Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(83)

Finally, he released her arm, but only so he could raise his hand, the ring gleaming in the ghostlight.

He pointed at one of the birds—the larger of the two, the bird of prey—then at his own chest.

Wren, breathless, followed his every movement. Her body was wound tight, her muscles poised to flee in the face of information she didn’t want but desperately needed. He seemed to sense her struggle, his actions slow and cautious, like she was a deer in the woods he didn’t want to startle.

When his finger pointed at the smaller bird, the songbird, Wren started to shake. Knowing, even before it happened, what he would do.

Raising his hand, he pointed squarely at Wren.

She shook her head. Slowly at first, then more forcefully.

Her fingers closed around the ring, hard, her hand curled into a fist.

She turned.

“Move!” she bellowed at the revenants that stood between her and Julian—between them and their escape.

And they did, parting for her like a ghost for a bone blade. She looked once over her shoulder, but the boy didn’t attempt to follow her.

He let her go.

“Move,” she said again as she came to Julian’s side, putting as much force into it as she could, though her voice shook. Their eyes met, and Wren saw a different kind of fear in them.

Fear of her.

All around, the undead obeyed, stepping aside with varying levels of grace and coordination. Sword held high, Wren grabbed Julian by the arm and dragged him with her, out the door and into the cavern.

More revenants dotted the shore, but as Wren and Julian made their way to the water, they shuffled and ambled and floated aside.

“Move,” Wren whispered, whenever one lingered too long. “Move.”

They reached the boat. Julian was staring at her like she’d grown an extra limb, but she couldn’t smile or laugh or shake her head. She still held the ring in her fist, the shape imprinting itself into her palm.

Julian paddled them into the center of the spring, deciding without words that they wouldn’t return to their makeshift camp. He had brought his satchel with them and left it in the boat, and now there was nothing to do but make for the mine shaft passage that had delivered him here.

The silence was deafening, and more revenants winked to life along the shore as they passed, silent specters in the darkness. Wren didn’t dare command any more of them, afraid this newfound power would run out at any moment. Because surely it would—it was temporary, connected to whatever was in that pool, whatever she had absorbed when she pressed her hand to the ground.

The ring in her hand called her a liar, its sharp edges cutting into her palm.

Her senses tugged suddenly, and she poked her head over the side of the boat. She didn’t know how she knew—or how she could possibly sense it—but she was certain her satchel was directly below them. There was bonedust inside, though the amount was small and the water should have obscured her senses. Should have but didn’t.

After she pocketed the ring, a determined yank with her magic was all it took to drag the bag up from the depths into her outstretched hand.

How deep had the water been? How much farther was her range?

Swallowing, Wren hauled the sodden bag into the boat. Several moments later, she sensed her sword on the far shore. She suspected that, right now, she could have called it into her palm—no matter the distance—but she didn’t, instead waiting until the boat headed in that direction. There were revenants standing nearby, but as Wren leapt from the boat and splashed closer to shore, they remained immobile.

The entrance to the mining passage, too, was surrounded by revenants, and Wren gathered her strength as they approached.

Disembarking in the shallows and sloshing toward the shore, Wren found her voice again.

“Move,” she said, feeling as she had before that the word came from deep within her. That it was laced with power. With magic. “Step aside.”

They did, clearing a path but not leaving entirely. Their presence chilled Wren to the bone, her instincts to fight rearing up, but she didn’t want to test the limits of their obedience.

Once they were inside the passage, darkness closed in, and the lack of ghostlight—along with the misty atmosphere of the spring—eased the tension in Wren’s shoulders, though she didn’t dare relax. The way was steep and slippery, winding and bending in odd places, just as Julian had described.

Finally, they reached the mine itself.

Julian led the way, up some old stone stairs and around a bend until they arrived at a lift. It operated with a crank, though Julian didn’t use it, instead pulling on the metal chain with his magic, speeding them to the top.

Away from the boy with the matching ring, the Breach, and the countless undead who obeyed her command.





TWENTY-NINE


Once they reached the surface, Wren’s eyes needed a moment to adjust. Everything looked startlingly clear, the lack of mist and ghostlight casting the world into simple black and white—sky and stars, mountains and rocky ground. The bridge was visible behind them, silhouetted against the spangled backdrop, and the far side was dark once more, no undead ranging there unchecked.

And if there had been… could Wren check them? Could she banish them with a word?

Everything that had just happened felt miles away, a part of that hazy, surreal landscape—impossible in the stark light of the moon.