off. “You didn’t think. I’d say that’s abundantly clear.” With each word he took a step closer to Damian, jabbing a finger at his chest. “The guilds rely on us to protect their representatives. I rely on you to ensure the Palazzo is the safest building in Ombrazia. And yet, on the night one of our disciples turns up dead, you’re frolicking around the Mercato?”

Damian swallowed, protestations springing to his tongue. He longed to argue, to say that by no means had he been frolicking, but months of experience had taught him it wouldn’t make a difference. “Mio signore, I assure you no one could have been in the disciple’s room without my officers knowing. Besides”—he inclined his chin at the body—“there’s no injury to his person. Either he had some kind of sudden aneurysm, or he was poisoned. I assure you we keep a very close watch on who comes and goes from the Palazzo.”

The chief magistrate’s nostrils flared. “Clearly not close enough.”

Damian had no response to that. There had already been two unexplained deaths in Ombrazia in a short amount of time: the first a young girl, the second a boy around Damian’s age. Their bodies had been carted off to the city morgue, and Forte hadn’t bothered assigning officers to investigate. The unfavored fought among themselves all the time, he’d said. What did it matter if a couple had fallen?

But this was different. The disciples of Death had chosen Leonzio Bianchi to represent them in the Palazzo. His sudden demise would frighten and infuriate people.

“It’s too convenient,” Forte growled. “Targeting Death’s representative so that no one is around to read the body?”

Despite himself, Damian nodded. He’d had the same thought. Blessed with the ability to make contact with the deceased before their souls fled, a disciple of Death might have been able to glean what happened to Leonzio.

Of course, given that Leonzio was the Palazzo’s disciple of Death, they were likely out of luck. Souls didn’t tend to linger very long.

“I’ll get someone here,” Damian assured the chief magistrate. “Just in case.”

Forte drew a hand across his forehead, unappeased. “Fix this, Venturi. We won’t be able to keep it from the public, so we’d better have answers for them soon. I’m starting to wonder whether my general made a mistake appointing his son head of security.” He pulled a silver watch from his pocket as if he had somewhere of great importance to be in the middle of the night. “I let Battista bring you back from the north, and I can have you sent away again just as easily.”

The words were scathing, and they cut deep. Damian didn’t think he could handle being sent back to war. His nerves were frayed enough as it were.

“I’ll figure out what happened,” he muttered. “I won’t let you down.”

Forte leveled him with an incensed look. “You’d better not. Report to me tomorrow. If you suspect poison was involved, I take it you know where to start.”

Damian’s cheeks burned, but he bowed to Forte as the man slipped out of the room, large form swallowed up by the dark hallway. Another sleepless night, then. Sometimes he wished his father hadn’t bothered promoting him after he’d returned.

To keep you busy, Battista Venturi had told Damian at the time. Because I know what it is to be alone with thoughts of darkness.

Damian had waited for those thoughts to go away. How was he supposed to get closure when he knew the war was ongoing? The Second War of Saints was stretching into its twentieth year. Men and women had battled in the north for far longer than Damian’s two-year stint, but as it turned out, that meant little. Death still stalked his every waking moment. It traced cold, malevolent fingers down his spine and hissed garbled nothings in his ear.

Once, he might have distracted himself with memories. Would have pictured the face of the girl he loved and used her smile to drive away the fear. Now, though, three years on, he couldn’t imagine Rossana Lacertosa as anything other than furious.

It was why Damian stayed away from Patience’s sector whenever possible. He’d seen Roz in passing, but they hadn’t spoken to one another since his return to Ombrazia. The Roz of his subconscious already knew what sins he’d committed; the reality of telling her would be so much worse. Besides, her magic had shown itself, meaning she was a disciple now. And Damian? He was but a fractured boy playing at commander.

He shook his head to clear it, then raised his voice to be heard outside the room. “Enzo?”

A thin serving boy about Damian’s age appeared in the doorway, clad in the slate-gray uniform of Palazzo staff. He’d been standing outside the room when Damian arrived, and clearly hadn’t moved. His grimace was animated as he took in the sight of Leonzio’s sheet-covered body. “Signore?”

Damian sighed. “Forte’s gone. You don’t have to call me that.”

Enzo relaxed at once, dragging a hand through the inky sheen of his hair. He’d been at the Palazzo less than a month, but he and Damian had become fast friends. “Merda,” he said, attention still fixed on the bed. “He’s really dead, isn’t he?”

“So it would seem.” An edge slipped into Damian’s voice. Enzo hadn’t yet spent any time up north, and had likely never seen a dead man. At his age, it was strange he hadn’t been drafted yet, but it was only a matter of time. Everyone able-bodied and unfavored found themselves there eventually.

“And Forte expects you to figure out what happened?”

Damian shot Enzo a sideways glance. “You aren’t even going to pretend you didn’t eavesdrop?”

