Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(65)

“What are you doing?” Julian asked, expression bewildered.

“I’m talking to them?” she said, assuming that answer was obvious. But no, Julian was wide-eyed with confusion.

“And they’re talking back?” he asked.

Could he—did he not hear it?

“They…,” she said breathlessly. “They’re telling us to go. Like last night?”

He shook his head, uncomprehending, and Wren swallowed thickly. She looked away from him, staring down the revenants instead.

Three she could handle. Three she could deal with.

But then she remembered what Julian had said. It didn’t matter that she could take them. What mattered was that she shouldn’t. They had a better shot of getting away if she didn’t engage them.

So, as much as she wanted a fight, she dropped her hands from her weapons and reached for him instead.

“Come on,” she said, diving between a cluster of rocks along the side of the road.

If they moved quickly, they might be able to lose them—or lure them into following behind, opening a path to the bridge.

“Here,” she said, tossing Julian one of her swords. Her senses were ratcheted up, and she had the feeling there might be more undead to worry about.

He caught it deftly but stared down at it like it was some strange, foreign object. “I don’t…,” he began uneasily.

“A sword is a sword,” she said shortly. “Aim for the heart—the soul’s most likely hiding place—but any contact with the ghost will cause them pain and buy you time.”

Julian’s eyes were wide as he adjusted his grip. He nodded.

“Come on,” she urged, continuing a path between boulders and scrub brush, away from the road but still heading in the direction of the bridge. She didn’t know if the revenants had pursued, but they had to keep moving forward regardless.

They were rounding a large thrust of rock when Wren’s magic flared up in warning.

A soft green mist preceded the arrival of a ghost, so subtle that Wren almost missed it and Julian absolutely did, nearly running headlong into it.

Wren cried out, swiping for his shoulder and missing.

Then she remembered he carried one of her swords. She pulled on it, the feel as familiar as her own hands, and it thumped into his chest with enough force to halt his progress. The rest of the ghost exploded from the stone to their left, appearing exactly where Julian had been, its bones either near enough to provide easy movement or its tether weak enough that it did not matter.

The ghost solidified, and Wren could see the impression of its face, its features… its rage. It was more a sensation than a visual marker, a feeling—the way the spirit bunched and gathered, preparing for a sudden strike.

“Get down!” she bellowed, the instant before it happened.

Julian dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, leaving Wren alone to face it.

The ghost streaked toward her, and she had only one choice, one maneuver that would work—though she’d never dared it outside lessons, which was saying something, as Wren would dare a great many things.

It involved holding her sword out, blade forward to meet the coming attack. The idea was to split the ghost in two, to cut through the spirit like the prow of a ship through waves. The problem wasn’t in the initial strike but in the runoff. If the ghost was moving too slowly when the blade cut through, the scraps of the spirit that were meant to slip to either side of her might in fact come to a stop, ebb and flow and swirl against her flesh.

It worked only if the attack was fast and strong, the ghost’s momentum taking it clean past her and ensuring there could be no sudden redirections.

Wren, who always fought with two swords when she could help it, preferred to hack and slash her opponents, but with the ghost barreling down upon her, this maneuver was the only thing that would save her.

She raised her sword with two hands, narrowed her stance, and braced for impact.

The ghost slammed into her blade, the flare of light causing her eyes to water and Julian to throw up an arm against the glare.

But Wren could afford no such reaction. Eyes streaming, muscles straining, she held her ground as the ghost split in two, streaking past on either side of her in an explosion of sickly green light. A rush of cold threatened to sear her skin—but never made contact.

The ghost dissolved, reduced to wisps of icy vapor. Then nothing.

Julian stared up at her in the sudden darkness, awe etched into his features. “That was… You are…” He swallowed. Shook his head. “Amazing.”

Wren was panting as if she’d run a mile, but it was his words that momentarily robbed her of breath. Had he just called her amazing?

Heart hammering against her ribs, she finally lowered her blade, glancing down at her arms to make sure she hadn’t been harmed, but she was safe.

Julian got to his feet, looking to her for direction.

She gathered her wits. “Let’s keep moving.”

They encountered no further undead, and when they circled back toward the bridge, they came at it from the side.

Unfortunately, the undead that had blocked their path had not pursued. Worse, they had been joined by at least ten more. They were clustered there, unmoving, waiting. Working together, like those revenants in the forest.

Again, the wrongness of it hit Wren in the chest. The undead should be wandering after them, drawn as always by the flame of the living. Instead, they patiently awaited their foe, as if they knew where Wren and Julian intended to go. They were thinking, problem-solving, and taking orders, if what they had said to her before was true.