Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(37)

“Maybe before you attacked and kidnapped a prince. But now? They’ll be riding double, triple shifts. It won’t be a regular patrol. It’ll be a small army. And you’re wounded.”

He clenched his jaw and looked away. This was her chance.

“I know the protocols,” she said, taking a cautious step toward him. “I know who they’ll send and where. I can get us out of here.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And where will you be going, bonesmith, if not back to your fort?”

She smiled. “After the prince, of course.”





THIRTEEN


It was all coming together in Wren’s mind.

Prince Leo needed rescuing, but the Breachfort didn’t have the resources or the information required to pull it off.

But Wren did.

Not only was she the best valkyr of her generation, failed trial be damned, but she was also standing with the one person who could tell her exactly where Leo was being taken—and probably even what route.

A small, two-person party could pass through the Breachlands unseen, not drawing attention like a mounted force from the fort would. Wren could handle whatever ghosts came their way, and this ironsmith could surely deal with anything living that might cross their path.

He would lead her to Leo, and she would rescue him. If she could do that, if she could save the Gold Prince from their enemies and return him safely to the Breachfort—traversing the dangerous and ghost-plagued Breachlands to do it—no one could deny her talent, her capability, and her right to a position within the House of Bone.

No one could deny that she was worthy.

It was perfect. Genius, even.

She just had to get this ironsmith to agree.

He continued to stare at her, uncomprehending, so Wren elaborated.

“Unless you intended to just roll over and die, you’ll want some answers from your comrades who tried to kill you.”

His eyes flashed dangerously, but he didn’t deny her words.

“And so you intend to follow them. I intend likewise.”

“Why?” he asked skeptically.

“That prince is my ticket out of this place,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the fort. “If I rescue him, I’ll be able to prove my value and get whatever posting I want. He is important, and so by getting him back, I will become important.”

He didn’t need to know that she liked Leo. That she had seen the fear in his eyes. That he had raised his flask in honor of their new friendship and that that made him her only one.

Except for Odile, maybe. But that was different. She was Wren’s superior. More like a teacher or mentor than a friend. Someone obligated to be around her, even if she’d been more open and honest with Wren than most others in her life. More than her own father.

The ironsmith, meanwhile, curled his lip at her words, as if he was judging her. Let him.

“And so I will get him back,” Wren insisted, “and you will help me, just like I helped you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You helped me? Was that before or after you sliced open my leg?”

“After,” Wren said. “When we fell—your fault—and landed in this death trap, I dragged your lifeless corpse out of sight and stopped you from giving away our position.”

“If you hadn’t fallen too, you’d be dead by now. Captain Royce doesn’t like loose ends. The fact that you’re alive should be thanks enough.”

“I’d still like the words, though,” she said, unable to help herself. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for inadvertently saving my life,” she recited with as much earnestness as she could muster. Then she grinned. “See? Easy.”

He leaned forward, his words soft and cold when he spoke. “If you want a pat on the back for being a hero, give it to yourself. You’re clearly very good at it.”

Wren was annoyed. “Yes, I am,” she said with a cocky smirk. “Practice makes perfect, after all.”

“Is that what you think you are? Perfect?”

Wren opened her mouth to say something along the lines of “if the shoe fits,” but before she could, he pressed a gloved hand against her arm, in the gap beneath her pauldron. She reared back—first as a gut reaction to his touch and then, belatedly, because of a stab of pain. His black leather-clad fingers came away shiny with blood. When had that happened?

“Not quite,” he said softly.

Wren knocked his hand aside. “I’m not the only one losing blood,” she snapped, stalking away. She wiped at her arm, the stinging wound fairly shallow, if annoying.

“No,” he agreed, the ghost of a smile on his face. “But I never said I was perfect.”

Wren glared at him. “Are we doing this or not?”

His humor dissipated. “Doing what?” he asked.

“Rescuing the prince!”

“You do realize I was one of the kidnappers, right?” His tone was arrogant. Superior.

She glared at him. “Yes. And then those kidnappers tried to kill you. Maybe this whole thing was a lie—an excuse to target you.”

A spasm of anger crossed his face. “No. He wouldn’t—” He stopped himself. “They’ve obviously forsaken our orders. Or Captain Royce has, anyway. Maybe he’ll try to turn around and sell the prince to the highest bidder. He has to be stopped.”