I doubt it.
“We need to get on to one of the less traveled trails.” I try to orient myself properly. “I think there’s one up here on the left—”
“Don’t do that again.”
“Do what.”
“You’renotthat stupid.”
I almost respond with the truth: That I didn’t “do” anything, and ifMerc expects me to promise the strange lapse in time won’t repeat, it’s impossible for me to take that vow as I don’t know what happened in the first place.
Then again, I’m never looking at that compass again. So problem solved.
“Up there,” I order him. “Turn offthere.”
Twenty-EightA Chilling Husk Presents Itself.
“Get under my surcoat.”
The sharp words rouse me from a doze I’m unaware of having fallen into. As I jerk to attention, I look around. Long gone are any trails or even landscape I might have been familiar with. Now we are on a broad swath of road that cuts through a dense forest, and the shoulders of the packed route have been cleared, as if to prevent kidnapping and the thievery of carriages. There are no morethimbetrees with their autumnal foliage, but rather pricklystatchzset in a craggy and sparse undergrowth. The sun is low in the horizon, on the verge of setting—
Hide.
For a moment, I’m confused. The voice in my head doesn’t sound right—
Merc twists in the saddle and hisses, “Duck under, will you. You’ve got tohide.”
The gathering cold flushes out of me, and in what has become a practiced maneuver, I pull up the back of his leather coat and dive beneath the heavy weight. The next breath I take is heaven. All I can smell is him, and as I turn my face to the side and rest my cheek against the valley of his spine, I slip my arms up the rippled flanks of his torso.
The first time I did this, we were approached by a brisk pair of riders dressed in royal garb. When Merc gave the order to go under the surcoat, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. As I fumbled, he solved my problem with an under-the-breath order to just disappear them, he didn’t care where. So I ran my arms up the sides of him, and was shocked by how the thin material of the long shirt he wears hid nothing. And it hides nothing now. I’m just used to fitting myself to him, and feeling his torso.
He’s so warm. And hard all over.
Closing my eyes, I pray to the crescent moon for our safe passage, and realize that’s such a stupid entreaty given we’re going to a place that I’ve heard is more dangerous than the treacherous roads and territory we’ve got to cross to get to it: The Outpost in the Badlands is a savage place. But at least Merc’s authority and control have never wavered yet. Though I bow to the aches and stiffness all over me, though I have flagged and fallen into exhaustion in spite of our precarious situation, he’s remained alert and prepared to fight.
Pride’s the only reason I haven’t asked him how much farther—
Three horses pass us—or at least it sounds like more than a pair. Merc says something to whoever it is, the rumble in his chest transmitting into me, and my panic returns. Word will have spread throughout Prosperitus about what happened at the Fulcrum with those boys—
“All right,” Merc clips.
With reluctance, I release my hold on him and leave the cocoon. When the cold air hits me, I tremble from the temperature change and a curse floats back from him.
“We’ve got to stop before it gets too dark.”
“Here?” I offer. Even though I have no idea where we are.
“Somewhere.”
The blooming of peaches and pinks in the western sky announces the day’s grand finale of illumination, and soon enough, a moody gloaming takes over. With every blink, more light drains, and even though my eyes adjust, there are way too many shadows in those spiky, evil trees on our periphery.
And then the true darkness arrives.
My instincts prickle and my stare scans the borders of the road, seeking sets of glowing red eyes while my ears drown out the sounds of hooves and leather tack, in favor of a growl or a snort.
What do demons sound like—
“Trust the horse,” Merc says. “He’s going to alert before we do.”
