Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(72)

Undead hands? That’s what the ironsmith historians had believed, according to Julian. She examined the soaring buildings and darkened tunnels, disappearing in all directions like an ant colony. She tried to imagine revenant builders. Revenant servants and guards.

She’d always been taught that the undead didn’t create. They didn’t use weapons or instruments or tools.

But maybe they could, if someone ordered them to.

Before coming to the Haunted Territory, she’d never have thought such a thing was possible, but after the past few days… it seemed not only possible but entirely likely.

Julian glanced over his shoulder, waiting for her to give him the go-ahead. Despite her mind being a bit foggy, her senses felt sharp.

“It’s clear,” she told him, and he nodded, accepting her words as he ducked beneath the low doorway.

The entrance was deeply submerged, causing the water to rise to Julian’s chest as he passed through. He lifted his satchel to keep it dry, and Wren thought longingly of her own, somewhere deep in the spring.

She followed, finding that only half the room beyond was filled with water. There was a second-floor garret, open to them and high enough to be untouched by the spring, with a set of steps emerging from the water, giving them fairly easy access. The walls were solid, the roof intact, and with water lapping on all sides, they’d be safe from the undead.

Julian mounted the stairs, then turned to help Wren. Her shaky legs were evident again as she climbed from the water, but she forced them to cooperate. She would be damned if he had to carry her.

Once she reached the top, Wren slumped against the wall, her head pounding again and making it hard to keep her balance.

Julian, meanwhile, was digging around inside his satchel. He withdrew some of the dry firewood they’d been carrying, as well as the flint.

It was so damp in here, even above the touch of the water, that Wren worried it was a lost cause, but the sounds of him stacking the wood, muttering to himself and striking the flint, were almost as soothing as the flames would be.

“Wren,” Julian said sharply, drawing her back to herself. Her eyes were closed, though she didn’t remember shutting them. “Stay awake, okay? Can you stay awake a little longer?”

She nodded, lifting her head and straightening her posture. The scent of smoke reached her, and she looked to see a fledgling fire started in the corner, bits of broken stones ranged in a makeshift pit. There was a small window set high in the wall above, providing ventilation.

“We’ll need more, before the night is through,” he murmured, mostly to himself, before shifting and adjusting the logs. He reached with his gloved hands, apparently unconcerned about the heat. That was one benefit to the fact that he never seemed to take them off, though Wren was dying to know the real reason.

“N-not sure we’ll find any d-down here,” Wren said, struggling to get the words out through her chattering teeth. Maybe she should get back into the water, which was warm, even if it was wet.

“Come here,” he said, reaching for her hand, “closer to the fire. It’ll help warm you up.” He turned to stare at the struggling flames. “Eventually.”

Wren released his hand in favor of crawling rather than attempting to stand again, but when she reached the edge of the fire, the cold stayed with her.

It was her clothes—she needed to get them off.

Deciding there was nothing else for it, Wren stood. Julian, who had been poking at the flames, watched her warily, perhaps afraid she might keel over.

She fumbled with her belt, then her bandolier, and the straps for her back sheaths. She dropped the items carelessly, but Julian stooped to gather them one by one and place them by his pack.

Wren felt strangely exposed as her armor gave way—her last protections. Against the undead, of course, but also against him. She was a bonesmith, he an ironsmith. It was how they related to and understood each other. Without their separate identities between them, they were just two people alone in the dark.

Julian took his time stacking her armor, as if delaying on purpose—or giving Wren time.

She looked at her drenched clothes, heavy with water and clinging to her skin, her muscles like jelly. Defeat slumped her shoulders.

“I can help, if you want,” Julian said stiffly, standing before her. “I’ll close my eyes.”

Wren rolled hers. “That won’t make you m-much use to me,” she said, clenching her muscles against the trembling. “Can you just hurry up? Please?”

He nodded, closing the distance between them. He undid the buttons on her jacket, peeling it down her arms and tossing it to the ground. While he’d treated her weapons and armor with the utmost care, it was clear he was going for speed now, determined to get this task done as quickly as possible.

In another time, with another kind of boy, Wren might have thought he was in a rush to see her naked, fumbling with clumsy hands out of eagerness. But with Julian, she suspected the opposite was true, that he dreaded every moment of this. He pushed on out of necessity, for Wren’s sake, and to complete the task at hand. Not out of any desire or lust.

That was its own kind of disappointment, though it made things easier. The entire thing became clinical and detached as he peeled back layer after layer.

When his gloved knuckles skimmed across her bare chest as he undid the shirt buttons, Wren settled a hand on his wrist.