Enzo was staunchly unapologetic. “Hard not to. How can I help?”

The question made Damian’s head spin, and he was quiet a moment as he began formulating a plan. “Can you fetch Signora de Luca for me?”

“Sure.” But Enzo didn’t leave right away, instead fixing Damian with a curious expression. “Are you okay? You look a bit . . . off.”

Damian let his shoulders slump, no longer bothering to maintain an air of confidence. He indicated at the bed. “This is on me. I should have been here.”

“You didn’t know this would happen. And it’s not as though you’re the only one on duty.”

“That’s not the point.”

Enzo hesitated, looking uneasy.

“Enzo, please. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“All right.” The words were heavy. “I’ll be right back.”

Damian sank into the dead disciple’s desk chair as Enzo’s footsteps retreated. His ears rang, the sound shifting into the echo of gunshots. In his head they multiplied a thousandfold, and the cold sweat that followed had nothing to do with the situation in the Palazzo. For a heartbeat he was ankle deep in mud, head spinning in terror, dragging a brother’s rigor mortis–stricken body away from the front lines. How many times had those moments reared their heads in his nightmares?

You’re a soldier. The head of Palazzo security. Pull yourself together, you—

“Just in here, Signora.”

Enzo reappeared in the doorway, now accompanied by the resident disciple of Cunning. Damian gave himself a shake, rising to beckon Giada de Luca into the bedroom.

“Thank you for coming. Enzo, can you head to Death’s temple? Tell the guild to send one of their disciples to the Palazzo. I don’t care who it is. I need a read on the body.”

Damian always felt a bit strange, ordering his friend around, but Enzo nodded. With another meaningful look at Damian, he melted back into the dark hallway.

Giada swallowed a dry sob as she caught sight of Leonzio’s body. She was older than Damian—probably in her midtwenties—but was a slip of a thing, with dark hair and a darker gaze. “It’s true, then. He’s really dead.” She touched her eyelids, then her heart, in the sign of the patron saints.

“So it would appear. I’m sorry to have called upon you so early, but I require your expertise. I need to know what type of poison killed him.” As a disciple of Cunning, Giada knew poisons better than anyone. She should be able to sense the chemicals in Leonzio’s veins—a partial autopsy with no incisions required.

“How could this happen?” Giada asked hoarsely. “You have officers in every wing of the Palazzo, do you not?”

She didn’t say it like an accusation, but it felt like one.

“Some things are outside my control, Signora. If you’d be so kind?” Damian pointed meaningfully at the body, and Giada sidled over to the bed, face wan in the dim light.

Her hands moved like pale moths across the dead man’s chest. She shoved the crimson fabric of his robe aside, lips forming words Damian couldn’t make out. He watched as she tipped Leonzio’s head back, prying open his jaw. Teeth glinted in the candlelight.

“Based on the color of his lips, I would guess he spent his last moments fighting for breath,” Giada said. “Yet the appearance of the skin suggests the poison was bloodborne, not an asphyxiant. . . . Something vile definitely lingers in his body, though it’s hard to say what. It feels a bit like dustweed—kills swiftly once it enters the circulatory system but, when taken undissolved in water, is liable to cause choking.”

Damian frowned. “You don’t know for certain?”

“Wait.” Giada’s interruption was the crack of a whip. She shoved the sleeve of Leonzio’s robe up further, baring the delicate skin of the inner bicep. There was a mark there, Damian saw: a deep smudge like fresh ink from which black tendrils radiated outward. Giada touched the skin gently with a finger, only to leap back as if she’d been burned. “No, no. It wasn’t dustweed.”

Damian’s teeth came together with an audible snap. “Oh?”

“Dustweed leaves a latticelike pattern and almost no trace at the injection site. But these marks follow the veins from the point of insertion.” Giada leaned forward and, without touching this time, used a forefinger to indicate the lines climbing the dead man’s arm. “This is something else. I don’t recognize the appearance or the sensation of such a poison. And it’s too late to draw it out.”

Damian’s heart sank. If Giada didn’t know what had killed Leonzio, it would be more difficult to come up with a list of suspects.

Though he already had one, of course.

“Signs point to him having been dead around five hours,” Giada added, oblivious to his discomfort.

“Right.” Damian knew what he had to do. He extinguished the candle and reached for the cuffs at his belt. “Giada de Luca,” he said heavily. “I’m placing you under arrest for the suspected murder of Leonzio Bianchi. Should you attempt to struggle, your life will be forfeit. You will be subject to questioning forthwith, and thereafter as I see fit.”

Guilt roiled within him as Giada blanched, holding out her wrists. He sincerely doubted the soft-spoken woman was responsible, but he had to know for certain. He shackled her hands together before leading her down the stairs. She moved slowly, shakily, not breathing a word. As if she wasn’t surprised by the turn of events but rather disappointed by them.

