Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(107)

She’d only get one shot at this.

Moving carefully, she stepped around Julian’s sleeping body, searching for his hands. They weren’t conveniently together, laid out before her and ready to be bound.

One was above his head, the other under his cheek. He continued to wear his gloves, a mystery she had yet to solve.

Wren blew out a breath. This would be harder than she’d thought.

First she wrapped the rope around one of the load-bearing beams that ran down the center of the room.

Next she went for his outstretched hand, slipping it through the loosened knot she had already made in the rope. A sharp pull would tighten it. She caught sight of his good luck bracelet and had to look away, the guilt like bile in her belly.

The other hand was where the real challenge would begin. In order to tie it up, she’d have to slide it out from under his face. She crouched before him, then, seeing an opportunity, she threw a leg over his body, thinking she could nudge him slightly, onto his back, releasing the hand.

She’d only just managed to get into position, her body suspended over his, their faces inches apart, when his eyes snapped open.

He startled, his gaze foggy with sleep, until he blinked away his confusion and truly saw her.

Straddling him.

His expression changed, his body shifting subtly from rigid surprise to tension of a different sort. Something anticipatory.

Wren did the only thing she could do. She kissed him.

His mouth opened for her, eager, like last time—but there was an underlying darkness, a desperation that Wren was certain hadn’t been there before. Was it coming from her, knowing this was the beginning of the end, or did he, too, sense that this would be the last time?

As she pressed herself against him, Wren fumbled with the rope, managing to slip his slackened hand through the knot just in time. He reached for her face—or tried, his hand coming up against the restraint, tightening it with his own movement.

His eyes bugged out, and he broke the kiss just as Wren leapt back from him. She tugged on the other end of the rope as she went, securing his second hand. He struggled, but in a stunned sort of way, disbelief etched across his features.

Leo spoke from the doorway. “Ready.”

Julian craned his neck to look at him, then at Wren. He pulled again, harder this time, before his gaze darted around the room.

“They’re outside,” Wren explained, knowing he was looking for his weapons. Leo had already gathered everything and put it safely out of reach. She had no doubt he’d break free soon enough—she hadn’t tied him flush to the support beam, which meant he’d figure out a way to loosen the binds or call his weapons. She suspected he might even have other bits of iron concealed on his body that she didn’t know about, but that was okay. She didn’t intend for him to die out here. She just needed a head start.

He shook his head, a humorless smile on his face. Then it fell.

“Leaving?” he asked conversationally.

“Yes,” Wren said, jaw set. “I can’t stay. We can’t stay.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, head tilted. “I suppose not. Still, I never pegged you for a coward.”

“I’m not—” Wren began hotly, but Julian cut her off.

“I mean, I know if it were me, I’d want to know why I could speak to the undead—and why the undead listened. I’d want to know if I was a ghostsmith.” Wren bared her teeth, but he kept speaking. “But I think you’d rather a kind lie than a hard truth, wouldn’t you? Because the hard truths are here, in the Breachlands—not there, in the Dominions. There, they’ll tell you whatever they have to, to shut you up and keep you under control. Just like they did when they kept what really happened during the Uprising a secret. When they labeled your Locke Graven a war hero instead of the war criminal he ought to have been. When they put the good of your house over the truth. But you don’t want to face that, do you, Wren? The fact that your whole life is built upon lie after lie?” He smiled, but it was a cold, cruel thing. “Or are you afraid of what you’ll find out about yourself if you stay?”

“I’m not afraid,” Wren snapped, her entire body tingling with repressed emotions. Anger. Frustration. And something very close to shame. She clenched her fists, fighting to keep herself under control. “I’m doing the right thing. I’m reporting what we discovered to the fort. I will learn the truth, and I will come back—but when I return, it’ll be with an army.”

He lunged forward suddenly, the rope creaking against the wood as it strained—but held.

Wren leapt back, though she was well out of reach. He laughed darkly. “You still don’t get it, do you? They aren’t planning an uprising.… They’re planning an invasion. Those iron revenants were built to take down the Wall. By the time you and your politicians decide what to do, it’ll be too late. He’ll”—he jerked his chin at Leo—“be tucked away somewhere until my uncle can get his hands on him again, and you’ll be right back where you started, exiled at the fort because your family doesn’t want you—”

Wren didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember touching Julian at all, but the next thing she knew, she’d flung him against the pillar, his head cracking hard against the wood. She didn’t know where she’d gotten the strength, but the force of the impact stunned Julian into silence.