Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(68)

It was hard to gauge the drop, to know how wide or deep the water…. But there was only one way to find out.

She was reckless, after all. Foolhardy.

And for all her family’s accusations of selfishness and arrogant pride, Wren was no coward, and she wasn’t about to start being one now.

Julian had called her brave, and she would prove it.

“You have to drop me, or we both go down. There’s water. I’ll be okay.”

He stared at her, shaking his head, even as the ghosts continued to detach from their bodies, preparing to strike, and the metal plank he was pressed against creaked. All he had to do was let go—Wren had told him to, so he could do so free of guilt or shame—but the stubborn asshole did no such thing.

“I won’t,” he said, focusing on her with renewed determination. His hands, which had been bracing against something she couldn’t see, released their grip and sought the whip instead. His body slid forward precariously, and Wren cried out in alarm.

The whip was tied around his waist, the same as Wren’s, but rather than try to draw his whole body back from the brink, he decided to only pull hers.

His hands took hold of the cable, gloves slipping and muscles straining as he pulled. With each slide of his hand, Wren’s body lifted. She grasped the whip, climbing with him. If she could just get high enough, if she could reach his hand…

With so little iron to pull on, Wren suspected Julian’s arms and back were doing the brunt of the work. The whip around her midsection slipped and slid, the knot keeping it secure made mostly of magic… and Julian’s magic was failing him.

She was close now, barely an arm span away from him, and she could see the strain now, the sweat across his brow, the way his hands shook.

One more pull. One more—

A ripple went through the whip. It was so subtle that Wren would never have noticed the difference between that and the other swings and jostles that had been happening, except for Julian’s reaction. Her gaze had been fixed on him, on his lowered brow and fierce, determined movements, but at the flash of true, visceral fear that colored his features, Wren followed his line of sight.

The knot at her stomach was unraveling, Wren’s weight pulling the whip one way while Julian pulled it the other.

“Julian,” Wren gasped, knowing it was too late.

The whip gave way, and she dropped.

Down into the darkness.





TWENTY-THREE


Leo had kept his chatter up throughout the journey.

He already knew the careful balance required after a lifetime of practice. It was important to talk about nothing as much as you talked about something, so that people stopped being able to tell the difference.

He continued to question Gray-Beard—whose name was Ivan—and Jakob, who were his constant companions, but it didn’t stop there. He talked to the other kidnappers, to the villagers and town garrisons and traveling merchants.

They told him to shut up at first. Sometimes cuffing him on the back of the head or demanding he replace his head bag.

Unfortunately for them, he talked just as easily with it on as without, and they couldn’t do any real damage to him because he belonged to someone else.

The regent.

And so Leo talked and talked, and before long they stopped trying to shut him up. They stopped trying to listen. They stopped paying attention… which was exactly what Leo intended.

Now he could ask the real questions and spread the real rumors.

Yes, Leo was feeling quite pleased with himself.

He’d learned more about the Corpse Queen, though the stories the townsfolk told him held less appeal than the reaction of his kidnappers did whenever she was mentioned. He’d have expected worldly, battle-hardened travelers such as them to be a bit more circumspect, a bit more skeptical, but they seemed more certain than anyone that she existed.

What if it wasn’t the stuff of children’s nightmares, but a mantle, a persona adopted by someone wanting to make themselves feared and respected?

What if it was both?

When he wasn’t stirring that particular pot, Leo was trying to learn more about his kidnapping.

It had taken longer than it should have, but when they’d left Southbridge that second morning, Leo had registered for the first time that they had two riderless horses with them.

One, surely, had belonged to the ironsmith. But what of the other? He’d heard nothing of any additional casualties, and while it wasn’t uncommon for traveling parties to switch out their horses for maximum speed, one would hardly be enough to accommodate such a large group, and besides, they were stopping daily, with plenty of opportunity for rest.

It didn’t add up.

“Did we forget somebody?” Leo asked Ivan and Jakob, nodding in the direction of the two additional horses that rode at the back of their party.

“The bag,” came Ivan’s blunt reply.

Leo released a long-suffering sigh; he’d known that speaking would be a risk, since it would draw attention to himself. He said goodbye to the fresh air and rocky countryside and withdrew the smelly sack, pulling it on again and breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench.

“I was only trying to help,” Leo explained, his voice nasally. “I’d absolutely hate to leave one of our companions behind.”

There was soft laughter. Was that Jakob? Leo found the hole in the fabric and turned in his direction, but if it had been him, he was too late—the boy’s face was impassive.