The dungeons beneath the Palazzo were quiet as a tomb, currently empty of criminals and deserters. Damian ushered Giada into an interrogation room, all cold stone and grim shadows. She sat, studying him with a mixture of fear and apprehension. Damian remained standing.

Giada folded her shackled hands on the table before her, fingers interlacing, knuckles pale. Her dark eyes didn’t waver from his.

“Convenient, isn’t it,” Damian said, “that Leonzio turned up poisoned mere days after you two argued over a new policy initiative.”

It wasn’t much of a motive; the Palazzo disciples disagreed all the time. They had to, in order to come up with policy decisions that would best benefit the city. And despite Giada’s skill with chemicals, she wouldn’t have been foolish enough to kill Leonzio in such a way. Not when she knew it would make her the primary suspect.

But it didn’t matter what Damian thought. Forte’s instructions had been clear.

If you suspect poison was involved, I take it you know where to start.

As the Palazzo’s top official, both symbolically and in practice, Chief Magistrate Forte was not to be denied. The disciples trusted him. Revered him. They believed he spoke to the saints daily in order to discern their will. He was a fat spider positioned at the center of a political web.

Giada was the first person Damian would question, but she wouldn’t be the last. The Palazzo—the city—was teeming with people whose motivations he couldn’t discern.

Giada licked her lips, a sheen creeping over her eyes. “Officer Venturi, I swear I wasn’t behind this. I didn’t recognize that poison, and I doubt Leonzio’s death was self-imposed. I think . . .” Her voice trailed off in a whisper. “I’ve heard rumors, you know, from the other disciples. I think darkness has taken root in the Palazzo.”

Damian pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, confusion pulsing through him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A beat of silence hung between them, turning the air cold before Giada finally answered.

“Someone—or something—managed to infiltrate the Palazzo and kill a representative without drawing any suspicion. Without leaving any trace.” The words were halting, a desperate note to them. She leaned across the table, fixing Damian with a panicked look. “With all due respect, mio signore, you shouldn’t be accusing me of murder. You should be worrying about whether I’m next.”

3

ROZ

Rossana Lacertosa detested crowds.

She hated the unnerving sense of pure anonymity as she waded through swaths of people, giving them a good shove whenever they didn’t get out of her way fast enough. Crowds were so infuriatingly slow, and Roz did nothing at a languid pace.

She scanned the colorful night market that spilled from the piazza into the side streets. Disciples moved among the stalls in groups, excited voices permeating the night air. Held every weekend from dusk until dawn, the Mercato was one of many things in Ombrazia that catered solely to disciples. There, an assortment of magical wares would be for sale: robes enchanted to repel flame, knives that never needed sharpening, locks that opened only at a specific person’s touch. The latter was a thing Roz herself had been working on intermittently for weeks. Given the recent rebel activity, the locks were in high demand, so she and the other disciples of Patience had slowed their creation of wartime supplies to meet it.

In Roz’s opinion, that was the worst part about being a disciple: the expectation that one spend so much of one’s time creating magical items. She had no interest in using her affinity for metal to support Ombrazia’s already booming economy. In fact, she was hard pressed to give a shit about the economy at all. Not when it only benefited a portion of the population.

She cracked her jaw, pushing her way through another group of people. The Mercato didn’t consist only of magical wares. There were also regular items: weapons and expensive rugs, hand-carved statuettes and herbal elixirs. All things disciples could create in less than half the time required by someone without a magical affinity. All things that fetched a pretty price when exported.

It was beautiful, this part of Ombrazia, where moonlight gilded the flagstone in spaces the lamplight didn’t touch it. Where those descended from the saints could pretend the less savory parts of the city didn’t exist.

Across the way Roz could see a disciple of Cunning poised behind a display of vials, opaque black liquid swirling within them. The scent drifted to her, smelling strongly of sugar and iron. She let it draw her over, heeled boots clicking against the cobblestones, and smiled sharply at the vendor. “The usual.”

The red-haired disciple’s eyes flicked to the scowling man Roz had stepped in front of—the man who ought to have been next in line. But she didn’t argue, reaching under the table of wares to procure a vial of shimmering liquid. Roz took it, passing her payment over. “Thank you.” To the quietly fuming man behind her, she batted her lashes and said, “My apologies, Signore. I’m in a rush.”

She wasn’t, but he straightened at her direct address, looking appeased. “No matter.”

He seemed to hope she would say more, but Roz only shot him another vague smile before turning on her heel. She shoved the vial into the pocket of her jacket, thumb skimming the wax stopper.

Fire danced in her periphery as she passed a stall manned by a few of her fellow disciples of Patience. Surrounding them was the familiar metallic tang of their magic, and Roz quickened her step, keen not to be spotted. She slowed upon noticing two security officers at the edge of the piazza, and pretended to be interested in a display of silk dressing gowns. As she strained to listen in on their conversation, a third officer joined the duo, dragging a youth along with him. The boy was about Roz’s age, with a shock of ginger hair and an upturned nose. His clothes were so dusty they looked gray. The officers ignored his curses as he struggled against Patience-made handcuffs, trying to free himself.

