Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(92)
Julian went first, slowing himself by holding tighter to the iron to control his pace and avoid making any noise. Once he got to the other side, he withdrew a paper-thin dagger, sliding it under the frame and hooking the latch, unlocking the window.
Wren remained crouched on the rooftop, her attention split between Julian climbing quietly into the darkness of the room and the commotion below, which was—as promised—quickly coming to an end. Night was falling, but not fast enough. If she didn’t get into that room in a hurry, she’d be caught.
After ditching his bag, Julian reappeared in the open window, gesturing for her to make the leap. She did, throwing herself onto the rope with as much force as she could. She sailed through the air at an alarming speed, and as the window and Julian quickly approached, she realized she had no means to slow herself down.
He seemed to realize the same thing, his eyes bugging out a second before he stepped back. The smart thing would have been to step aside entirely, but that would mean Wren hurtling through the window and landing on the ground. No doubt the regent or his men stationed next door would hear the commotion, and their plan to eavesdrop would be over before it had even begun.
So instead, he braced himself and held his arms wide. She collided with him, hitting his chest hard enough to elicit a muffled grunt. He staggered backward, but rather than release Wren to alleviate the weight—and momentum—he held her tight against his chest, refusing to let her hit the ground.
His determination impressed her, as did the tight bands of his arms pressed against her back. She reminded herself that he clutched her this way to avoid making a sound, not for any other reason.
Still, it was nice to be held by him.
They remained like that, gasping, until he regained his balance. At last he drew back, their faces inches apart. His gaze flicked down to her mouth, and Wren’s heart stopped.
“You okay?” he said, dragging his attention away from her lips.
She nodded, and he released his grip, allowing her body to slide slowly, gently, down to the floor. Afterward, her cheeks felt hotter than the sun, but luckily, the second he deposited her onto the floor, he rushed to the open window. With a quick tug, he released the whip from its mooring on the storage shed and drew it back into a sword, sheathing it. Then he shut the window, blocking out some of the sounds from below.
Now that her heart had stopped racing and the noise from the courtyard was cut off, Wren could hear movement and murmuring through the wall to her right.
Together they edged closer, pressing their ears against the paneling, but then Wren spotted a closet and wrenched it open, ducking inside the tight space, which was only made tighter when Julian joined her.
The voices grew louder, and when Wren pressed her ear against the back wall, she could hear the words through the cracks in the warped pieces of wood that made up the rather flimsy barrier between the rooms. No wonder the regent insisted on emptying the entire floor.
Getting an idea, Wren reached back to close the closet door, shutting them in total darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she saw narrow beams of golden light spilling through the gaps. Several of them might even be large enough to see through.
She glanced at Julian, and they bent their heads, squinting into the room beyond.
THIRTY-TWO
Leo entered the room via a shove between the shoulder blades. It was wholly unnecessary—he was walking just fine, thank you very much, despite his sore muscles from days in the saddle—but it certainly added to the whole “your life is in mortal peril” atmosphere they were attempting to cultivate.
Before him was a large suite, fitted with the kind of furniture and decor that was meant to be elegant and refined but read to him as nothing so much as quaint and outdated.
Still, it was the nicest space he’d been in for weeks, the rugs beneath his feet well made, if worn, and the furniture covered in rich fabrics. The bed was a massive four-poster, visible in the adjoining chamber, and the wood-paneled walls were recently painted and free from dust and soot. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth—the gilt detailing on the mantel too low in quality for his magic to register it—and seated in front of the flames in a cozy sitting room was surely the man he was here to meet. The other side of the bargain that had landed him here, miles from home, from safety, in the lawless wilds of the Haunted Territory.
The man was decked out in House of Iron colors, his armor gaudy with bloodred accents and spiked embellishments. The shade matched his personal soldiers—the Red Guard according to the locals Leo had overheard on their way in—who were ranged around the room, and he sat comfortably in a high-backed leather chair, his helmet propped on the nearest table.
This could only be the regent of the Iron Citadel.
For now. His ambitions extended beyond the Wall, and Leo was at the heart of them. But he was not there alone. There was the assassination at the fort. The extra horse. Not to mention this town in the middle of the Haunted Territory. This was one tangled plot, and Leo was determined to unravel it.
He had been at it for days, and while he didn’t have the whole picture, he thought he was getting close.
It was the captain who had shoved him into the room, and it was he who spoke now. “Stay there and stay quiet,” he muttered under his breath, indicating that Leo should remain standing next to the hearth. He yearned, suddenly, for the quiet contempt of Ivan or the sincere honesty of Jakob. But they had been told to remain outside. They weren’t privy to the darker details of their mission, which were about to come to the forefront.