“And if she wins, what then?” Mother Marrow says.
“Then I will be dead,” Oak tells her. “And you are more than welcome to spit on the moss and rocks where my body fell.”
It is at that moment that the front door cracks in two. The smell of ozone and burning wood fills the air. The storm hag stands there as though summoned by the speaking of her name.
Lightning crackles between her hands. Her eyes are wild. “You!” cries Bogdana as she spots Bex beside the prince.
“Take the mortal to Wren,” Oak shouts to Jack and Hyacinthe, drawing his sword. “Go!”
Then he rushes at the storm hag.
Electricity hits his blade, scorching his fingers. Despite the pain, he manages to swing, slashing through her cloak.
Out of the corner of his eye, Oak sees Jack lift Bex and push her feet through the window. From the other side, Hyacinthe grabs hold of her.
Bogdana reaches for Oak with her daggerlike fingers. “I am going to enjoy stripping the skin from your flesh.”
He swings, blocking her grab. Then he ducks to her left. She takes another step toward him.
By now, Hyacinthe and Jack are out of sight, Bex with them.
A move occurs to Oak—a risky move, but one that might work. One that might get him to Wren faster than anything else. “What if I surrender?” he asks.
He can see her slight hesitation. “Surrender?”
“I’ll sheathe my sword and go with you willingly.” He shrugs, lowering his blade a fraction. “If you promise to bring me straight to Wren with no tricks.”
“No tricks?” she echoes. “That’s a fine thing coming from you.”
“I want to see her,” he says, hoping he seems convincing. “I want to hear from her lips what she’s done and what she wants. And you don’t want to leave her alone too long.”
Bogdana regards him with a sly expression. “Very well, prince.” She reaches out and runs her long claws over his cheek so lightly that they only scrape his bruises. “If I can’t have the sister, then you’ll be my prize. And I’ll have you well-seasoned by the time I end you.”
CHAPTER
23
B
ogdana has one clawed hand around his wrist as she tugs him toward the water and the storm.
“I thought we were going back to Wren,” he says.
“Ah, did you think she was still here on Insmoor? No, I brought her to Insear. We were there together when Mother Marrow signaled me.”
He should have suspected Mother Marrow had a way to let Bogdana know her hostage was being released and regrets his generosity with her. All he is likely to get in the way of gratitude is a curse. “On Insear?” he says, staying with the part that matters. If Wren and Bogdana made it to Insear, what did that mean for his family?
“Come,” Bogdana says, stepping off the edge of the rocks. A swirling wind catches and lifts her, as it caught and lifted the ship. The storm hag’s robes billow. She gives a sharp tug on Oak’s wrist. He follows her, his hooves walking on what seems like nothing but knots and eddies of air.
The fog parts, and droplets of rain do not fall in their path as the wind carries them over the sea.
Minutes later, they drop onto the black rocks of Insear. Oak slips and nearly falls, attempting to find his footing.
And in front of him, he sees Wren and Jude.
They are squared off, his sister holding a sword in one hand, her eyes shining. Most of her brown hair has come out of its braids and hangs loose and wet around her face. Her cheeks are pink with cold, and the bottom of her dress is raggedly cut away, as though she wants to be sure it won’t trip her.
Wren wears the clothes she wore at the hunt, the same clothes she wore on Insmoor. They hang on her, as though there is even less of her now, as though more of her has been eaten away. Her cheekbones are sharper, the hollows beneath them more pronounced. Her expression is as bleak as the rain-streaked sky. As bleak as when she was going to let him stab her.
Behind his sister are four other Folk. The Roach, a dagger in one hand and a fresh wound on his brow. Two archers—knights that Oak recognizes, holding longbows. And a courtier, dressed in velvet and lace, hair and beard in braids, hands gripping a hammer. They are all soaked to the bone.
On Wren’s side are more than a dozen of her soldiers—armored, swords at their belts and bows in their hands.
“Jude,” Oak says, but she doesn’t even seem to hear him.
As he watches, Wren lunges toward Jude, grabbing for her unsheathed blade. Wren’s blood smears over the bare steel where the edge catches her palm. But before the sword can bite more deeply, before Jude can wrench it from her grip, the metal begins to melt. It pools on the ground, hissing where it hits water, cooling into jagged metal shapes. Unmade.