Fool, Roz thought heavily. He should know as well as anyone that the cuffs wouldn’t budge for anyone save the officer to whom they’d been issued.

“I’ll give you five seconds to answer my question,” the third officer snapped, and Roz chanced a furtive look. He was a tall man, unsmiling, with a shock of black hair. A former soldier, no doubt. Most Palazzo security were.

It wasn’t him, though, and something within Roz eased.

She knew Damian Venturi was around—had seen him from a distance over the past year—but the idea of running into him here always set her heart racing. She wondered what the other officers thought of Damian as a commander. Whether they feared him the way people feared his father. She had no doubt her childhood sweetheart was following in Battista Venturi’s blood-soaked footsteps.

The dust-covered boy yanked his bound hands away from the guards. “What, no good-cop, bad-cop act?”

Roz grinned into the dresses as the officer scowled, not condescending to answer. “Why are you lurking around the Mercato?”

“I wasn’t lurking!”

“Sure looked like it to me.” The officer paused to dip his head at a passing disciple of Mercy before turning back to the boy. “No ring, no entry.”

Roz automatically glanced down at the slim band on her index finger that marked her as a disciple. As always, the sight of it made her grimace. She’d discovered her affinity later than most—when she and Damian were tested together at age thirteen, neither of them had shown any signs of magic. Her connection to metal hadn’t reared its head until three years later. By that time, Damian had gone off to the front lines, and her father had been killed for deserting them. Roz might’ve been able to hide what she was, but without Jacopo Lacertosa’s meager military stipend, Patience’s guild was her only option. She might hate what she was, but at least it was a way to support herself and her mother. When you were a disciple—traitor father or not—you were never left to starve.

The officer’s voice recaptured her attention as he asked the boy, “What do you know about the rebellion?”

Now this was new. Roz went preternaturally still, adrenaline surging in her veins. As far as she was aware, the chief magistrate and the Palazzo weren’t taking the threat of the rebellion seriously.

“I know nothing,” the boy snapped.

The officer gave him a long once-over, eyes narrowed to slits. “Hmm.” Eventually he relented. “Pay the fine and you can go.”

Rather than sag in relief, the boy went even more tense. “I—I don’t have any money.”

Before the officer could respond, Roz turned and sauntered over, pulling back the hood of her jacket. Her dark ponytail tumbled free, spilling over her chest. She grinned at the three guards in what she knew was a disarming way.

“I couldn’t help but overhear. I’m happy to pay the fine if it means you’ll get rid of him.” She made a show of wrinkling her nose, hoping the boy didn’t take it personally. As if she hadn’t done this before. “How much?”

A bland smile replaced the officer’s frown, and he backed away from the boy as his gaze dipped to Roz’s hand. “Never mind, Signora. You don’t need to concern yourself with this.”

It was likely meant to be polite, but it felt placating in a way Roz didn’t appreciate. She tilted her head, eyeing the man with disdain. “He said he doesn’t have the money. Either take me up on my offer, or let him go.”

Something in her tone must have been convincing because the officer unshackled the boy and all but shoved him away from the piazza.

Roz smiled again, less nicely this time. “Mercy is an honorable quality, I’m told.” She didn’t mention she possessed precious little of it.

While the guards gaped, she redonned her hood and slipped into the dark.

As she walked, the expertly crafted pillars and wrought-iron accents gave way to dreary architecture and feeble wooden gates. The air turned acrid in her nostrils. There were no streetlamps here, and darkness stretched to occupy every space the moonlight couldn’t reach. Ombrazia was divided into six sectors for each of the remaining original saints, leaving the unfavored to build their lives in the spaces between. As such, they had decided to take over the abandoned sector that once belonged to the seventh saint.

Every disciple was descended from one of the original saints: Strength, Patience, Cunning, Grace, Mercy, Death, and Chaos. But every so often, a disciple was born whose power rivaled that of their respective original saint’s. When that happened, they were considered a reincarnation—all but a deity in their own right.

History, Roz knew, had shown it was dangerous to have a saint on earth. Seventy years ago, two reincarnations had existed at once: Strength and Chaos. Each vying for power, they had split the country in two. The northern side—now an independent city-state called Brechaat—had lost horribly. They’d rallied behind Chaos, and he had fallen, like each of his predecessors dating back to time’s inception. It was for the best, everyone said: Disciples of Chaos were illusionists with an affinity for the mind, and they were simply too powerful. They couldn’t risk another reincarnation of Chaos being born. And so his surviving disciples had been destroyed, his likeness struck from all renderings of the pantheon. In Ombrazia—the southern side, and the winning side—merely mentioning the fallen saint was considered heretical.

That had been the First War of Saints.

Now, they were embroiled in the second.

