Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(56)

How long could they stand there without moving? Hours, surely—maybe even days?—but before the thought could overwhelm her, the cluster of undead dispersed, all walking in the same direction at the exact same time, as if summoned by an unheard call.

This… group think… it was unnatural. Dangerous. She had not been trained for this.

Wren thought of that rumor Julian had mentioned. A Corpse Queen enslaving the undead. Was it she who called them now?

She quickly shook it aside. She had enough to worry about without scary bedtime stories factoring into the mix.

Whatever might come, she and Julian appeared to be safe—for now.

Turning from the hatch, she found him in the shadows of the small, round tower. He was hunched against the wall, eyes lidded and breath uneven, his staff tossed carelessly onto the floor.

“They’re gone,” she said, hoping to ease that particular worry as she moved closer to him. Her eyes were adjusting to the gloom after the intensity of the ghostlight, and she could now make out the way his mouth was pulled down in the corners in a grimace.

“Let me—” she began, but he cut her off.

“What the hell were you doing back there?” he demanded.

“I… What do you mean?”

“You,” he said, gasping, “attacked them. You wanted a fight… kept edging closer…”

“No, that’s not—they weren’t behaving right. I only wanted to understand—”

“Of course they’re not behaving right,” he said harshly, forcing the words out. “There’s nothing right about them. They’re undead. They’re wrong, and you… you shouldn’t have…”

He was panting now, clutching at his arm.

“Shouldn’t have what? That child revenant was seconds away from attacking. I was trying to protect you.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head forcefully, “you were trying to prove you could. If we had left them alone—they don’t always chase.”

“How do you know that?” Wren demanded.

He sighed, expression bleak as the anger seemed to leech out of him. “That’s not the first time I’ve seen them. Sometimes our patrols…” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Avoiding them is our only hope, and when that fails, we run. Sometimes it works.”

Wren faltered. Was he right? Could she have backed down? Could they have simply walked away?

Yes, a voice said in the back of her mind. Yes, they could have if she hadn’t been so curious about their behavior. If she hadn’t needed to figure it out, to test it. But what the undead did and how they acted—it was important to their survival that she understand. She couldn’t keep them alive in the Haunted Territory if she didn’t know what to expect.

She pressed her hands into her eyes.

“Let me see your arm,” she said, ignoring his comment because she was being mature—not because she didn’t have a response.

He recoiled. “Don’t.”

“You have to let me see! If the ghost touched your bare skin…”

“It didn’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s just—it’s cold. Just cold.”

Extreme cold was a precursor to—and often a symptom of—deathrot. Julian’s flesh was covered, from his leather gloves to his long-sleeve shirt, coat, and armor, but it wouldn’t protect him against a ghost.

“Please,” Wren said softly, making her voice as nonconfrontational as she could.

“No,” he said back, equally gently.

Something was up with him and those gloves, but she didn’t have the time to unpack it right now. The earliest stages of deathrot could be treated, and a person could potentially make a full recovery.

A fire would be ideal, but they didn’t have time to waste—plus there was nowhere to safely build it, as the floor was wood.

A fire was not necessary, though. What was necessary was heat.

Trembles had begun to rack Julian’s frame, and there was a sheen of incongruous sweat across his brow.

“Get over here,” she muttered, though there were scant inches between them. She unbuckled her armor, belt, and bandolier before reaching for his. He stiffened, drawing back. “I’m not—I need to get you warm. If we don’t, the cold will only spread, and come morning…”

His eyes, usually cool with disdain, were slightly wild. He nodded warily, watching her every move with bowstring tension.

She hastily removed his armor plate—he helped, using his good hand to unsnap buttons and loosen clasps. The pieces were heavy enough to make her grunt with effort as she did her best not to drop them, laying them aside until his jacket was revealed. She undid the buttons, then pulled the exposed arm out of its sleeve. His underlayers were drenched with icy sweat, and he shivered worse than ever, his chest heaving.

“Trust me,” Wren murmured, tugging on his second arm, its sleeve catching on his glove. She worried about the damp sweat trapped within the fabric, but they couldn’t afford any more arguing.

“Trust?” he repeated faintly.

Wren looked up at him. “I’m all you’ve got.”

His gaze was searching for a moment. Then he nodded, letting her get back to work.

With both arms released, Wren crossed them and pressed his hands against his chest, the left hand—the one that had made contact with the ghost—underneath the other, directly overtop his heart. She could see the way he curled in on it, grateful at the wave of warmth permeating his skin. Wren recalled her first brush with exposure to deathrot, how a ghost had slipped past her guard, and though she had sworn it touched her, there had been no marks on her skin. Still, the cold had lingered, and even after treatment and a hot bath, she’d trembled all night in bed.