“Rook.” I shake him. “Rook!”
Heavy footsteps cross the forest floor. A boot appears on Rook’s shoulder and then pressure as the boot presses down for leverage. A hand yanks the axe free, taking meat and viscera with it.
“Get her up,” the voice says.
The monkeys yank Rook back and toss his body aside as if it means nothing.
With gleaming metallic fingers, the Tinman takes a handful of my dress and unceremoniously hoists me up.
“You killed him!” I flail, aiming for nothing. But a slap lands across his face.
The forest is still and the hit seems to reverberate across the stillness.
His cheek blooms red, but the force of the blow barely moves him.
His nostrils flare.
I brace for violence. For an echoing hit. For him to scream at me or shake me until my teeth rattle.
He does none of that.
But his stormy gaze stays locked on mine, intensity roiling in his irises.
“Cleo,” he says, “stay with the body until we can send someone back to retrieve it. Faos and Tark, take me and the girl to the West.”
“You’re leaving me alone with a corpse?” the girl asks.
The Tinman ignores her.
One of the monkeys, Faos I think, comes around the Tinman. His voice, when he speaks, is rough and deep. “Should we tie her up?”
Still, the Tinman watches me. “No,” he answers. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Is he showing me a small act of mercy in this otherwise violent encounter? I’m doubtful. Perhaps he thinks I’m not a threat. Or maybe he knows he’s proven his brutality, and his willingness to use it.
“Tell me, girl,” he says, “is the rope necessary?”
Every word that comes out of his mouth feels like an utterance of disgust. Like just being in my vicinity is enough to roll his stomach.
But there’s no way I’m letting him tie me up. If I don’t have use of my limbs, there’s exactly zero chance of escape. The fact he’s giving me the option is a miracle.
“No,” I bite out.
“Good,” he answers.
Faos takes to the air. The Tinman shoves me back. The monkey wraps his thick talons around my shoulders and immediately I’m jostled beneath the force of his grip and the beat of his wings. Dirt and leaves pelt my face. There’s no way to move my arms, not with claws digging into my flesh, so I squeeze my eyes shut as we lift from the ground.
Probably just as well.
If I have to look at the Tinman one more time, I might fucking scream.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Cleo
Cleo strains her ears, listening for the distant flapping of wings. She doesn’t want to be alone in the hush of the forest, and certainly not in a pile of bodies.
She crosses her arms over her chest, holds her breath, concentrates.