Despite the less pleasant scenery of unfavored territory, Roz felt her tension lift. Her steps echoed across the stone, earning her furtive glances from a couple of passing youths. Their clothes were threadbare, expressions fearful. Roz wondered whether they’d managed to avoid the war draft, or if their time hadn’t come yet. She offered a nod that neither of them returned.

“I wouldn’t be out this late, if I were you.” Roz tried not to make her quiet words a threat, though she wasn’t sure she succeeded. “I take it you know what happened to Amélie Villeneuve.”

One of the youths blanched, pulling the collar of his jacket closer. The more daring of the two, however, shot her an accusatory look.

“You’re out this late.” He must have been around thirteen, the same age Amélie had been. Roz’s answering laugh had him taking a step back.

“Yes,” Roz acknowledged. “Well, I’m a lot harder to kill than most.”

The boy’s face twisted, and his companion tugged wordlessly on his arm. Of course they’d heard about Amélie—who hadn’t? The way her body had been found two months ago, cold and abandoned, in an unlit alley down the street from her home.

And no one had done a saints-damned thing about it.

“Get out of here,” Roz urged the duo, who by now appeared positively horrified. “Go home.”

They obliged, all but sprinting away from her, and she watched until they disappeared around a corner at the end of the street. Her stomach was a hollow pit.

Fools. Amélie was freshly buried, and people were already throwing caution to the wind. She wasn’t the only victim, either—the other day a young man had been discovered dead on the riverbank outside Patience’s sector, his identity undetermined. There was no reason to believe the two incidents were connected, but Roz couldn’t help noticing how little effort had been put into tracking down the culprit. In fact, the Palazzo had yet to address the deaths publicly.

They weren’t disciples, so they don’t matter, Roz thought, and spat onto the street. If she were the next victim, how would she be treated? Would her death make headlines and thrust Ombrazia into a frenzy? Or would the Palazzo know her to be a traitor’s daughter and be glad for her loss?

She slowed as she approached Bartolo’s, a dilapidated tavern with no sign designating it as such. Three children sat out front—street urchins whose parents had been drafted, no doubt—in hopes the tavern owner might spare them some food. They stared at Roz on her way to the door, eyes enormous in their pinched faces.

Voices emanated from inside the tavern, slurred and uproarious. Roz reached for the handle, braced for the noise that would greet her, only to find herself face-to-face with an exiting drunkard.

The man let out a whistle as his liquor-glazed eyes took her in. “Well, well. Good evening.” A hand reached to loop around her hips, but Roz caught his wrist before it made contact. He was shorter than Roz—which many people were—and too slight to be any real threat.

“Staring is free,” she told him coolly, flicking her knife out in a single, smooth motion. “But touching costs a finger.”

The man reared back, ruddy face reddening further, and nearly tripped over his own feet. “Filthy whore.” His voice was a slur.

Roz tsked. “Should I take that tongue, instead?”

When he withdrew a knife of his own, it was with so little finesse she couldn’t help laughing. Could she go nowhere in this saints-forsaken city without encountering a man who thought himself entitled to her?

But he was too drunk for Roz to bother with a real fight. So she dragged him by the collar into the street, then kicked him in the stomach. He released a huff of breath, taking a stumbling step back before landing on his ass.

Roz left him there, slamming the tavern door behind her.

She stepped into an assault of light and sound. The hazy air was thick with smoke and the reek of various liquors. Bartolo’s was often busy, particularly on weekends. Roz blinked as her eyes adjusted, shoving her way through patrons to the bar, where a dark-haired girl waited.

“Nasim.” Roz raised her voice to be heard over the clamor. Outspoken and unfailingly loyal, Nasim Kadera was one of the few people she considered a friend. “Where’s Dev?”

Nasim loosed an inaudible sigh, tilting her head toward the back of the room, where a blond boy sat alone.

Devereux Villeneuve, grieving elder brother of Amélie, was slumped over in his chair. The table before him was littered with empty glasses, and Roz’s chest gave an uncomfortable twinge. Doubtless he had been there all day, and yesterday, and the day before that. It hurt to look at him. He’d been the one to find Amélie cold and unresponsive on the pavement, and they hadn’t seen him smile since.

“Well, fuck.” Roz propped her elbows up on the bar, motioning at the man behind it to bring her a drink. He did so without needing to take her order.

“Yeah,” Nasim agreed, clinking the rim of her cup against Roz’s. “Salute, I guess.”

Roz took a sip. The wine tasted more bitter than usual. “What time did he start drinking today?”

“Too early.”

“Just before noon,” the bartender cut in gruffly, overhearing their conversation as he swiped a dirty cloth over the counter. “Running up quite a tab, he is.”

This time it was Roz who sighed. Nasim’s eyes were back on Dev, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. “He’s still not making much of an effort to talk to anyone.”

