She screamed until her lungs burned, screamed for help, for anyone to hear. And then—

“Celaena?”

It was a shout, and it was close, and Celaena sobbed when she heard Sam’s voice, nearly muffled by the rain and roaring waters beneath her. He said he’d come by after helping with Lysandra’s party—he must have been on his way to or from Doneval’s house. She wriggled her fingers through the grate hole, pounding with her other hand against the grate. “HERE! In the sewer!”

She could feel the rumble of steps, and then … “Holy gods.” Sam’s face swam into view through the grate. “I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes,” he said. “Hold on.” His callused fingers latched onto the holes. She saw them go white with strain, saw his face turn red, then … He swore.

The water had reached her calves. “Get me the hell out of here.”

“Shove with me,” he breathed, and as he pulled, she pushed. The grate wouldn’t move. They tried again, and again. The water hit her knees. By whatever luck, the grate was far enough away from Doneval’s house that the guards couldn’t hear them.

“Get as high as you can,” he barked. She already was, but she didn’t say anything. She caught the flash of a knife and heard the scrape of a blade against the grate. He was trying to loosen the metal by using the blade as a lever. “Push on the other side.”

She pushed. Dark water lapped at her thighs.

The knife snapped in two.

Sam swore violently and began yanking on the grate cover again. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Come on.”

The water was around her waist now, and over her chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said.

“I’m trying!”

“Sam,” she repeated.

“No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “No!”

He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn’t going to come—not fast enough.

She’d never given much thought to how she’d die, but drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain she’d struck with the gods that night was finally over. The water would have her, one way or another, no matter how long it took.

“Please,” Sam begged as he beat and yanked on the grate, then tried to wedge another dagger under the lid. “Please don’t.”

She knew he wasn’t speaking to her.

The water hit her neck.

“Please,” Sam moaned, his fingers now touching hers. She’d have one last breath. Her last words.

“Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam,” she whispered. And with a gasping breath, she went under.

CHAPTER

8

“Breathe!” someone was roaring as they pounded on her chest. “Breathe!”

And just like that, her body seized, and water rushed out of her. She vomited onto the cobblestones, coughing so hard she convulsed.

“Oh, gods,” Sam moaned. Through her streaming eyes, she found him kneeling beside her, his head hung between his shoulders as he braced his palms on his knees. Behind him, two women were exchanging relieved, yet confused, expressions. One of them held a crowbar. Beside her lay the grate cover, and around them spilled water from the sewer.

She vomited again.

She took three baths in a row and ate food only with the intention of vomiting it up to clear out any trace of the vile liquid inside her. She plunged her torn, aching hands into a vat of hard liquor, biting down her scream but savoring the disinfectant burning through whatever had been in that water. Once that proved calming to her repulsion, she ordered her bathtub filled with the same liquor and submerged herself in it, too.

She’d never feel clean again. Even after her fourth bath—which had been immediately after her liquor bath—she felt like grime coated every part of her. Arobynn had cooed and fussed, but she’d ordered him out. She ordered everyone out. She’d take another two baths in the morning, she promised herself as she climbed into bed.

There was a knock on her door, and she almost barked at the person to go away, but Sam’s head popped in. The clock read past twelve, but his eyes were still alert. “You’re awake,” he said, slipping inside without so much as a nod of permission from her. Not that he needed it. He’d saved her life. She was in his eternal debt.

On the way home, he’d told her that after Lysandra’s Bidding rehearsal, he’d gone to Doneval’s house to see if she needed any help. But when he got there, the house was quiet—except for the guards who kept sniggering about something that had happened. He’d been searching the surrounding streets for any sign of her when he heard her screaming.

She looked at him from where she lay in bed. “What do you want?” Not the most gracious words to someone who had saved her life. But, hell, she was supposed to be better than him. How could she say she was the best when she’d needed Sam to rescue her? The thought made her want to hit him.

He just smiled slightly. “I wanted to see if you were finally done with all the washing. There’s no hot water left.”

She frowned. “Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”

“Do I ever expect you to apologize for anything?”

In the candlelight, the lovely panes of his face seemed velvet-smooth and inviting. “You could have let me die,” she mused. “I’m surprised you weren’t dancing with glee over the grate.”

He let out a low laugh that traveled along her limbs, warming her. “No one deserves that sort of death, Celaena. Not even you. And besides, I thought we were beyond that.”

She swallowed hard, but was unable to break his gaze. “Thank you for saving me.”

His brows rose. She’d said it once on their way back, but it had been a quick, breathless string of words. This time, it was different. Though her fingers ached—especially her broken nails—she reached for his hand. “And … And I’m sorry.” She made herself look at him, even as his features crossed into incredulity. “I’m sorry for involving you in what happened in Skull’s Bay. And for what Arobynn did to you because of it.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he somehow understood some great puzzle. He examined their linked hands, and she quickly let go.

The silence was suddenly too charged, his face too beautiful in the light. She lifted her chin and found him looking at the scar along her neck. The narrow ridge would fade—someday. “Her name was Ansel,” she said, her throat tightening. “She was my friend.” Sam slowly sat on the bed. And then the whole story came out.

Sam only asked questions when he needed clarification. The clock chimed one by the time she finished telling him about the final arrow she’d fired at Ansel, and how, even with her heart breaking, she’d given her friend an extra minute before releasing what would have been a killing shot. When she stopped speaking, Sam’s eyes were bright with sorrow and wonder.

“So, that was my summer,” she said with a shrug. “A grand adventure for Celaena Sardothien, isn’t it?”