Chapter 19

Towel bunched around me, I sit on the bed, stomach in knots as I work through my shoulder stretches. The contents of my sack is spewed across the sheets, the hilt of my wooden sword poking out, its leather binding peeled back an inch—likely from being dunked in saltwater and left to steep.

I reach for it, wrapping my fingers around the pommel. It’s cold in my hand, like it harbors the chill of Ocruth on a brisk, spring morning when daisies are barely peeking above a veil of mist and frosted grass crunches beneath my feet.

A strange tightness bands around my chest.

Pulling the sword close, my eyes narrow on a scrawled flick of moss green—the tapered tip of a painted vine swirled around the pommel’s tip, leading beneath the leather weave.

Frowning, I touch it, trace it, then pinch the binding’s edge and begin peeling it away from the tacky bonding substance.

With every unwinding twist, more of the etched vine unveils.

Splits off. Sprouts leaves.

Blooms little pops of purple that dangle down the hilt and make the backs of my eyes sting.

My wisteria vine.

It’s here. It’s been here this entire time.

I fall back into the sheets, sword tucked to my chest as I stare up at the rafters ...

A little bit of home.

I’m not sure where it came from. Who painted it.

I just know it’s my new favorite thing.

* * *

Rhordyn’s coming to Bahari to retrieve his ships.

I reposition the pillow and toss sideways—a failed attempt to disband my rampant thoughts in hopes they find somewhere to settle. It’s like I’m pumped full of Exothryl, but this is a natural charge that’s not burning off.

I press the flat of my palm against my rioting chest and sigh, staring at the dying embers in the hearth, thinking back to that clutch of bluebells I spotted earlier today.

My throat tightens.

The thought of leaving them there, alone in the dark, fills me with heavy dread.

I sit up so fast all the blood drains from my head, kicking it into a spin. Once upon a time, those bluebells would’ve felt so far away. Untouchable.

But now ...

I can get them myself.

I leap out of bed and clamber into fresh, comfortable, better-fitting clothes the barmaid brought in with a supper tray. Digging my knapsack from the bottom of my sack, I knot my hair into a high bun, then scour my room for something small, hollow, able to stand upright—

The clay mug on my tray catches my eye.

Perfect.

I stash it in my knapsack, along with one of the lanterns plucked off a wall hook, before looking at the door.

Can’t take the obvious way out—who knows who I might run into on my way down the hall. I doubt Cainon would be very pleased to catch me sneaking out of my maiden suite in the middle of the night, especially given the conversation we just had.

Grabbing my wooden sword, I head for the washroom, step onto the latrine directly below the window, and unlock the latch. I swing the pane wide, set my sword and knapsack on the sill, then climb through—slow and tentative to avoid agitating my shoulder.

I maneuver onto the window trim until I’m chest first against the cool rock, and excitement crackles through my veins, igniting me from the inside.

This is risky. Dangerous. Wrong.

So wrong.

But it feels so fucking good.

I look down on the empty alleyway sandwiched between this building and the one beside it, then edge along the window trim—peeking out over the courtyard alive with a lazy, midnight beat. The crowd’s changed, thinned out to clusters of pipe smokers, ambling men who can’t seem to see straight, and scantily clad women who hang off them like lusty shadows.

A slow drizzle lit from above lifts sweet, botanical smells off the stone, and I draw deep before I turn the other way, spotting a trellis bolted to the side of the building that supports a trailing vine.

That’ll do.

I stuff my sword in my knapsack and ease it over my shoulder, then edge down the wooden grid.

The cobbles are smooth against the bare soles of my feet as I dart toward the courtyard, nudging into the shadow of a tall, potted shrub. I use my hands to delve a peephole through the branches, checking the Inn’s bench is no longer burdened by an eagle-eyed Captain before picking a quiet path around the courtyard’s perimeter.

I pass sleepy households, sweet shops shuttered up for the night, and a large building that boasts a Sugar Mill sign.

Here, everything smells sweeter—like the stone beneath my feet is cast from blocks of sugar and the sprinkle of rain is treacle tears. A few wooden carts laden with empty sap chutes are parked at the front, and I weave between them, passing two more shops before finding the tight alley we entered the village through earlier this evening.

Wedging between the tall buildings, I dig the lantern from my knapsack and turn the dial, hands shaking with a surge of excitement. I’m about to step out of the illuminated safety net when gooseflesh bursts across the back of my neck.

I spin, shuffle back a step, and slam against the wall.

From here, I have a clear view of the Blue Hollow Inn on the opposite side of the courtyard and the neck of the alleyway just below my room.

And a man—broad and hooded and caped in black—standing in the shadowed midst of the potted shrub I stood beside only moments ago.

My heart races, a cold sweat prickling my skin as I study him.

He fills the space so effortlessly, like he was hewn for the darkness. Forged beneath its arcane pressure. For some strange reason, I picture him wrapping that same darkness over my face and using it to suffocate me.

