Chapter 16

The nervous energy popping off almost every man in our party is palpable, tightening the air around us—a feeling that’s only amplified since the thread of light falling upon the wiggly path has withered with the setting sun.

Sparked lanterns now provide a plump, protective shield that does nothing to alleviate the sense of being caged.

Watched.

Like the jungle itself is taking note of every crunching footfall. Every nervous glance into shadowed gulfs between trees. Every tightening fist clutching spears.

I’ve spent the otherwise silent journey scanning the jungle, hunting for signs of life and finding nothing.

Not a bird or a moth, or even one of the snakes that apparently likes to nest in pockets of dappled sunlight. But I can feel something out there just as surely as I can the thud in my chest, the peeling flesh on the backs of my heels, and the beads of sweat trailing down my spine.

Once we left the charred footprint of the desolated cliffside town, the jungle thickened, and the air became hot, sticky, and still. Even with the setting sun draining some of the heat, the humidity’s still trapped below the tropical canopy.

My gaze hungers over big, waxy leaves that could double as shade sails, indigo flowers larger than a dinner plate, and vines strangling weepy, downtrodden trees. So used to ancient oaks clothed in lichen and roots that twist up from the soil, every step feels like I’m walking through the pages of a picture book.

The foliage is the color of the sea on an angry, weather-bent day—steel-blue with only the odd pop of green to lighten the mood. Remind me of home.

“You know what I’m looking forward to the most?” Zane asks, trudging along with a spring in his step, a lantern swinging from his lax hand. He seems to be the only one completely oblivious to this tense, suffocating feeling that won’t seem to shake.

Flipping the piece of coal Gage gave me between my sooty fingers, I look down at the back of Zane’s head boasting a rebellious dash of caramel hair he hasn’t bothered to smooth all day. “What’s that?”

“Momma’s fish pie,” he says, and I can hear the smile skating his voice. “It’s the best.”

“Kid’s not lying,” Captain rumbles from behind, his steady footsteps chasing mine. “It’s his grandma’s recipe. His mother and I grew up on that pie. Poor man’s food that somehow made us feel like nobles.”

A scorching trail blazes across my cheek, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck and making me gasp.

I snap my stare to the left.

Nothing.

Just the moody guts of the jungle, lifeless as ever, without even the chirp of an evening cricket to set the scene apart from a complex oil painting.

Even so, my steps slow, hand threading forward, fingers tangling with the back of Zane’s shirt.

He stops, head tipping up to look back at me. “What is it?”

“Not sure,” I murmur, searching every darkened gulley between the trees. “Something …”

“Best we keep it moving,” Captain rumbles from behind me, setting his hand between my shoulder blades and giving me a gentle boost. “All the lanterns are low on oil after the extra week at sea, and the sun’s setting fast.”

I nod slowly, loosening my hold on Zane. “Yes, Captain.”

“Just Gun,” he grunts out. “My ship’s at the bottom of The Andler.”

There’s a restless rustle in the trees, followed by a heavy thud that ratchets through my chest and flames my blood.

I rip Zane back against me as everyone pushes close—heads swiveling, spears at the ready, the air thick with a chaotic energy that prickles my skin. There’s the soft hiss of a blade loosening at my back, and it occurs to me how bitterly disappointed Baze would be that I’m not readily armed after all the work he’s put into me over the years.

Silence prevails for a long, tense moment while I scour the jungle, my heart a wild thing beating me up from the inside. Violent fear has my scrunched hand shaking around Zane’s crumpled shirt …

You can’t have him.

“Just a fallen branch,” Cainon bellows from the front. “Let’s push on. I can see the village’s lights through the trees ahead.”

Low murmurs rumble through the group, and everyone starts moving again, Zane easing from my grip with a lopsided smile tossed over his shoulder. I ruffle his hair, face hardening the moment he turns again, and I continue to scan the trees, heart lurching when I spot a stooped clutch of bluebells nesting at the base of a palm a dozen or so feet off the trail.

The tip of my boot hooks on something, and I whip off the track.

