“Don’t,” he says, sensing my thoughts. “No one can know your location. You must keep out of sight.” He begins to pull away. “Stay here.”
As if. “I’m coming with you.” I swing my legs over the side of the mattress.
“No.” He stills me with a hand to my arm. I’ve never seen him so grave. “I’ll return for you when it’s safe.”
The chill air slithers down my spine. I shiver, grasping for my husband’s hand. Boreas is immortal. He cannot die by a mortal-made weapon. As far as I know, he cannot be killed by a darkwalker either, considering he is one himself. But when he was last wounded, he couldn’t properly heal. Something prevented him from doing so.
“What if they take you?” I whisper.
Gently, he squeezes my fingers. “It is not my life I worry about.”
My heart, which is already fragile to begin with, completely disintegrates at his words.
He slides from the bed and dresses in his discarded clothing. “Lock the door behind me. There’s a hidden passage in the study, behind the tapestry. It will take you to the stableyard. Take Iliana and flee as far north as you can. I will find you as soon as it’s safe.”
I lunge, catching his wrist. He turns. His face is lost to shadow, but his eyes glimmer with fierce resolve. He cannot go. There are things I must say to him. The emotion pinches between us, fearful and new.
He says, in a quiet tone, “Wren. Please.”
“But—”
He silences me with a kiss, our lips clinging. “Stay.” Then he is gone.
Does he expect me to sit around, awaiting his return? With peril prowling the grounds, I’m not about to fight darkwalkers in a nightgown. I think of Elora, her unborn child. I need a weapon. And trousers. My chambers, however, are located on the other side of the fortress. And without my bow, I’m a sitting duck.
My hand quivers as I reach for the door handle and ease open the door.
A dark, deserted hallway, the wall sconces having guttered. No guards. They must have abandoned their posts to keep the infiltrating darkwalkers at bay.
I run. I do not stop. My nightgown flutters around my legs, and I keep my ears pricked for any unusual sounds. Nestled in the many ballrooms, parlors, and dining halls, the citizens of Neumovos begin to wake. Upon reaching my chambers, I don my winter garb, collect my dagger, bow, quiver, and salt pouch. Twelve arrows. I will make each one count.
A crash from one of the lower levels brings an end to the silence: a door smashed open, and screams, terrible screams.
Blood thrums in time with my racing heartbeat. How many are there? How quickly do they move? A beastly roar sounds as though the air itself is shredding into pieces, and blood-curdling cries send me toward the door. I must find Elora.
I discover the south wing in complete disarray, doors ripped off hinges, specters running left and right. The air reeks of ash. A stream of fleeing people clots the entryways, preventing escape. Only by sheer will am I able to squeeze through the press of bodies.
At the end of the corridor, a massive shape lurches around the corner, half a torso dangling from its enormous maw. Men and women in various states of undress throw themselves out of the way, mindless with terror.
I snag a woman’s arm. “Have you seen my sister?” But she yanks free, sobbing, and stumbles onward with the masses. The crowd jostles me in its rush to flee the darkwalker. I’m aiming the arrow toward the ground so as not to accidentally impale someone on it when a giant of a man rams me against the wall. My skull cracks against stone. I drop my bow with a startled cry, hand flying to the back of my head. My fingers pull away coated in blood.
Fumbling for my bow, I snatch it up, along with the fallen arrow, and reset, pressing close to the wall to avoid the worst of the rush. The darkwalker drops its meal, the body now a soulless husk, and releases another bone-rattling roar.
Eyes on the beast, I dip my arrow into the salt pouch at my waist. One of the guards appears to give aid, but I pay him no mind as I draw and release. It hits the darkwalker in the center of its barrel chest and the beast explodes in a spray of dripping ichor.
Pivoting, I shoot a second arrow into the eye of another darkwalker. A woman, skirts gathered in both hands, rushes past in blind terror.
The darkwalker stumbles. Another arrow punctures its other eye. “Kill it!” I cry to the guard. He darts forward, shoves his blade through the darkwalker’s heart. Two down, but three more have appeared.
“Wren!”
My head snaps around. “Elora?”
No response. Nothing but the cries of those being trampled, mutilated, their flesh torn. Did her voice come from ahead or behind?
I join the current that barrels toward the stairs, scanning the chaos for my twin. I spot a head of dark hair in the distance, and at her side, a large man that can only be Shaw. “Here!” I scream, waving a hand as I shove toward them.
“Wren!” My sister’s terror-stricken eyes find mine. No blood anywhere that I can see, only the rumpled appearance of those forced to dress hastily. Thank the gods she’s unharmed. “What’s happening? The darkwalkers—”
