Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(52)

He was about to deny her, his mouth open, when he paused and truly looked up at her. He finally noted her clothes—or lack thereof—but spared them only the barest of eye rolls before he sat back. He nodded at the fish, waiting.

Only warm-blooded animals produced a ghost, which meant fish, reptiles, and insects were harmless after death. Even cattle, poultry, and other spirited animals could be safely butchered, as long as it happened immediately after being killed. Since their ties to life weren’t as powerful as humans’, their ghosts would simply never get a chance to form.

Wren held a hand above each fish, sliced in half and lying open before her, and one by one she drew the bones from the tender flesh, pulling them into the palm of her hand in the blink of an eye, like metal filings to a magnet.

With a satisfied smirk, she dropped the bones onto the table’s surface, leaving nothing but perfect, ready-to-cook fish in her wake.

“Impressive,” Julian said, somewhat grudgingly, leaning forward to inspect the finished product—the first compliment he’d given her. “You could be a fishmonger.”

Maybe it wasn’t so complimentary after all.

“Hey, now, don’t sell yourself short,” Wren said encouragingly. “You caught the fish and started the fire—you’d make a fine servant.”

Julian shook his head, taking the fish over to the stove, which he must have fed not long ago, the flames burning brightly. “Should’ve guessed you were noble-born, the way you walk around. Probably grew up in some fine castle with servants to attend you.”

That was, Wren had to admit, mostly true. “Wrong,” she chirped. “I’m only half-noble, and a bastard, and I behaved so poorly, I did more servant work”—she gestured to the gutted fish—“than they did.”

“And you were also sent to serve at the Wall,” Julian added, glancing over his shoulder at her. “It’s a less-than-desirable assignment, from what I hear.”

“What about you?” she shot back. “Ironsmith warriors are famous for their code of honor and their expertise in battle. And here you are, a common kidnapper—no better than those bandits. Are you a true ironsmith or some puffed-up politician’s lapdog?”

He turned away from her. “You don’t know anything about me.”

That was true. But for all his accusations against her, Wren had her own suspicions that Julian must be someone important himself to have been targeted for assassination. He was an ironsmith, so it made sense he would have risen quickly in whatever hierarchy currently ruled in the Breachlands. He might very well be the only one left.

“Tell me, then.”

He reared back, suspicion etched across his features. “What—no.”

“Until you do, I’ll just assume you’re out here for personal gain.”

“Like you?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I’m doing the right thing, whatever my… motivation. You’re kidnapping an innocent person.”

“He’s a Valorian. He was born with blood on his hands. That is their legacy.”

“One the House of Iron helped them build,” she said.

“That’s right. And then they turned on us. I’ll do whatever I have to do for my people. Here,” he said, after putting the fish on a pair of homemade iron skewers. He held one out to her, and Wren joined him crouched before the stove.

Heat washed over her as she huddled next to him. They were very close together, and when she stuck her breakfast into the flames, the open fire spit and sparked as fat dripped onto the burning coals.

“Oh,” she muttered, jerking back slightly as some floating sparks singed her tunic.

“Serves you right, dressed like that.”

“Like what?”

He cocked his head, turning toward her. This time he didn’t shy away—his gaze lingered as he took her in. “Like you want attention.”

“I always want attention. How I’m dressed has nothing to do with it.”

He snorted. “It has everything to do with it, I expect. Surely you don’t need that eye black when you sleep.”

“You noticed,” Wren said, batting her eyelashes as if he had paid her another compliment, and his face tightened in response. Considering that a victory, she shrugged. “I was lazy. I doubt you need those gloves when you wash your face, but here we are.”

He stood abruptly, and Wren wondered if his fish was even cooked. She remained a few moments longer, turning it once or twice more before joining him at the table.

While he took his fish off the skewer and ate it in small, careful bites, Wren bit hers off the stick like a wild animal.

His lip curled in distaste.

Once she finished eating, she wiped her greasy fingers on her shirt and stood to get dressed. She was just lifting her coat from the ground when something clattered to the floor.

It was the ring she’d found in the Bonewood. She had completely forgotten about it.

She lifted it now and recalled the mystery of the dark spike that pierced the bone.

Striding over to the table, she plunked it on the surface right in front of Julian, who was just finishing his meal. He raised his brows at her.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Not sure. I found it back home, in the Bonewood. The ring itself is bone, though we don’t usually make rings or jewelry—or carve them with designs.” She glanced at him. “The spike… is it iron?”