My sack goes flying, the piece of coal slipping from my grip when I hit the ground with a hard thud that rattles my teeth, my healing shoulder hunched beneath me.

But I feel no pain, barely hear the chorus of alarmed shouts as I stare at those bluebells with a stone-sized lump in my throat. Because that color right there—that exact tone—was the last puzzle piece that made up my brother on the wall in Whispers.

This feeling surges deep inside my gut that tingles all the way to the tips of my fingers. This need to have them. Hold them. Cradle them.

I ease up onto my knees, fingers stretched—

Firm hands land upon me, and I’m lugged back, brushed down, hair swiped from my face—breaking my sight of those bluebells.

“I’m fine,” I snap, batting Cainon’s hand away.

His eyes flare, tension crackling, and from the corner of my eye I see the men stare at their boots, pretending they didn’t just watch me chastise their High Master.

Perhaps they wouldn’t be so confused if they knew he was inserting last-minute caveats that prevent my people from receiving promised, life-saving aid at the earliest possible convenience. That he holds all the power to change the savage tide of death spilling across the continent in the palm of his hand, and that he’s dangling it over my head, just out of reach, until I dance.

All that proves is he doesn’t trust me. Which makes it damn hard for me to trust him.

Cainon shifts forward, smothering me in the smell of citrus and salt as he crushes the space between us. I keep my chin high, even as a burst of goosebumps sprouts down the side of my neck. “We need to talk,” he mutters against my ear.

“Then let’stalk.”

“Later.” He picks up my sack, spins, and continues down the path with it lumped over his shoulder like a trophy.

I glance at the bluebells, heart heavy as I search the undergrowth for my lost piece of coal …

Gone.

Hands bunching so tight I feel the scabs on my right palm crinkle and split, I look to my sack, foot swinging forward—

“Orlaith.” Gun’s blunt warning has my attention snapping back. He shakes his head, wearing a guillotine stare that suggests I’m trudging a line thinner than the pinch of his lips. “It’s not the right time, luv.”

Perhaps not. But it’s not his body that’s being sold for a promise that keeps slipping further between his fingers.

* * *

The sweet smell of sugar makes my tongue tingle as the trees thin, giving way to a hedge of tall buildings pressed against each other like a fortress. They’re plagued by a constellation of blazing lanterns bolted to the cobbled walls blotched with fluffy moss.

The majority of our convoy falls back, ordered to follow a stable sign that appears to direct them around the edge of the village.

Cainon spears down a slender path cleaved between the otherwise impenetrable wall.

I charge after him, trailed by Gun and Zane, shooting out in the settlement’s courtyard that’s barricaded on all four sides by tightly packed buildings.

Everything’s cobbled: the buildings, the ground, the water fountain in the center of it all—held in the bright embrace of tree-tall lanterns arching over buildings like bowing stick figures, their flaming heads caught in glass globes.

I shield my eyes from the glare as I stalk Cainon in long, determined strides, stare narrowed on my sack slung over his shoulder.

A sprinkle of wide-eyed people bow at the waist as he passes, their gazes strictly averted.

Cainon makes for a large building packed between two much smaller ones, a wooden sign hanging from its thatched awning:

“Keep her out while I secure our rooms. This is no place for a lady,” he bellows over my head, glancing at me before swinging the door wide, spilling the smell of sweat and smoke and the lilting tune of a lone fiddle that’s snipped off the moment he slams the door shut behind him.

Rage boils my blood.

I charge forward, clutch the doorknob, twist, pull—

A large, weather-beaten hand slams against the wood.

Frowning, I whip around, but Gun just holds my fervid stare with a narrowed look that hits like a sledgehammer.

“He’s got my sack.”

“It’ll be safewith our High Master.”

I huff out a joyless laugh and slide down the wall until I’m crouched. Head tipped back, I stare across the courtyard. “I don’t believe in that word,” I mutter, watching people go about their evening business.

None of them seem to notice they’re in the presence of the child-survivor—an invisibility I’ve chased my whole life. Hard to appreciate with my mind so tangled up in the fact that Cainon has all my vulnerabilities lumped over his shoulder.

