Do Your Worst(33)
“You really thought this whole thing out,” Riley said, her gaze noticeably narrowed as she took the artifact from him.
Clark kept as still and silent as he could while she uncovered it. He had no idea what she’d do next, if she’d fall into the trap he’d laid.
And what if she didn’t? What if she called his bluff?
He popped a ginger candy into his mouth against another wave of nausea.
How had Patrick lied to him for six months? More, actually—for however long it had taken him to plot as well? Clark had never had illusions of nobility, but this was awful.
His heart raced. His skin grew clammy.
“Okay,” Riley said, more to herself than to him as she held the dagger in front of her, turning it this way and that. “Okay,” she said again as she closed her eyes and inhaled, slow and deep.
Was this some kind of calming ritual? Was she trying to meditate?
“This way.” She grabbed his sleeve roughly, her eyes popping open as she marched them to the right, her chin lifted and her nose in the air.
They walked farther down the rock face, the map forgotten, and even as stones slipped under their feet, Riley picked up her pace, working to pull more air into her lungs in a way that was starting to trouble him.
“I don’t mean to be rude”—Clark lengthened his strides to match hers—“but are you having some sort of asthma attack?”
“I’m trying to catch a particular scent,” Riley informed him, not stopping, not even sparing him a glance.
Clark took a deep breath too, letting his chest expand under his waterproof coat.
“All I can smell is wet stone and sea salt.” He turned to sniff the air in the opposite direction, but Riley caught his hand this time and yanked.
“It’s stronger this way.”
Her hand was small and warm in his, and because he was weak, Clark made no immediate move to take his back.
“What does it smell like?” he asked, genuinely interested despite suspecting this might be part of her plan to save face.
“You won’t be able to smell it.”
Ah! So, he’d caught her.
“My nose works perfectly.” Clark put every ounce of British condescension he could muster into his voice.
“I promise,” Riley said, ignoring the dark clouds that rolled ominously across the sky ahead as they continued to wind toward the base of the cliff, “that if I tell you, you’ll freak out.”
“I can assure you that I’m an extremely calm, mild-mannered person.” Or at least he had been, before he met her. “Every report I ever got from school called me a pleasure to have in class.”
Riley snorted. “I bet.” She pulled away to press the back of her hands against her eyes. “Fine. Sometimes I can smell magic.”
“You can smell magic?” Clark said slowly, and then pressed his lips together, fighting not to let his complete bewilderment bleed into his voice. He’d just told her he wouldn’t fly off the handle.
“Sometimes,” she repeated, dropping her arms to see Clark’s reaction. “But this” —Riley gestured at his sour-lemon face—“this reaction you’re having is exactly why I don’t tell people.”
Well, obviously no one could hear such a proclamation and not regard it with skepticism. Clark was starting to grow concerned about the depths of her self-delusion.
“Look, I can appreciate that it’s weird,” Riley said, “but it’s a family thing. My grandmother taught herself to track curses by their scent signature—it’s sort of like a magical fingerprint—and then, when I was old enough, she taught me.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even realize how strange that sounds until I was in high school. Lots of people in Appalachia learn to track, to hunt. I just don’t shoot what I find.”
“To be clear, you’re saying you’re some kind of . . . supernatural bloodhound?”
“Did you just call me a dog?”
Since Clark didn’t have a death wish, he quickly pivoted. “What exactly does a curse smell like?”
“It’s hard to describe. It’s not a normal scent, like rosemary or oil paint or chlorine. It’s more like a set of sense memories stacked one on top of another. Like . . . odor vignettes.” Riley grimaced at her own metaphor. “Arden’s curse smells kind of like blood in your mouth when you bite your tongue—salt and copper—mixed with the ground a second after lightning strikes. Iron. Burning. Earth.”
Clark couldn’t help himself from trying again, feeling silly as he sniffed the air. “You smell all that now?”
“Yes. Scent memory is hard to hold on to. When I trained with Gran in the forest, most of the smells grew familiar after a while. It was easier to isolate a new signature. But here, everything is new—new air, new flowers, new ocean, new rocks—but the same scent clings to this”—she unhooked the dagger from her belt—“and it’s even stronger at the castle.”
Clark didn’t know what to make of her reaction. Riley didn’t look or sound like someone panicking or grasping for straws. She looked damp and slightly frantic, but more determined than ever. Raising her chin to catch the wind like at any moment she might lose the trail.
There was no way she could have known where he’d take her today—so the chances of her stashing something up ahead like she could have planted the dagger at the castle didn’t add up. Was it possible his fake map really had pointed them in the direction of something mystical?