Free The Midnight Star by Marie Lu

tall and blond, perhaps too blond to be Kenettran, while the other is short and dark-haired, with olive skin and a weak chin. Their clothes are damp in the drizzle, as if they’ve been standing outside for a long time.
    What are they whispering?
The words creep out of the shadows of my mind, their claws clicking.
Perhaps they are whispering about you. About how to kill you. Even your sweet thief warned you of rats that could slip through the cracks.
    I turn away from the path leading to the bathhouse and decide to follow the men. As I cross the bridge, still hidden behind my invisibility, they finish their conversation and continue on their way. My White Wolf banners, the new flags of the country, hang from windows and balconies, the white-and-silver cloth stained and soaked. Only a smattering of people walk the streets today, all huddled under cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, kicking up mud as they go. I watch them suspiciously, even as I trail behind the two men.
    As I walk, the world around me takes on a glittering sheen. My whispers grow louder, and as they do, the faces of people I pass start to look distorted, as if the rain has blurred my vision and smeared wet streaks across their features. I blink, trying to focus. The energy in me lurches, and for a moment I wonder if Enzo is pulling on our tether from across the seas.The two men I’m following are close enough now that bits of their conversation drift to me, and I quicken my steps, curious to hear what they have to say.
    â€œâ€”to send her troops back to Tamoura, but—”
    â€œâ€”that difficult? I’d hardly think she would care if—”
    They
are
talking about me.
    The blond man shakes his head, one hand held out as he explains something in obvious frustration. “—and that’s it, isn’t it? The Wolf couldn’t care less whether the markets sold us rotting vegetables. I can’t remember the taste of a fresh fig. Can you?”
    The other man nods sympathetically. “Yesterday, my littlest daughter asked me why the fruit merchants have two piles of produce now—and why they hand the fresh food to
malfetto
buyers, the rotten food to us.”
    A cold, bitter smile twists my lips. Of course I had designed this law precisely to make sure that the unmarked suffered. After the ordinance first came into effect, I’d spent time walking the markets, relishing the sight of unmarked people grimacing at the rotten food they brought home, forcing it into their mouths out of hunger and desperation. How many years have we waited for our own fair treatment? How many of us have been pelted in the streets by blackened cabbage and meat filled with maggots? The memory of my own burning so long ago comes back to me, and along with it, the smell of the spoiled food that had once struck me.
Take back your rotting weapons,
I vow silently,
and fill your mouths with them. Eat it until you love it.
    The men continue on, oblivious that I’m listening to every word. If I revealed myself to them now, would they fall to their knees and beg forgiveness? I could execute them here, spill their blood right in the streets, for daring to use the word
malfetto
. I let myself indulge in the thought as we turn a corner and enter the Estenzian piazza where the annual horse races of the Tournament of Storms are held. The square is mostly empty this morning, painted gray by the clouds and rain.
    â€œIf I saw her right now,” one of the men says, shaking water from his hood, “I’d shove that rotten food back in her mouth. Let her taste that for herself, and see if it’s worth eating.”
    His companion lets out a bark of laughter.
    So brave, when they think no one else is listening. I stop in the square, but before I let them go about their day, I open my mouth and speak.
    â€œCareful. She is always watching.”
    Both of them hear me. They freeze in their steps and whirl around, their faces taut with fear. They