“If I move off this door and sit on that bench right there so I can smoke my pipe,” Gun drones, pointing to the bench bolted to the wall beside me, “are you going to shove your way in the door like a bull and announce yourself to a group of drunken cane growers?”

“I can’t move that fast.”

“Don’t believe you.”

Chuffing, I drop the rest of the way to the ground, landing hard on my ass, and stretch my legs in front of me as a show of good faith.

Wind stirs, filling the busy courtyard with a swirl of the sweet steam pouring from a giant chimney across the way. It sticks to my skin and sugarcoats my lips as I watch a circle of kids play knucklebones—their eyes carefree and chests full of laughter.

Gun pushes off the door and strides past, lumps himself on the bench, and pulls a leather pouch from his side satchel. “Anything special in that sack?” he asks, tamping something sage green into his pipe. He sparks a match, ignites the contents, and puffs on the end while I think of my diamond pickaxe, the talon, Rhordyn’s pillow slip ...

Special—noxious—inflammatory.

Mine.

“You could say that.”

He grunts, takes another puff, and blows out a thick cloud of white.

Again, the bones scatter, followed by hoots and howls as one of the kids beats at his chest with victorious fists.

Gun sits forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s that boy munching on?”

“Which one?”

“Our one.”

I follow his gaze, finding Zane crouched in the shadowed awning of a house on the opposite side of the courtyard—cheeks full, fist clenched around a stick staked through the middle of a big, red apple.

My lips almost curl into a smile. “Toffee apple.”

“I didn’t give him any coin …”

Shit. “I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

I wince, watching Zane take another oblivious bite. “Are you … going to do anything about it?”

Smoke billows out of Gun’s mouth as he watches his nephew enjoy his no-doubt stolen sweet. Probably nicked off somebody’s windowsill.

Gun reclines against the wall and draws another long puff, making the contents of his pipe fizzle red. “Figure I’m off duty,” he says, releasing a plume of white.

This time, my smile breaks free.

The door beside me swings open, and a petite woman pours out wearing a spill of blue fabric. She peers left and right, gaze touching me before she looks at Gun and says, “Where’s the Mistress? I’ve been sent out to escort her to the maiden suite.”

His brow bumps up, and he jerks his thumb in my direction.

Her attention flicks to me at the base of the wall, and her cheeks redden, offsetting bright blue eyes and all that golden hair piled on the top of her head.

She bobs a swift curtsey that makes her skirt puff full of air. “Mistress, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“No, it’s fine, honestly.” It’s more a compliment than anything. “Have you seen my sack? The High Master carried it inside. Did he set it down anywhere?”

She blinks, paling as she closes the door behind her and looks to Gun like she’s a little afraid for her wellbeing. “I—ah—I’m just one of the barmaids ...”

“Don’t harass the messenger, Orlaith. She’s just trying to take you to your room.”

I fill my cheeks, blow them out, and shove to a stand, then follow her past Gun and down a path cleaved between the buildings. Slowing before an inconspicuous door pressed into the stone, she pulls a key from her skirt pocket and battles the stubborn lock while I lean against the opposite wall and wait.

The hair on my left arm prickles, and I frown, breath snatching as a warm blow of air batters my side, teasing a raw, musky smell past my nose that pulls straight from my nightmares.

That deep-down voice screams for me to run.

Instead, I turn my head slower than a setting sun and stare along the tight alley that feeds into the unlit jungle beyond …

There’s something there.

My lungs compress, every hair on the back of my neck standing on end. My entire world—my entire being—seems to tunnel down to that slab of darkness at the end of the alley. Like I’m bobbing atop an inky ocean, feeling something brush against my wading feet.

Waiting to see if it’ll strike.

Suddenly, I can’t blink. Can’t swallow. Can’t so much as breathe. Crushed against the wall by the formidable form of this unseen force.

“Mistress?”

My plummet back to reality knocks my lungs into action, and I turn to the woman standing inside the open doorway that leads to a lit stairwell.

Clearing my throat, I shut myself off from the seeing shadows, and step over the threshold, a shiver scuttling up my spine as the door slams shut behind me.