Between my clammy palm and trembling arm, the knife slips and tumbles onto the ground. I crouch to retrieve it just as branches rustle overhead. I look up so fast my neck cracks. I think I hear the flap of wings and pray that it’s a bird and not a platoon of sprites.
I peer long and hard but the foliage is dense, impairing what little light trickles from the veiled crescent moon. If only I had fire power . . . Any power at all, for that matter. The ground is humid enough that, had I been endowed with water power, I could’ve wielded its dampness, fashioned a screen of thick mist to shield myself, or softened the ground to bog down an attacker.
A branch snaps to my right, flicking my heart into my mouth. I pivot, arm extended, blade slicing the night like a streak of lightning.
A soft caw drives my neck backward.
Golden eyes gleam through the jumble of branches.
The crow spreads its wings, jumps off its perch, and soars away. I sprint after it, my pulse thundering so hard, the inside of my mouth tastes like a copper coin. Although I trip repeatedly, not only do I manage to stay upright, but I also succeed in keeping up with the feathered trailblazer.
The crow hooks a sharp turn, which sends me wading through a bush outfitted with a thousand needles. I curse like an inebriated sailor as they snag my sleeves and pants, nipping at the skin beneath while tearing up the exposed one. I shoot my hands up to protect my face from the assault.
Moisture trickles down my forehead and cheeks. I don’t bother wiping it off until the hedge finally releases me into a lit pocket of woodland.
As I attempt to catch my breath, I swipe my face on my shirtsleeve and absorb my surroundings. A hut slumps against a thick tree like a lumpy growth, its roof thatched with twigs and leaves, its walls a mixture of pale mud and brambles.
A soft neighing drags my attention back to the thick tree, and the black horse that clip-clops out from its shadow, reins tucked in none other than Bronwen’s hands.
If I had any doubts about prophecies and visions, they breeze right out of my head.
Lungs throbbing, I just stand there, aching from a stitch in my side, perspiration coursing down my temples and slipping into the corners of my eyes. I take another hard swipe at my face, soiling my white shirt.
Bronwen nods to the stallion. “Climb onto Furia, Fallon. We’ve not a minute to spare.”
My horse is named Fury? Great.
As I approach him, she says, “He will take you where you need to go.”
He looks like he will take me straight to the underworld.
“I’ve never ridden a horse.” I tentatively present my hand to the horse.
“You will learn fast.”
The horse lowers its velvety nose to my palm and snuffles, its delicate nostrils flaring like Minimus’s the day we met during my impromptu swim.
Gods, I hope my serpent will keep himself hidden while I’m gone. I’m about to ask Bronwen to use her woo-woo skills to protect him when a deep voice hisses, “Her? You can’t be serious.”
I whirl around, a plausible explanation for this encounter tripping up my pulsating throat.
It’s just about fully-formed and ready to spring out, when Antoni adds, “She’s Lucin, Bronwen.”
Forty-Two
Antoni knows Bronwen.
HeknowsBronwen.
Then why did she vanish when he’d shown up that first night in Rax?
Her white eyes gleam like serpent tusks. “Climb on, Fallon. You must depart—”
“How the fuck canshebe the one?” Antoni glares, not at her but atme.
Gods, I don’t like this version of Antoni. Where is the kind boat captain who stroked my heart with his caresses and sweet words? Does he even exist or was that merely one of the personas he uses to fool people?
To fool me?
