Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(95)

Julian burst from the closet, striding to the door and sliding the lock into place right before a body slammed into the wood, rattling the knob several times before more shouts echoed down the hall. The wooden door was banded, giving Julian iron to press against in an attempt to hold them off.

Stepping back from the door with his hand still outstretched, he looked over his shoulder at Wren. “Go. Now.”

“What?” she said. “I can’t leave you here—with him!” She pointed at the room next door, where Julian’s would-be murderer held court, surrounded by allies.

“You have to,” he said, just as the door rattled on its hinges again. No matter how firm his hold on the iron banding or how strong the lock, if they wanted to get in badly enough, they’d just break through the wood.

“No, I don’t,” Wren said, her throat tight. “We’ll both go. We’ll—”

“They’ll chase us,” he cut in. “If they find me, they’ll think I’m alone—you’re safe. Please. I want to face him. Take the window and climb up on the roof.”

“But what about Leo? The iron revenants?”

Sadness touched his eyes, even as he extended both hands toward the door, fighting against the continued bangs and shouts from the opposite side. His feet were actually starting to slide against the floor, the force of his magic was so strong.

“There’s time for both of us to get out of here,” she insisted. “You didn’t leave me in the Breach”—she crossed her arms, planting herself next to him—“so I’m not leaving you.”

The look he gave her was one of surprised gratitude, and Wren tried not to let it shake her—both in its sincerity and its suggestion that he expected her to cut and run.

He considered her a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Okay, open the window,” he said, grabbing their bag from the floor and following her, all the while keeping his attention and his magic fixed on the door.

Wren ran to the window, wrenching it open with a blast of frigid air, then climbing onto the sill. Julian reached around her to toss the bag onto the roof, the impact of his armor loud against the tiles.

The door was splintering now, and she was just making room for him on the ledge when Julian reached for the open window. “This is for your own good,” he said, and before her brain could catch up, he’d slammed it closed, trapping her outside and him in.

They stared at each other through the pane, Wren’s startled breath fogging the glass.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sliding the lock in place before turning his back on her and striding toward the door. He withdrew his sword, preparing for a fight, but he wasn’t wearing his armor. He was vulnerable.

Frustration climbed up Wren’s throat. He was right there, but she couldn’t reach him. She wanted to scream, to shatter the glass and stand by his side—but how could she, when he was essentially sacrificing himself in order to save her? She couldn’t just throw it back in his face. She also couldn’t stay here, perched on the windowsill, just waiting to be caught and captured.

Cursing, she hoisted herself onto the drainpipe and out of sight, tears stinging her eyes—tears that had nothing to do with the cold.

She had just landed on the roof tiles when the sound of the door bursting open and slamming against the wall reverberated from below.

She crouched, utterly still, but could hear very little besides shouts and ringing metallic impacts. She lifted her gaze to take in her surroundings—night had fallen, her presence atop the inn unmarked and unnoticeable from anyone below.

She was a ghost, a shadow… but she had no idea where to go or what to do.

Julian meant for her to leave—to get out while she could.

It was the smart thing. The logical thing.

But since when had Wren Graven ever done that?





THIRTY-FOUR


Julian was ready to fight. To hurt. To bleed—no, to make them bleed, anyone who stood in his way.

Anyone who stood between him and that man.

But when the door burst open, kicked in so hard the wood split, Julian found himself face-to-face with a foe that couldn’t bleed.

Standing there amid the dust and splintered wood was an iron revenant.

The sight sent a shock wave through him.

Another sin to lay at his uncle’s feet.

The figure might have been the one Julian had just seen created, though he couldn’t be sure. The iron was plain and unadorned, the style decades out of date. While modern swords like Julian still wore full plate, the armor was fitted and streamlined and didn’t technically cover him head to toe, allowing for freer movement. He currently felt naked without it, but there hadn’t been time.

He raised his hand on instinct, intending to use his magic to halt the creature’s approach, but he knew it would be futile. The size of the suit, the density of the iron… It must easily weigh twice what Julian did, which meant he had no chance at slowing it down, never mind stopping it.

He didn’t care.

Logic, it seemed, had fled him.

Fuck magic, fuck logic—he’d tear the creature apart with his bare hands.

And he tried.

He hacked and slashed, his sword thrusts ruthless and without technique, but no matter where he struck or how hard he swung, his sword ricocheted off the ironsmith plate, leaving little more than a scratch. The armor was thick, thicker than any living person could bear…. But that was the point, wasn’t it? The undead didn’t follow the rules of the natural world, and the magic well that powered these iron revenants certainly didn’t.