“Can you blame him?” Roz said. She remembered the night she’d met Dev. How he’d come across her throwing knives at the side of the tavern after dark, and leaned against the wall with a wicked expression curling his lips. She’d feared he was about to proposition her when he said: You may want to aim at something softer if you want those to stick. Then he’d tilted his head at a man exiting the building. How about him?

His words had startled a laugh out of Roz, and they’d been friends ever since. Carefree, impish Dev, who wouldn’t know solemnity if it hit him upside the head.

Until now.

He’d asked for time to grieve, and Roz had given it to him. But he wasn’t getting better, and she’d be damned if she was going to sit here and watch him drink himself into a stupor every day.

She grasped her own drink with more aggression than necessary. “Come on,” she said to Nasim, who gave a humorless laugh.

“Maybe you should talk to him alone.” Nasim passed her glass from hand to hand, not meeting Roz’s gaze. “He didn’t want much to do with me earlier.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Nasim peered at Roz from beneath her lashes. “I know when someone doesn’t want me around, Roz. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine, though. Roz had seen how Nasim and Dev appeared to be drifting closer in a way she couldn’t touch. It made the petty, selfish part of her uneasy. After all, who did she have if not the two of them?

Lately, though, Dev’s misery seemed to have become a contagious thing. His relationships were fracturing, and Nasim was content to let him pull away.

Roz was not.

Maneuvering among the tables and patrons took considerable dexterity, and she stepped on more than one foot on her way to the back of the tavern. Despite the raucous noise and ever-present stench, the place was a comfort to her. She’d memorized every stain on the wooden tables and noticed every time Piera replaced the art on the walls.

“Dev,” Roz said by way of greeting when she finally reached him. “Mind if I join you?”

Dev gave an inelegant shrug.

It was close enough to assent for Roz. She dropped into the chair across from him, shoving the empty glasses aside and setting her own down with a wet thunk. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Dev ignored her statement. His hair was an uncharacteristic mess, and his eyes were half lidded. “Did Nasim send you over to bother me?”

“Nasim doesn’t send me to do anything.” Roz folded her arms on the tabletop, getting straight to the point. “No amount of alcohol is going to bring Amélie back, you know.”

“You don’t say?” Dev drawled, raising his cup to his lips before realizing it was empty. “In that case, I suppose I ought to stop drinking for necromantic purposes. From now on, it’s purely for fun. Excuse me!” He thrust out a finger in an attempt to get the bartender’s attention. Roz smacked his hand down.

“I know what you’re doing.”

He blinked dolefully at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think if you can stay drunk, you won’t have to face what happened.” Roz knew she was being harsh, but she hadn’t seen her friend sober in weeks. “You think it’s your fault because you weren’t there to protect her. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Don’t,” Dev said grimly, softly. “You don’t underst—”

“I don’t understand?” Roz gave a disbelieving laugh. She slammed her fist on the table, jolting him into meeting her gaze. “You know what happened to my father. Do you think I didn’t want to drown in misery when his head showed up on our doorstep? Or when my mother nearly lost her mind because of it?” Her voice was a hiss, and she made a concerted effort to rein in her frustration.

Dev seemed to hunch in on himself, thin shoulders curving. When he spoke, the words held a vitriol with which Roz was acutely familiar.

“They’ve done nothing, Roz. I know the coroner examined her, but my parents and I weren’t allowed to see the report. We still don’t know how she died.” He flexed his fingers, veins standing out beneath translucent skin. “The Palazzo hasn’t assigned security officers to the case. No one’s spoken to potential witnesses. Amélie wasn’t a disciple, so . . .” Dev swallowed. “It’s like she doesn’t even matter. At least you know who killed your father.”

Roz exhaled, pushing her anger out with the breath. “You’re right. I do know. And what difference does it make? He struts around the Palazzo, constantly protected, never to face any consequences.”

General Battista Venturi—Damian’s father—had given the order for Jacopo to be hunted down and butchered like an animal after he fled the front lines.

A shadow crossed Dev’s aquamarine gaze. Harshly contemplative, he drew his index finger over the rim of the nearest glass. “What’s the point of anything, Roz, if we can’t even get justice for those closest to us?”

That was when he cracked. His face came to rest behind his hands, and his shoulders shook as his breathing grew labored. Roz didn’t try to comfort him with futile words; she knew he wouldn’t want to hear it. She only sat there, waiting until he’d finished.

“We’ll get justice,” Roz said quietly. “For my father. For Amélie.”

When their gazes met, she saw that Dev’s eyes were dry. She hadn’t lost him yet, then. They were two sides of the same coin: Both had honed their misery into something vicious. She only had to remind him that vengeance was sweeter than spirits.

4

DAMIAN

In the end, Damian released Giada.

It was a move his father would have admonished him for. Battista didn’t believe in trusting one’s gut. He acted on the evidence and asked questions later.

He also felt no mercy. He would have looked at Giada, moon pale in her fear, and been unaffected.

