Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(9)

“Now what are we supposed to do? We can’t just leave her down there,” Sonya said, somewhat shrilly.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Ethen said, his face chalky and pale.

They were cowards, both of them. At least Inara had the stomach for what she was doing.

“She’ll be fine,” Inara said, though her voice was slightly breathless. “Won’t you, Graven? Best valkyr of our generation, aren’t you?” Wren bared her teeth in frustration. She had said that, dozens of times, to anyone who would listen, and often to Inara’s face.

“You won’t get away with this,” Wren said, fear tightening her belly as Inara prepared to leave. “My father—”

“Is not the hero you think he is,” Inara said softly. “See you on the other side. Don’t forget to bring my blade.”

Then she walked away, the two reapyrs following close behind, leaving Wren alone in the dark, with a view of nothing but stars and bones and the moon’s unwavering progress through the sky.





FOUR


“Fuck!” Wren shouted, the word reverberating off the cavern walls and echoing out into the night. She clenched her hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

It didn’t work.

She kicked and punched and spat, raging at everything and everyone, but at herself most of all. How could she have let this happen? She had been halfway there, her victory within reach, and she’d allowed Inara fucking Fell, perpetual second-best and shameless bootlicker, to snatch it away from her.

Wren halted, her chest heaving. She stared up at the sky, and the moon stared back at her.

There was still time.

She had until dawn, and Inara and Ethen needed to do one last reaping, which gave Wren a chance to catch up. All she had to do was get out of this Digger-damned grave Inara had somehow managed to drop her into.

She examined her surroundings more closely. The opening above was at least twice her height, and the earth was surprisingly muddy and wet underneath the snow that had fallen down with her. It was early winter, and though the cold never really left the Northern Dominions, the ground was soft enough to allow Inara to dig this hole and set her trap.

But how? As Inara had pointed out, Wren was the rulebreaker in the House of Bone, and even she had never managed to get into the Bonewood on her own. Had Inara gotten outside help? And from whom? Her mother, perhaps? Ingrid Fell hated Wren’s father and had been vying for power and influence alongside him for most of their lives.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Wren considered all she’d brought with her. She carried her swords and her dagger, knucklebones, and pouches of bonedust, but she had, unsurprisingly, not brought any climbing or grappling tools. In her defense, of all the things she’d thought to prepare for, her conniving cousin burying her alive wasn’t one of them.

But Wren was resourceful. She pressed her hands into the muddy sides of the pit, feeling a distant tingle from bones embedded within, and while the outer layer was indeed soft and slick, the deeper she pushed, the more solid the ground became. The digging was what had made the earth so unstable, but just past the surface, firm, semi-frozen soil remained. It was, however, impossible to get a proper hold with her bare hands.

She grinned. It was a good thing she had her blades.

The first sword sank nearly to the hilt into the muck, just above Wren’s right shoulder. She did a cursory tug, then let it take her full body weight.

It held.

She fixed the second sword higher and to the left. The angle was more difficult, but she pushed and hammered on the grip, using her magic to help the blade along until it, too, was stable enough to bear her weight.

Wren was a good climber, light on her feet and agile—she had proven that on the library bookshelves. But the hard part was yet to come. She would have to remove and reinsert one blade while dangling from the other, repeating the action several times if she wanted to make it to the top. She could shove her booted feet into the holes the swords left behind, but it would still be a tall order.

As she stepped back to admire her handiwork and wipe her slimy hands for the climb, she stumbled over something. Not solid and firm, like bare bone, nor slick like melted snow or mud. Instead, it was soft and… squishy.

She looked down.

It was a body.

Not a skeleton, ancient and eroded. No, this was fresh… or at least, fresher than it should be. Too fresh to make sense. They’d stopped disposing of bodies in the Bonewood decades ago. It had originated as a way to defend their borders and ward off attack, but that was in the time before the Dominions, when dozens of rulers vied for power and control over these lands. Now, in times of peace, such protections were no longer necessary.

The corpse Wren was looking at now, though partially preserved thanks to the cold, could not have been there much longer than a few years… five, tops.

The flesh was mottled, the features gaunt but not fully decomposed. Even the clothing was well preserved, the thick layers of wool and leather and mud-spattered boots telling her this person had undertaken a long journey before they’d arrived here. Had they been a wayward traveler? A messenger? There was nothing else to indicate who they were or how they’d wound up here.

Well, that wasn’t true. There was one piece of evidence that pointed to how this person had wound up dead in the Bonewood.

The back of their head was caved in.