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.
The undead before him took whatever punishment Julian dished out, either knowing that he wouldn’t succeed or forced to take it whether it wanted to or not, bound to the orders of others. He suspected it felt no pain, no fear, and even if Julian could pierce its dense iron armor, his sword would be useless against its undead body.
Panting with exertion, Julian finally relented. His rage was in danger of fading in the face of this obstruction, and the result was unwanted clarity. Maybe he should have left with Wren when he’d had the chance.
Maybe he was a fool.
Mind racing, he took a step backward, deeper into the room, his gaze darting around the small space. If he could lure it away from the door, he might be able to use his speed to get around it and—
His thoughts—along with his strategies—sputtered out as the revenant moved into the room to pursue him, and a second one filled the empty frame.
Julian’s back was against the wall, literally and figuratively.
But this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to escape. He wanted to look his uncle in the eye. He wanted to demand answers. But as talented as Julian was, there was no way he could defeat two iron revenants and a full squad of his uncle’s personal guard.
If he wanted to face him, he would have to do so as a prisoner.
Heart hammering, Julian lowered his sword in surrender.
* * *
The cowards that made up his uncle’s Red Guard waited until Julian was subdued by the revenants before they entered the room. Prudent, maybe, but also pathetic. He thought of what Wren would say if she were here. The insults she’d spit. The way she’d throw them a challenging smile, even in defeat.
His stomach twisted. Better that she wasn’t here.
His uncle wanted her, for some bizarre reason, and Julian felt nothing but deep satisfaction in denying him that.
His uncle. His uncle.
The reality of it finally hit home. This was the man who had raised him, saved him, built him up only to break him back down. The man was a monolith, the foundation upon which Julian’s life was built.
The man he thought he’d known. The man he thought he’d understood, flaws and all.
Julian understood him, all right. Understood he never should have trusted him in the first place.
The revenants each took one of his arms, holding him in a grip strong enough to bruise. Then one of the Red Guard hastened to disarm him, avoiding his eye. Julian knew these people, had trained with them, walked the same halls as them, had served alongside them.
Did they know what his uncle’s orders had been? Even now, did they know the full picture? Or had Francis cooked up some story to justify the action? It wouldn’t be the first time.
The revenants increased the pressure on his arms, pulling him forward, and Julian wondered idly whose orders they were actually following. He’d thought only that ghostsmith boy—and Wren, apparently—could command the undead. But maybe the Corpse Queen was real. Maybe Francis wasn’t actually calling the shots. Maybe he, too, was a puppet in someone else’s game.
Julian thought he was ready to confront his uncle, but as he entered the next room, a cold sweat broke out over his brow, despite the warmth of the fire. Warring emotions battled inside him. He had always feared this man—but he had trusted him, too. Looked up to him. Taken his lessons about strength and sacrifice to heart. Believed him when he said everything he did was for the good of their house.