We have a job to do, Battista always said. When we let our emotions get involved, we’re more likely to do it wrong.

Damian knew it was the truth. He’d seen firsthand what could happen if you hesitated, or gave someone the benefit of doubt. But no matter how hard he tried to remember his father’s words, they were beaten down by the memory of his mother’s.

You feel for people, she’d told him mournfully, mere days before she died. That is a skill as powerful as learning how to fire a gun. The world may be harsh, Damian, but don’t let it take that from you. Can you promise me you won’t?

Of course he’d promised. How could he not? He wasn’t going to sit there, clasping her death-frail hand, and not give his word.

But sometimes Damian wondered whether he’d made a vow he couldn’t keep. He’d always thought his father harsh, detached, but how could he not be? When one had seen as much death and misery as Battista, how could you expect them to still be soft? There were times during the war when Damian had wanted to rip his emotions from his chest and hurl them into the cold northern sea.

He hadn’t let Giada go because he felt for her, though. He’d let her go because he didn’t think she’d done it. There was no real motive. And though he hated to admit it, what she’d said had gotten to him.

You should be worrying about whether I’m next.

Damian didn’t have any proof that someone was targeting the elected disciples, but the idea of it was nearly as horrifying as the idea that he was failing at his job.

He passed through the Palazzo’s main entryway, lost in thought. The building was quiet, the cavernous hall plagued by shadows. On mornings like this, you could taste the Palazzo’s secrets in the air. They were so tangible you might be tempted to reach out and grasp them, only to feel them slip like smoke through your fingers. Arched pillars separated the open ceiling from a covered walkway, the tile floors of which were patterned in faded colors. In the middle of the room a small fountain splashed merrily, and upon its platform the faceless saints held hands in a circular formation. Every so often they took a counterclockwise step: a sure sign of being created by a disciple of Strength.

“Where you headed, Venturi?”

Damian hadn’t heard Kiran Prakash draw up beside him. A crest bearing a sword on fire was visible on the shoulders of his fellow officer’s jacket, marking him as Palazzo security. Despite being taller even than Damian, he was notoriously silent in his movements. His tousled hair curled around his brow, and his face was good-natured. Kiran was accompanied by Siena Schiavone, a girl with an easy grin and dark hair in intricate braids. Siena had been part of Damian’s platoon up north. He often tried not to dwell on the fact that she appeared to be weathering her trauma far better than he.

Then again, perhaps that was how people looking from the outside perceived him, too. He didn’t know the extent of Siena’s suffering.

“Hey,” Damian said, slowing to allow them to keep pace. “I’m on my way to the crypt.”

Siena grimaced knowingly, one hand resting on her belt. “We heard Forte was hard on you about Leonzio’s death.” She added, “Enzo,” before Damian could ask.

Damian groaned. He ought to have known Enzo would tell the rest of their friends. “To be fair, Forte acted more or less as expected. Besides, he’s right—I messed up.”

Kiran glanced skyward as they made their way outside. Rain was threatening overhead. “You could have sent Siena and me to the Mercato, you know.”

“I know. But I wasn’t there long. Left just as Matteo started detaining a few unfavored loitering about.” Damian sighed. “I needed to get out. Spend too long in the Palazzo, and it starts to feel . . .”

“Claustrophobic?” Siena suggested.

That was it exactly, Damian thought. As if the longer he spent behind the gilded walls of the city’s most opulent building, the harder it became to breathe. “Yeah.”

She gave him another measured look. Whatever she saw in Damian’s face must’ve been worrisome, because she said, “You look brutal, Venturi.”

“Saints, Siena.” Kiran choked on a laugh, shaking his head. A curl of dark hair fell to brush his cheekbone, and he reached up to retie the knot holding it back.

“What? It’s true.”

Her observation didn’t surprise Damian one bit. He suspected he looked brutal most of the time. Ever since he’d returned from the north, he refrained from looking too closely at his reflection, afraid of what he might see there. Afraid that if he’d changed in the ways he imagined, he wouldn’t be able to ignore it any longer. He saw how other people looked at him—as though his sins were written plainly on his face.

And they might as well have been. Everyone knew the story of how he’d watched his best friend die on the front lines. How, in mindless retaliation, he’d taken out three enemy soldiers at once. Heroic, they called it. But also: terrifying.

Realizing Siena still awaited his response, Damian shrugged. “That’s what happens when you’ve been up for two days straight, I suppose.”

“You need to sleep. You’re going to crash.”

“I think he already has,” Kiran offered. “Blink twice if you’re not fully conscious, Damian.”

Damian made a point of glaring at Kiran without once shuttering his eyes.

They descended the Palazzo’s tapering front steps and navigated the wide path through the garden. Atop the meticulous stonework of the building, a rooftop gargoyle swiveled to track their progress. Another creation of Strength’s disciples.