I blink, and he’s gone.

Gasping, I flick my gaze over the surrounding space, kicking off the wall to garner a broader view of the courtyard.

Nothing.

Either my swelling insanity is carving specters from the shadows or—

A low laugh crawls up my throat, morphing into a growl.

I pull out my sword, punch my lantern over the threshold, and charge into the night.

* * *

Damp earth clots between my toes with every haloed step. The lantern flame is my shield; the heady chorus of crickets my companion; the soft, barely there rain a refreshing spritz to my face and hands as I backtrack our earlier trail, glancing over my shoulder every few steps.

Packed full of restless energy, I scan the ground for whatever it was that tripped me earlier. I spot a root poking free from the earth like an upturned worm, and excitement bursts in my belly.

Waving my lantern off the track, I illuminate a sea of wet, bobbing shrubs attacked by the odd heavy drip of rain breaking through the canopy.

I think this is right.It looks so much different under the full cover of night …

I check the path both ways before tiptoeing off the tailored soil, my bare foot breaking through the carpet of loose twigs and rotting leaves …

Too loud.

Wincing, I check over my shoulder and rock into another crunching step, then another. The sleepy bundle of blue dawns into view, taming my galloping heart and easing my lips into a stolen smile.

Found you.

A shiver scuttles up my spine as I kneel in the damp earth, lay my sword in the soil, and pull the mug from my knapsack, tamping it full of soil that sticks to my hands. I use my finger to dig a trench around the bluebell’s base—

The crickets stop chirping.

Just ... stop. Like they all dropped dead.

The hairs on my arms lift, and a chill shrouds the back of my neck as the air around me hollows, like it’s suddenly starving.

My next breath out is an alarming blow of white.

I freeze, pulse pounding in my ears, gaze fixed on the bluebells as a familiar perusal scribes across my skin like a cold flick of oil …

My heart stops, dug from my flesh and lumped in the soil as I let my eyes flutter closed.

Squeeze them tight.

Not him.

It’s not him, Orlaith.

I force them open and continue digging up the root ball as though the cold, prickly presence is nothing but another specter of my insanity, swiftly tucking the bluebells in their little mug-home. I pack some extra soil around the edges so they’re nice and snug, then pull it close to my chest and breathe.

Breathe …

Purposely leaving my sword in the soil, I slowly rise to my feet, swallow thickly, and spin.

Still.

I loosen a shallow breath—a meager sacrifice to the creatures pinning me in with their combined presence.

Three Irilak hover around me, the biggest over twice the size of Shay, looking down on me through black, beady eyes set in the twin hollows of a bleached skull. An infinite stare that etches over my skin, making my eyes mist ...

There’s a comfort in it—one I miss.

Mourn.

So many regrets.

A low, grating sound rattles in the back of its throat, lifting the hairs on my arms as my eyes sway to the smaller creature on the right. Then to the tiny one notched close—no taller than my kneecap.

My heart lurches.

They’re … a family.

A sharp symphony of clicking specks at me from the baby one. A familiar sound.

Hunger.

A mouse in a jar would be mighty helpful right about now.

Part of me wants to flee—the part that’s keenly aware of their predatory disposition and the frail flicker keeping me safe. But that part is small, overridden by a deep, instinctual urge to make myself as tiny as possible.

To show respect.

Slower than a setting sun, I drop to my knees and dip my chin.

There’s a creaking sound from above; a rustle and a swish before an almighty crack ratchets through me.

The Irilak scatter.

I shove back, bunched in a protective ball around my precious, potted cargo as something long and heavy thuds against the ground.

Silence prevails.

I lift my head and peer past the fine-tipped fronds of a fallen palm branch …

Air shreds out of me in a milky haze.

My lantern’s been knocked across the ground. Light cast upon the track, I’m bare and vulnerable as the Irilak surge forward so fast a blow of brisk air batters my face. They stop just shy of folding over me in a shadowed gulp, caging me in, and I look up into the reflective stare of the largest one, hovering like an ebbing wave of ink about to drain me. Or perhaps it’ll strike the killing blow, then drift back and let the others feast.

I expect the thought to stake through me with a spike of fear, but it never comes.

The seconds stretch.

And stretch.

The rain grows heavy, spilling through the canopy and pinging against the lantern’s panes, weaving between a crack in the glass and snipping out the flame.

Still, we watch each other—water seeping through my clothes and weighing down my hair, dripping off the end of my nose while I wait for them to pounce.

To feed.

To pour over me and suckle the life from my body until I’m nobody.

Nothing.

Seconds seep into minutes that feel like a small eternity, and I cock my head to the side, curiosity peeking from my shadows. Slowly, tentatively, I thread my hand into the space between us—reaching. Threatening to tangle my fingers with its smoggy murk.

It makes a sharp sound that flips my heart as it darts back, pausing.

The corner of my mouth kicks up ...

It’s not going to eat me.