Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(75)

He sighed, securing his glove and dropping his hand.

No, it couldn’t be the regent.

Because if it were, the threads that held Julian’s life together would start to come undone, and he was already wound too tight. One loose strand, and everything would fall apart.

So he did what he had always done. He straightened his spine and tightened his resolve. He found his strength.

But then he looked at Wren, and suddenly, he didn’t want to be strong.

He wanted to surrender. To let go. To unravel.

Even just for a moment.

Which was exactly why he couldn’t.





TWENTY-SIX


When Wren awoke again, the fire was sputtering and tendrils of misty moisture filled the small space. A chill slipped in with it, making her shiver.

Julian loomed before her, fully dressed once more. “I’m going to look for more firewood.”

“Where?” she rasped as she sat up. She felt like death, though her headache had receded to a distant, dull pain, and she no longer felt woozy.

He hesitated. “I saw some old driftwood on our way here. I could easily break it down and—”

“You’re not going that far without me.”

“Wren, you’re wounded.”

“Excuse me, but you took an arrow to the chest and were up and moving again hours later. We can’t afford to waste any time.”

“Actually… we can. It’s raining pretty heavily out there.”

She sat up, adjusting her blanket before picking her way to the edge of the water. She crouched, peering out the door, where a relentless downpour turned the world beyond into a curtain of silver.

“It’s been going all night,” Julian said, watching her. “A lucky break.”

“How so?” Wren asked. As far as she could tell, it meant a miserable day of travel.

“They won’t ride in this,” he said, and she knew he meant the kidnappers who had Leo. “They can’t risk any harm coming to their prize, and the roads are… less than ideal in good weather, never mind torrential rain. Plus there’ll be flooding.”

“So we’re stuck here?”

Julian shrugged. “Could be worse. That water is warm, and it protects us from the revenants. We also have shelter from the rain. Besides, you need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Humor me,” he said dryly. Wren’s eyes narrowed.

Smiling, he turned to go.

“Okay,” she said, halting him before he could walk past her. “We rest here another day—but I’m coming with you now. We’ll need more wood than you can carry on your own, plus I left my sword and my satchel out there.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but seeing her stubborn expression, he faltered. Sighed.

“Fine. Let’s go.”



* * *



Another good thing about the rain was that the undead apparently did not care for it. Either that or it obscured their senses, because Wren and Julian walked through the shallow waters in near darkness, their passing unmarked by the sight of glowing revenants.

However, the cover was so good, the downpour so relentless, that it became clear fairly quickly that their own senses were equally obscured. They tried but couldn’t seem to find their way back to the mining shaft passage or the place Wren fell from the bridge. She reached with her magic but couldn’t feel her sword at all, and they were soon forced to give up.

They did find the driftwood though, a definite necessity given how soaked they had gotten in the pursuit, and luckily it had stayed mostly dry thanks to the rock outcrop above it. Keeping it dry would be the real challenge, but they found some partially sunken canoes tethered along the shore near a cluster of buildings, one of them undamaged.

The boat looked too new to be from the same era as the ghostsmiths, and Wren wondered if other people had come and gone in recent years. The craftsmanship was crude, which either meant it was constructed in haste or by people lacking skill.

Julian ran a hand along the side of the boat, his expression dark. “I wonder…”

“Who made them?” Wren asked, and he nodded. “Do you think—” she began, but cut herself off.

“What?”

“I just…” She swallowed. “They’re capable of following orders—at least, according to what they said to me. The undead. And your anvils seem to think revenants built this city. Making boats isn’t too far a stretch.”

“Yes, but they built this city centuries ago on ghostsmith orders. These boats can’t be more than a few years old.”

“Which means they’ve gotten new orders recently….”

Julian tossed his head in a half shake, like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. Maybe he just didn’t want it to be true, despite the evidence.

There was more going on in the Haunted Territory than either of them knew, but with a kidnapped prince and an assassination plot, they had enough to be worrying about already.

They bailed out what water they could, then loaded the boat with the driftwood before covering it with one of the blankets they’d brought with them and pulling it back to their temporary camp.

The pair of them were drenched by the time they returned, and while they had managed to keep the wood dryer than themselves, it would take a while to get the damp kindling to burn.