“You think the rebels had anything to do with it?” Kiran asked, blessedly switching topics.

Damian didn’t have to ask what he was referring to. He’d already asked himself the same thing: whether killing Leonzio had been a way for the rebels to express their disdain of the system. “I can’t imagine they’re that well organized,” he said honestly. “Whoever killed Leonzio was clever. No one even knew they were in the Palazzo. The rebels are . . . messy.”

Siena raised a manicured brow. “You mean because a couple of them were caught trying to break into the city prison? I’m not certain that means they’re messy. It’s the first time we’ve been able to identify any of them.”

“They’re only going to grow more restless as more unfavored are sent up north,” Kiran said. “Given that they’re against the war, and all.”

A chill crept over Damian’s skin with the wind. Why didn’t people understand that the Palazzo existed to protect them? To represent them? As of late, the rebels’ main complaint was that the unfavored were being drafted to fight in the Second War of Saints, while the disciples had no such obligation. How could they? Their abilities made them the backbone of Ombrazia’s economy. Even Damian understood the difference.

“How can they think the war is a waste?” The question was more to himself than Kiran and Siena. “Brechaat is trying to push into our territory. They’re promoting heresy.”

The enemy city-state still worshipped the patron saint of Chaos. After losing the First War of Saints and splitting off from Ombrazia, Brechaat had suffered terribly. Their citizens were almost entirely unfavored, and without Ombrazia’s economy to rely on, they spiraled into poverty. But nineteen years ago—only fifty years after the first war, and right before Damian was born—Brechaat launched an attack. An unfavored general had roused citizens from their miserable slumber, incited their anger, and convinced the rest of Brechaat they could take back power if they captured enough of Ombrazian land to gain control of key trade routes.

As it turned out, it wasn’t that easy. The two city-states had been at an impasse ever since, neither of them backing down. Brechaat had gained some land, but not near as much as they wanted. And if Ombrazia didn’t take it back, the chief magistrate was certain the enemy would spread its heretical ideals. So the war went on, leaving Damian to fear it would never end.

“I don’t think the rebels appreciate just how much wealth and influence Ombrazia has to lose,” Siena said, drawing Damian out of his thoughts. He nodded in agreement.

Kiran kicked the toe of his boot into the hard ground. “What I don’t understand is why Brechaat doesn’t focus on their own economy. Is it really worth trying to push into Ombrazia, dragging out the war, when they could be concentrating on their own state?” He raised his hands defensively when both Siena and Damian shot him a disbelieving look. “I’m only asking!”

“Disciples aren’t common in Brechaat,” Damian reminded him. “Try as they might, they’ll never have as much power as Ombrazia. Their best chance is to overtake us.”

“And they won’t back down now,” Siena said. “Not when they haven’t gotten what they’re fighting for.”

The conversation died as they arrived at the entrance to the Palazzo crypt, all three of them halting.

“Hey,” Kiran said, eyeing their location and seeming to deduce Damian’s intentions. “It wasn’t your fault, no matter what Forte says. You know that, right? And you can examine the body as much as you like, but you won’t know more until you get a proper autopsy.”

Kiran was probably right. About the latter, that was. Damian blew out a breath. “It’s my job to ensure the disciples’ safety.”

“It’s not your job to be everywhere at once,” Siena countered. “Forte knows that. He’s only worried about the city’s reaction when they find out, and he needs someone to blame it on.”

“He said he’d send me back up north if I didn’t find the culprit.”

They sobered at that. Kiran said slowly, “He wouldn’t do that. Your father wouldn’t allow it.”

Damian nearly laughed. He knew from the stories Kiran shared that he had a large family who adored him, and not only because his position at the Palazzo was their main source of income. They’d been relieved to tears when their son returned from the war in one piece.

Battista Venturi was not like that. Damian had only ever seen his father proud of him once, and it had been on the worst day of his life.

He made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “My father had to do a lot of convincing for Forte to give me this job in the first place. If he wants me gone, I’m not sure anyone will be able to change his mind.”

“Siena and I would give it a shot.” Kiran gave a crooked grin, elbowing Damian lightly in the arm. “Look, don’t panic yet, okay? Forte’s harsh, but he’s not unreasonable. He knows things like this take time.” Kiran gestured at the door to the crypt. “You want us to come with you?”

“No. Thanks, though.” Damian needed to be alone, to think. To examine the body without Chief Magistrate Forte looming over him. He glanced up at the somber sky. “Your shift’s nearly over, and we need to question the rest of the staff later. Go get some sleep.”

“Pot, kettle,” Siena said smoothly, but she was already beginning to back away, dragging Kiran along with her.

Damian took one last glance at the sky, which remained steadfastly blanketed by a layer of clouds. It had been overcast all week, hiding the sun and stars alike. He shuddered. Tradition taught that stars were the saints’ eyes, and when one couldn’t see them, it meant the saints weren’t watching.