“Well, I say we fucking try it!” cried Fern, her eyes ablaze with excitement.
Viv and Gallina shared another look. “Ain’twesupposed to be the reckless ones?” said the gnome.
“Are you telling me you’re going to just pretend you don’t want to fuckingknow?”
Viv frowned. “Well…”
“Isn’t this what you do?” demanded Fern. “And if it does turn out to be a wight? Can’t you just, you know”—she swung an imaginary blade with both paws—“use your sword to bash it apart?”
For a few moments, Viv felt a nagging need to be the voice of reason, but in the end, there was no way in all eight hells she could leave well enough alone.
“All right,” she said, trying to maintain a tone of patient deliberation. “But we’re going to prepare first.”
In the end, they cleared a space in the shop, shoving the chairs and side table into a corner, rolling up the carpet, and locking Potroast in the back room. He made his displeasure known with a series of forlorn hoots.
The satchel sat open in the center of the room. It seemed more prudent to keep the bones clear of the walls, in case it gave them an advantage if things went horribly wrong.
Viv and Gallina argued over which of them would apply the dust, but in the end, the choice was obvious, since Viv had actually fought the things before.
“So, how much should I sprinkle in there?” Viv asked in a quiet voice.
“Why are you whispering?” hissed Gallina.
Fern shrugged. “No idea. The book isn’t an instruction manual. Start small?”
“Start small,” echoed Viv.
She stood back as far as she could and tilted the bottle, tapping with her forefinger to sprinkle dust into the open satchel as though she were salting a bowl of soup.
Stepping away briskly, she held her breath and waited. All of them did.
For a long time, nothing happened.
Viv was just about to apply another dose when the satchel rustled, and they all jumped.
The leather sides flexed and contracted, as though the luggage was breathing. A delicate clatter arose from within.
Questing like pale caterpillars, the phalanges of a skeletal hand crept over the lip of the satchel, wriggling in the air until the bones of a wrist and forearm clicked into position behind them.
Viv’s hand tightened on her saber’s hilt.
Thunder rattled the windows, and wind howled hard under the eaves.
Viv and Gallina both readied their blades as the hand curved over the side to probe the floorboards. It patted around, then dug its fingertips in and pulled. The satchel tumbled onto its side, spilling an improbable number of bones onto the wood—far more than the bag should have contained.
Fern gasped and drew back, as Potroast began hoot-barking even louder.
With a gentle clatter, the spray of bones wriggled up until they formed legs, rib cage, and arms. Even as the metacarpals of the left hand slithered into place, the homunculus was reaching into the satchel to pluck out a skull, which it settled onto its shoulders. Two nubby horns rose from its forehead.
The bones were pearly and clean, and a tracery of blue lines veined them, glowing briefly before vanishing. Curls of cobalt flame licked the interior of its orbital sockets.
A long sigh escaped from somewhere in the neighborhood of its jaw. It examined its left hand, which was missing a finger, and massaged the air where its right ulna should have been.
Viv’s sword arm remained tense, but this creature was half the height of the wights she’d battled, and delicate. More than anything else, though, it didn’tsmellthe same. The room was filled with the scent of lightning strikes and burnt dust, but that cold odor of winter blood was nowhere to be found.
“What the shit?” breathed Gallina.
The homunculus stared at each of them in turn beforesettling on Viv. It tilted its head in a gesture of curiosity, then bowed. “M’lady.”
