Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(99)

Julian reached down to help Leopold to his feet. “The regent’s men’ll be downstairs,” the prince protested, rubbing his sore wrists. “We can’t risk going that way.”

“We won’t,” Wren said, sheathing the dagger. “We’ll be taking the roof.”

“My weapons,” Julian said, and Wren spotted them in the iron revenant’s grasp. Squaring her shoulders, she walked over. “Give those to me.” The words had a strange feeling to them, different from her regular speech—some subtle pitch or tone that Julian couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was a pause, and then the revenant held out the weapons. Wren grabbed the bundle and heaved it across the room, to Julian’s open arms. Relief swept through him at their familiar weight and feel. As he moved to follow Wren, he spotted his dented helmet sitting on a side table. He snatched it up.

Wren had reached the balcony doors and was flinging them wide, just in time for Julian to stride through. It felt good to be working together again. It felt right.

“Come on,” Wren called over her shoulder, as Julian put a foot on the balcony railing for leverage and leapt onto the roof. When he looked down, Wren was offering the prince a foothold while Julian reached down for him. He hefted Leopold onto the tiles next to him before turning back to help Wren.

“Stay here,” she said into the room, giving the revenants a final order before closing the doors and gripping Julian’s hand. He stood as he lifted her, drawing her all the way up to her feet. “Oof,” she gasped, somewhat surprised, and Julian had never wanted to kiss her more. But that was a bad idea. He’d told her as much.

It was a bad idea because he’d lose himself to it. To her. Like his father had done.

But that was his uncle talking, wasn’t it?

Maybe the only way he would lose was if he let her go.

“Where to?” Leopold asked, cutting into the moment.

Wren released Julian’s hand, looking flustered. “We can cross over the alley to the next building,” she said, pointing to the other side of the sloping roof.

“Hang on,” Julian muttered, digging into their bag and hastily donning his armor. He added his dented helmet, making a mental note to repair the damage as soon as possible.

When he was ready, Wren led the way, up the peak of the roof and back down again. The building next door was level to this one—a quick jump was all it would take to get them across.

Julian was already taking several steps backward, preparing for a running leap, when voices echoed up from the street below. He skittered to a halt.

“Your Majesty,” came the unmistakable sound of his uncle’s voice.

He looked to the others. Then all three of them threw themselves down onto the tiles, creeping to the edge of the roof on their stomachs.

His uncle stood at the mouth of the alleyway, his Red Guard ranged around him, while opposite stood a woman, tall and veiled, surrounded by gleaming iron revenants.





THIRTY-FIVE


Wren sensed them before she saw them—the presence of the undead. Ever since the Breach, her magic was powerful, vivid, and her newfound abilities continued to linger. She feared they’d disappear at any moment while secretly hoping they would, that she could go back to being a regular smith and an excellent valkyr.

With Leo and Julian on either side of her, she took in the scene below.

The regent and his guards. A woman, draped in a black veil and surrounded by at least a dozen iron revenants.

The rumors, however limited, didn’t do her justice.

Yes, she wore a veil, but it was no maidenly shroud. The fabric was jagged and uneven, trailing to the ground and nearly opaque, giving only the vaguest sense of a face, a person, beneath. And atop her head? There was a crown, made of twisted, broken bones—a sick parody of the champion’s wreath Inara had won during the Bonewood Trial—punctured at irregular intervals with the same dark spikes that pierced Wren’s ring, creating a haunting halo. When she moved, she sounded like a revenant—bones shifting and clacking together—but they weren’t her own. Bright in Wren’s senses but barely visible through the veil were bracelets and necklaces, pieces of pale bone flashing like scraps of moonlight on inky black waters.

“It’s her…,” Wren whispered, mostly to herself.

“The Corpse Queen,” said Leo, his expression intent.

“Forgive me,” the regent continued, though his voice held no contrition, “but I thought we had agreed to meet outside the walls?” He glanced around, at the street behind him, where people huddled together or poked their heads out windows and doorways, watching and whispering.

“We agreed on many things, Regent.” Her voice… it reminded Wren of the boy’s—low and rasping—but there was an edge to it, a sort of rawness that grated against her skin, making it tingle. “Where is my prize? I will not grant you continued use of my iron revenants without it.”

What prize? She couldn’t mean Leo, could she?

The regent’s expression turned cold. “They wouldn’t be iron revenants without me, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady. I’m a queen.”

“Rule you may, but not over me.”

There was a note of amusement in her voice when she replied. “Nor you over me, Regent. You know why I am here. It’s time for you to uphold your end of the bargain. We cannot proceed without her.”