But beyond all of these, there is something else. Something that seems to hover just above the surface of my skin. I hold out an arm, inspecting the thin hairs prickling along its length. A shiver licks up my back but does not cause pain. Does not sink roots into the base of my skull.
It feels like…peace.
The bell vibrates in my pocket again. And it frightens me. I push it from my mind and sniff the air.
Something like wet mud wafts through the trees.
“We need to go that way,” I say. “Find the river.”
Ransom hunches his shoulders. “What makes you say that?”
“Because the air smells less like rotten eggs that way and more like rotten reeds.”
Ransom scrunches his nose. “Not sure that’s any better.”
“Well, it can’t be any worse.”
He nods and slips his hands into his coat. I do the same, fingers wrapping around the humming bell. Whatever is making it do this, I hope it stops.
I look behind us again, searching the woods for Father, for anyone who might have followed us in. But there’s nothing, only tall silver-black trees, shadows darting between them.
“We still have a deal, don’t we?” Ransom asks. “Your mother and mine?”
“Of course we do,” I snap, turning back.
But while I look at all that surrounds us, I know there is more to this deal than Ransom knows. Two families to piece back together, bones to unearth, and a man we all thought died so very long ago, here. Halfway to life. My stomach sours at the thought of Bram. Bram, who I haven’t even mentioned to Ransom.
I fist the bell and step back on the path, listening for sounds of a river, but all I hear is the creaking of the trees.
There may be no living ravens in these woods, but while we make our way down the path, I feel eyes on my back and wonder what ravens look like when they’re dead.
thirteen
The sounds in the wood slip like knife points through my ears. Gnashing teeth hidden behind tree trunks, the high-pitched laughter of children morphing into something like a blade on glass. The branches shush above us, reminding me of bare feet over floorboards and the susurration of river reeds.
We wander an endless stretch of needle-sharp trees, red sky, pale moon, and crumbling stone, searching for water. The scent of woodsmoke follows us, as does the constant thought of souls hiding, waiting to beg us for their bones.
A mile back, we passed the remains of some old structure—a house, perhaps.
A low wall crawls beside the meandering path. Moss, as bright and wet as blood, creeps along the stones, making them appear as living, breathing things. The smell can only be described as death: a catch of rot, meat left to slurry in the sun. It turns my stomach, and I sink my hand deeper into my pockets. We make our way through the towering silver trunks of rowan trees.
Ransom walks beside me, eyes darting nervously between the shadows. He is right to be afraid. Maybe the path will lead us to a long stone table, and the trees will open their sap-dripping jaws and devour us.
Dread blooms in my stomach. I steal a glance at Ransom, but he is as unreadable as freshly fallen snow.
The path winds down a hill. Rocky crags stick up from beneath the crimson carpet of leaves. The trees are so quiet they seem to be holding their breath. Every few steps, I peek up at the branches.
There is a catch of movement. Something like wings but made of shadow. I get the feeling we shouldn’t be here. We don’t belong. A switch of darkness passes overhead, and I snap my neck up.
A raven.
White eyes reel in hollow bone. I inhale sharply and catch my foot on a root. A smarting pain echoes against the healing cut still scarred on my flesh. Ransom’s hand closes around my arm, steadying me. My breath comes hot and serrated, and when I turn to look at him, his face is woven with something more like malice than concern. I blink and the look is gone.
Imagination is a funny thing in the land of the dead. I pull my arm away and brush the hair from my face.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” They are not happy words.
