He rolled up the map, which he had been studying as he rode, raising his green eyes to the deeper emerald of the tree line. “You know,” he began gently, “our map doesn’t really show the topography of the Mire, but I’m afraid it’s going to be hell getting as deep in there as this X would suggest we need to be to reach that treasure, even with two working legs. Not to mention the part where we’ll need to cross a lake. And I know you’d like to do it all in less than three weeks’ time, as you keep reminding us, if that’s even possible.”
He had been feeling the strain of his injury all day, even while astride the mule, and he couldn’t imagine dragging his aching leg over tree roots and through stinking pools of standing water, let alone trailing blood and herbs where interested creatures could smell it. “I’m going to turn back. Let you two go on. I’d only slow you down worse in there.”
This would be his last night with Mal and Alys. And maybe that was a good thing—leaving now, before any worse injuriesoccurred, as they so often did when he and Mal were in close proximity. Maybe Liam would undo all the locks on the door when he knocked. Maybe, despite assuring Griff that it was over for good as he picked his way through the mess of his things on the lawn, Liam would be feeling differently by then. He had always had plenty of room for Griff and all his baggage in his heart before, anyway.
Griff started to dismount, his hand seeking support in the air where he was slightly off-balance and landing firmly in Mal’s.
Mal flinched at the contact even though he had held his hand up, but quickly seemed to recover himself.
He took up some of Griff’s weight so he could slide to the ground without putting pressure on that bandaged leg, waiting until Griff was standing again before asking lowly, “Why did you have to charge the mule like that? We could’ve waited longer, done the job undetected and unscathed—like ghosts, but with better timing.” But it seemed he didn’t expect an answer, as he just as quickly went on, “But forget leaving. I’m not abandoning you on the edge of the Mire. We’ll all camp here for as long as we have to, even if we really can’t spare the time. I’ll figure it out. Unless you really don’t want to stay …?”
His eyes skimmed Griff’s face, which Griff knew from catching a glimpse of himself in a puddle earlier was still paler than usual, as he waited for an answer. Strangely, there was hope in those gray eyes even Mal’s surly expression couldn’t quite disguise, as if he actually wanted to keep Griff around.
Maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part. But the pressure of Mal’s hand, the way those fingers had given the slightest squeeze as they wrapped around his own—that had been real enough for him to trust.
Mal wanted to be near him. Finally. After all those wasted years. That settled it.
“I’m staying,” he declared, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.
“Good,” Mal said, though he still didn’t look entirely pleased. His tone invited no room for argument as he grumbled darkly, “You’re not dying on my watch. I have too many debts already. And dead means done, so I don’t want to see your ghost hanging around, either, you sentimental fuck.”
His voice must have been too thick with emotion for his own liking. Out came the flask again, something Griff was coming to associate with Mal’s discomfort.
“Wouldn’t dare disturb your wildest dreams with my presence, or spend my afterlife on your bedroom ceiling, you miserable shit,” Griff said with more warmth in his words than the wind carried, limping his way to the closest tree so he could tether the mule.
Nearby, Alys was already building their evening cookfire, off in her own world or otherwise quietly listening to all that was happening around her.
As he tied the mule’s rope, Griff studied her for a moment, the Warg of the West. Wynnie had always pushed Alys hardest, putting her through her paces in seemingly endless lessons, trying to train her up into some more beastly younger version of herself. Griff had assumed for years she’d been incredibly successful, as she was in most of her endeavors. Had assumed she was lucky in both business and love, yet all he could picture now was Alys with tears in her eyes and mushrooms in her pocket, knowing where to cut to bleed a man dry but wanting nothing more than to draw pictures and let the reputation she and Mal had carefully crafted keep her from having to feel the dagger strike of her mother’s utter disappointment.
He should have seen it. He should have been kinder to Alys all these years rather than turning his back on her simply because she and Mal were fast friends again by the time he returned toLinden, signaling whose side she had chosen. Maybe there were no sides and he had been looking at more than one thing all wrong.
