Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(69)

“Calm yourself, Your Highness,” said Jakob’s quiet voice, though Leo thought he could sense lingering amusement there. “We haven’t forgotten anyone.”

Which suggested… “Oh dear, now you’ve gone and made me self-conscious, Jakob,” Leo said. The boy craned his neck, confused. “It seems I was not meant to be your only guest of honor on this trip.”

To that, Jakob had no response.

Leo chewed on that for the rest of the day, coming to the conclusion that this wasn’t an average, run-of-the-mill kidnapping and hostage exchange, as he’d initially thought. It had not only been used as an opportunity to stage an assassination, but apparently Prince Leopold Valorian had not been the only person of value to be found at the Breachfort.

The question was, who was the second?



* * *



Despite circumstances, Leo felt he had everything in hand—or he had, until they’d set out the morning of the third day.

Prior to that point, all was as it should have been. Kidnapping aside. He was using his charm and his wit to collect seeds of information, to spread rumors—true or false—and was generally doing the best he could with what he had. He was certain that any day now he’d get to the bottom of this plot. Ideally before they reached the Iron Citadel.

But then, after taking the Coastal Road ever since they’d left Southbridge, it seemed their party was poised to diverge. They had passed various crossroads and offshoots throughout the journey but had always stayed the course.

Until now.

“Doesn’t the Coastal Road lead to the Iron Citadel?” he’d asked, looking right, while the riders in front of him steered their horses left.

Ivan turned his way.

“I know, I know. The bag.” Leo put it on but still waited with hope that his question might be answered.

“It does,” replied Jakob. Good, reliable Jakob.

Except… they were turning left, west, away from the Coastal Road.

The realization hit Leo like an arrow from someone who was supposed to be on his side.

They weren’t going to the Iron Citadel.

And if they weren’t going to the Iron Citadel, maybe everything he thought he knew, everything he was certain he’d discovered…

Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he’d thought.

Above, rain clouds rumbled, dark and ominous.

A storm, which they were riding directly into. And if his bearings were correct, he was headed for more trouble than his mouth could talk him out of.

But he would damn well try all the same.





TWENTY-FOUR


Wren was accustomed to the dark.

Death was her trade, and ghosts were her bread and butter. She thought she had known what it felt like to blink into the shadows, to gasp for breath—to not know what horror might lurk around the next corner. She thought she knew fear.

But this…

This was beyond anything she had ever felt before. Falling, endlessly, into the unknown. Julian’s terrified face receding from view and the nothing below rushing up to meet her. Green mist whipped past, tugging at her clothes and hair. Were they ghosts? Was she already dead?

The sudden impact robbed the breath from her lungs and hit her body like a brick wall.

But it wasn’t a wall at all—or anything solid. Wren attempted to suck in a breath and took in a mouthful of water instead. The delayed sensation of plunging into wetness hit her, and she flailed, completely disoriented.

The undead had fallen down here. They could be anywhere below, sinking in the deep, unable to swim or leave their watery graves.

She kicked, sending her to the surface, and her head shot out into open air. Coughing and spluttering, she struggled to properly draw breaths. Her entire body ached, her legs kicking and hands working on instinct alone. She started to sink again, the water too deep to stand, and panic seized her.

The shore—she needed to find the shore.

The straps from her satchel dug into her shoulders, the weight of her supplies dragging her down. After a moment’s struggle, she managed to remove one strap, then the other.

That weight gone, her chin cleared the water again, but she had no idea which direction to swim or where the shoreline was.

Miraculously, she still held her bone sword. She cocked her arm back and tossed it as far as she could.

It clattered against something, either a rock in the middle of this body of water or, if she was lucky, the shoreline—but it didn’t matter. Focusing with all her might, Wren reached for the sword and pulled. She was more likely to drag it to her than her to it, but all she needed was a sense of where it was so it gave her a firm direction to swim.

Energy failing fast, Wren pumped her legs and paddled, fighting to keep her head above water. The bone drew nearer and nearer in her mind’s eye, and when her foot kicked out and met with solid ground, she wanted to weep with relief.

She did cry, and laugh, and hiccup as she stumbled out of the water and threw herself onto the shore. Her breath came ragged, her lungs aching, but she was alive.

Somehow, she was alive.

Blinking into the darkness, she tried to discern her surroundings. She squinted up, toward the bridge, but the eerie mist obscured her view.

She hoped Julian made it safely across the rest of the way. Though it pained her to have lost a sword, she was relieved that he had some manner of proper protection.