A scrape. Not faint this time. Louder. Closer.
The younger Zmaj jerks upright, wings snapping wide before he folds them tight again. His eyes flare, sharp with fear. Joran curses, shoving back against the wall. Harlan lets out a low moan, curling into himself.
I freeze, blood roaring in my ears.
The sound comes again. A slow drag of claw against bone. And then—worse—a hiss. Wet. Thick. Too deep to be wind.
I turn, knife trembling in my grip. The shadows at the far (end of the) hollow shift.
My breath knots in my throat. For a heartbeat, I swear I see them—two shapes, faintly gleaming, like eyes catching what little light seeps through the storm. Watching.
The scarred warrior moves. One step forward, lochaber angled, his body cutting between me and the dark.
His arm brushes mine as he settles into place. A deliberate touch, not accidental.
The hiss fades. Silence crashes down again. The storm shrieks.
But I know—we all know. We aren’t alone.
15
KARA
For a long time, none of us move. The air inside the skull is heavy; every breath catches in my chest. I wait for the next scrape, the next hiss, the leap out of the dark.
But nothing comes.
The storm howls. Sand rattles down the walls, dancing in the air around us where it finds its way through any crack or hole. The skull groans as another gust shakes its hollow crown. My heartbeat drums loud in my ears, but the shadows don’t shift again.
Minutes stretch into forever.
“Nothing. Just bones settling. I told you,” Joran finally exhales in a sharp bark, a laugh without humor.
He doesn’t sound convinced, but the words come out too quick, too loud, as if he’s trying to make himself believe. Harlan clutches his beads tight, muttering faster. His voice shakes, but the rhythm lulls—so steady it almost sounds like he’s rocking a child to sleep.
The younger Zmaj crouches low, wings drawn tight, his glare fixed on the hollow. He doesn’t argue with Joran. He doesn’t need to. The tension in his body speaks for him.
I should be glad nothing moved again. I should unclench my hand, lay the knife down, let my shoulders ease. But the scarred warrior hasn’t relaxed.
He stands planted near the hollow, lochaber held across his chest, scars stark in the dim. His black eyes don’t waver. He’s watching. Waiting.
And that steadiness twists me up worse than fear. If he isn’t fooled, then none of us should be.
I pull the blanket tighter around me, the bandaged arm pressed close to my ribs, and curl into the curve of the skull’s jaw. My eyes sting, too dry, but exhaustion drags heavy at me.
Nothing happens. Not for a long time.
The scrape doesn’t return. The hiss doesn’t slither out of the dark. Only the storm fills the silence, a constant drumbeat that fades and swells until it’s almost a lullaby.
One by one, the others sag. Joran slumps against the bone, mutterings fading to snores. Harlan’s prayers trail into silence, lips still moving soundlessly as his eyes close. The younger Zmaj leans against the wall, tail and wings twitching in restless sleep.
I fight it. I tell myself I’ll stay awake, I’ll keep watch. But the storm’s rhythm pulls at me, steady as a heartbeat. My knife slides from my lap to the ground. My eyelids sink despite every effort to hold them open.
Sleep takes me in ragged pieces, shallow and uneasy. Shadows cling at the edges of my dreams, shapes that scrape bone and hiss low, but none leap from the dark.
When I jolt awake again, the storm’s howl is softer. Duller. Like a door has been shut between us and the desert.
For a dizzy, fragile moment, hope stirs in my chest. Maybe the worst has passed. Maybe the night is over.