Mal was digging for something in his pack with a deep scowl on his face by the time Griff limped his way back over. Apparently, Griff promising not to haunt the enterprising thief had inspired him to dig out not just his flask this time, but a large bottle of whiskey that was mostly full. In his other hand was a roll of something wrinkled and white—bandages. “Better have a look at your leg, make sure we can keep up a good pace first thing in the morning,” Mal declared, his tone all business.
Picking the driest patch of grass, Griff lowered himself carefully to the ground before eyeing that amber bottle again. “I’m not thirsty—not for that,” he said quickly.
Mal shrugged. “Good. Because it’s for the wound. And the pain will have you regretting your life choices, unless you’ve got a better idea.”
“Some herbs will do, just as they have been—we’ll make a poultice. Best if they’re picked fresh,” Griff said quickly as Mal rolled up the cloth of his pant leg with an unusual amount of care—a lingering effect, perhaps, of the way their hands had touched earlier.
“Describe them for me, and I’ll go look,” Mal agreed, leaving Griff with the roll of bandages for now as he rose once more. A dark grin played across his lips as he added, “You’re much better off having me search than Alys, anyway. Who knows what berries she’d bring back this time.”
Griff glanced skyward as Mal slunk off toward the brambles. A few stars had pierced the dusk; the first tendrils of smoke were just rising into the air from Alys’s fire as well. He inhaled deeply. He wouldn’t be alone tonight after all, even if he still wasn’t quite sure how to stay.
“Mal,” he called quickly after the other man. His dark silhouette paused partway to the tree line. “When you come back, maybe you’ll tell me more about your ghosts?”
Perhaps Mal had trouble finding the few herbs Griff had named; some of them did look a lot like other plants. Or perhaps he was simply seizing the opportunity for some solitude. Either way, by the time he reappeared at the fireside, night had truly descended, the mysterious cries of night birds had replaced the howling wind of the plains, and Griff had made a simple potato-and-leek soup that he and Alys were sipping out of tin travel cups.
Mal swatted at a mosquito too close to his neck, then dropped down between her and Griff before handing him the herbs for inspection.
While Griff was checking them over, Mal began right where they had left off. “I’ve seen ghosts since Thrallkeld. Not the way most people who claim that sort of thing do—not in dreams, or funny little whispers or feelings. I really see them, as plainly as I see you and Alys here.”
Griff had never been one to dwell on things like spirits—there were some ghosts who roamed free, merely souls with someone or something still tethering them to this world, but nearly all things undead fell under the command of the Shadow Queen, and those were vile creatures he wanted nothing to do with. It wasn’t at all because he was afraid of things he couldn’t see. No way.
“I can’t hear them, though. I mean, not that the one at Wynnie’s could possibly talk much with her throat so fucked up,” Mal continued, rubbing his neck. “But they can hear me. I know the one in the cottage can, at least.”
Out came the flask. He screwed and unscrewed the cap, ultimately leaving it open as he looked over its top at Griff. “And then there’s this shadow that’s been following us. I’ve spotted it three times now, though it doesn’t want me to look right at it. When I try, it just moves around on me, kind of like when you get one ofthose floaters in your eye.” He took a long sip from the flask. “The first time I saw it, it was behind you, Griff, the night I asked you to come with us. The second time it was behind you again, the day Alys gave us those berries. And I saw it just a few minutes ago, while I was coming back from collecting these herbs. I guess it wants me to know it’s not going anywhere, just like everyone else who wants something from me. I wasn’t even going to mention it—what’s the point, when it’s just one more problem on a growing list?—but I can’t seem to figure it out on my own, and I’m tired of trying.”
Griff wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the tale. The Shadow Queen had spies and assassins in the form of enslaved spirits, which in his opinion gave weight to the theory of her being a necromancer of some sort, but they didn’t usually hound one person for days or weeks without just killing them.
