Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(58)
She stared longingly at the nest of blankets, the lingering memory of his warm skin appealing—especially as she had left her jacket somewhere inside. She was exhausted, both from the scant amount of sleep they’d managed early that morning and the series of attacks—before and after it—that had made up the past few days. But as soon as she closed her eyes, she saw those revenants standing below the open hatch, looking up at her. She saw them reach for the ladder, and the vision chased away the possibility of sleep.
Instead, she took up her bone blades and perched next to the trapdoor, watching, waiting… just in case.
* * *
When Wren next became aware of herself, she was slumped against the wall beside the trapdoor. Golden light filled the tower, and Julian crouched before her, a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m awake,” she mumbled, lurching upright. She stared down through the hatch again, stretching her senses, but the revenants had not returned.
Julian sat back on the heap of blankets, scrubbing at his face as if he’d just awoken as well.
“How is your hand?” she asked.
He looked down at it, clenching and unclenching his fist. He nodded. “It’s good.”
“Good,” Wren said. He tugged at the edge of his glove and then smiled—a soft, affectionate expression she’d never seen on his face before. He was fiddling with something… a bracelet? “What’s that?”
He glanced at her, and apparently he was in a talkative mood, because he actually lifted the bracelet to give her a better view. “It’s a good luck charm.” It was made of simple iron links, with three roughly hewn beads that slid across the surface. “These are iron ore. Raw and untreated. There’s one for each of the House of Iron rankings.” He touched the first bead. “The hammer, which is the artisan—the person who crafts our weapons and armor. Then we have the sword,” he said, touching the next, “which is the warrior—the person who uses them. I’m a sword,” he added, flicking a look in her direction before he continued to the last bead. “And then the anvil. They are the historians, the protectors of the lore. The foundation.”
“We have three, too,” Wren murmured. “The reapyr—the person who severs the ghost from its bones. They also handle funeral rites once they age out of active duty. There’s the valkyr, the one who defends the reapyr against the undead.”
“Let me guess—you’re a valkyr?”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment, ignoring the twinge that told her it wasn’t technically true, and he smiled smugly. “And then we have the fabricators. They’re like your hammers, I suppose, but there are a lot of different specializations. Weapons and armor, yes, but also protections.”
“Like the Wall?”
“Right. So they make weapons and armor, plus talismans for roads and towns.” He nodded, still toying with the bracelet. “Who wants to keep you safe?” she asked. When he lowered his brows in confusion, she clarified. “The charm. Who gave it to you?”
She knew it was a gift from the way he’d looked at it, like it reminded him of a happy memory. Her guess was maybe Julian had a girl back home, and she felt a bit guilty for the way she’d pranced around him the other day—and a bit disappointed, too, if she was honest.
“Oh,” he said, surprised and suddenly uncomfortable. He dropped his hand. “My little sister.”
“Oh,” Wren echoed, and he looked puzzled at her reaction. She cleared her throat. “Well, I guess it worked, didn’t it? You were shot by an arrow the day we met.”
“My breastplate worked,” he said dryly, sliding his hand over the place where the armor had saved him. Then he huffed out a laugh. “I tried to tell her. I am literally covered in iron—three extra rocks won’t do much—but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s superstitious. And stubborn.”
“I like her already.”
He tilted his head. “Yes, I suspect you would.”
Wren couldn’t figure out what to make of that. “What about last night? That was the hand that almost got exposed. I think she’s on to something.”
“I think I have you to thank for that,” he said.
Wren’s stomach squirmed at the intense, unguarded look in his eye. “Yeah, well… you already have.”
His expression flickered, and he glanced down, noticing her jacket amid his blankets and bedding for the first time. She could almost see his tired brain trying to work through it all, recalling how they’d lain in an embrace, and his murmured “thank you” before he’d fallen asleep.
“I thought I dreamed you,” he muttered. Then froze. “It. I thought I’d dreamed it.”
Wren stood and picked up her coat, smiling as she pulled it on, delighted at the flush crawling up his face. “I guess today is the day your dreams have come true.”
He gave her a flat stare, and she laughed, doing up the buttons.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” she said. “I knew you had it in you.”
He rolled his eyes, but she thought she could see him stifle the smallest of smirks before he cleared his throat and stood. “We need to figure out our next move. Are they…? Are we alone?”
“For now,” Wren said, peering down the open hatch again, though she could sense there were no undead in the vicinity. She turned her gaze to the narrow windows that sat at regular intervals along the wall. All she could make out were tree branches. “I just don’t know where we’ve wound up. We ran for a while last night, but in what direction…”