Though she had wanted to touch Julian’s hair ever since she’d first met him, to thoroughly mess it up—which she did—her hands began to stray… down his neck and across his shoulders, his heart thudding beneath her fingertips as she slid her palms against his chest. She was careful to avoid the place where the arrow had almost killed him, assuming there was a painful bruise, and instead trailed her fingers down his arms. Through the dampened fabric of his shirt, she felt a raised ridge, like a scar…
Julian jerked away from her, removing his hands from her body and using them to push against the rocky shore, putting space between them. His pupils were blown wide, his hair standing on end, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I—I’m sorry,” Wren managed, though her brain was foggy and she couldn’t quite put her finger on what she was apologizing for. Everything, most likely. She was usually at fault when things went awry.
“No, I…” He looked away, throat working as he swallowed. The rain was still falling, though it was more of a mist now, collecting in droplets on his skin and sticking his eyelashes together. “This was a bad idea.”
Wren nodded. Though it seemed she’d been naked more often than not in the past twelve hours, she felt exposed for the first time. Vulnerable.
Rejected.
She allowed herself to sink into the warmth of the spring, submerging her chin and letting the water lap against her lips as she spoke. “I’ll be—I’m going to stay out here a little longer.”
Julian stared at her mouth again, then nodded before turning and swimming back, through the doorway and out of sight.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Wren floated there for a while, mind oddly blank in the swirling steam. The rain had finally let up, allowing her to better see her surroundings. Maybe she should go looking for her sword and satchel again. Her eyes had adjusted to the strange, hazy light of the Breach, and besides, Julian clearly wouldn’t object to being alone for a while.
This was a bad idea.
Dipping low again and blowing some exasperated bubbles, Wren glanced at the door, where the warm glow of the fire was visible through the darkened frame.
Yes, she would go searching—but she should probably get dressed first.
She was about to dive under when another flash of light caught her eye. Not a warm glow but a cool green shimmer.
Ghostlight.
Now that the rain was little more than a drizzle, Wren suspected more undead would make an appearance on the banks of the spring. Likely they’d just retreated into the caves or some of the ruined structures that remained untouched by the water.
Squinting, Wren saw that indeed, the undead that had drawn her attention was emerging from a massive arched doorway across the spring—deeper into the ruins than she and Julian had dared to venture. But strangely, the glow seemed to come from behind the revenant rather than the revenant itself. It was silhouetted against the light, and it looked full-bodied—almost alive—except for…
What was that on its head? Was it a crown? Her mind jumped to the rumors of that Corpse Queen again, but then the figure shifted, and she realized it wasn’t a crown; it was horns. Part of some helmet or headdress, maybe?
More undead appeared, emerging from their hiding places and dotting the far shore, heading toward the horned figure. The longer Wren watched, the more certain she became that whatever it was, it wasn’t actually undead. The ghostlight of the approaching revenants illuminated the figure rather than emanated from it.
She thought it might actually be a boy, something in its musculature slim and lanky but not emaciated. Not decomposing. The figure turned their head, and Wren saw vivid green eyes staring out from the darkened face. Ghost-green eyes, visible even at this distance.
Hadn’t those revenants also mentioned a he?
Because she wills it. And he commands it.
Wren was desperate to see more, but she didn’t dare swim closer—the Breach was unnaturally silent save for the gentle pitter-patter of the rain and the soft, shuffling sound of the revenant corpses. She didn’t want to disturb whatever was happening or draw attention to herself, naked and unarmed as she was.
In fact, it was so quiet that when the boy spoke, Wren heard it as clearly as if he were five feet away, not fifty.
“Come,” he said softly. His voice was scratchy, as if from lack of use, and surprisingly deep. The undead stood before him, five in total, and he seemed to be surveying them closely. “You.” He indicated the least decomposed of the figures, though Wren could see its ribs, powerful ghostlight shining through. “With me. The rest of you, go.”
And they listened.
“Go,” they echoed, over and over as they wandered away.
Then the boy and his chosen revenant turned and walked through the archway.
* * *
“Julian!” Wren spluttered when she burst from the water inside their camp.
He whirled at the sound of his name but turned away at once when Wren began to climb from the water.
Things were awkward between them—they had just kissed, and he had called it a bad idea—but frankly, Wren didn’t have time for that. She found her abandoned blanket on the ground and snatched it up, using it as a towel and a buffer so Julian would face her again.
“Get your gear on,” she ordered, moving around the fire to gather her own clothes. They were dryish, which was the best she could do.
“What? Why?” he asked, looking at her now that she was covered, though his expression was wary. His clothes, on the other hand, were still very wet—and still on his body—though it was clear he’d been standing near the fire, so they didn’t drip, at any rate. Not that it mattered; they’d be heading back into the water shortly.
“I saw… something,” she said, pausing. She’d been tugging on her pants—or trying to, anyway, with the blanket about her shoulders and the fabric sticking to her damp skin.
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
When Wren failed to elaborate as she struggled to get dressed, he rolled his eyes and approached.
“Here, let me,” he said, prying Wren’s fingers from the edges of the blanket.
Surprised into obedience, she released her grip. He spread the fabric wide, holding it away from his body and turning his head, creating a small changing screen for her to hide behind.
She was oddly touched by the gesture, though it was more for his benefit than hers. She’d gladly have dressed right in front of him, but at least this helped to move things along.
“I think we should talk—” he began, his tone apologetic, and Wren knew he was going to discuss the kiss. To tell her why it was a bad idea, as if she didn’t already know, and say a bunch of other boring, responsible, placating shit that she did not want to hear.
“There’s someone else down here,” she cut in, finishing with her pants and adjusting her shirt. “Someone alive. I think he was a ghostsmith.”
He reared back, throwing a startled look in her direction before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be looking, and turned away again. She was mostly covered anyway, except for the open buttons on her shirt, so she tugged the blanket down and turned her back to him to fasten them.
“What makes you say that?”
“He had eyes the color of a ghost, for a start,” she said. “Plus, he was talking to them. The undead. There were five of them, and they didn’t attack him. He actually called them to his side, and when he spoke… they listened.”