David nodded. “If you ever find yourself again in Äbender, find me. I’ll return them to you – and whatever aid I can offer you, I will.”
“Agreed.” But there was only one reason she would ever set foot in that city again, and he was currently being hunted like an animal himself.
She had not gone far from David and Bertrand before a sharp pain in her skull stopped her short. It came on violently, nothing like tightening thorns – like a clap of thunder hammering into her head. She clutched the trunk of nearby birch, fighting with everything in her to stay upright, to stay awake. Blindly, she felt for her knife.
But it was futile. As before, she blacked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When her eyes at last fluttered open, she immediately shut them again. By the grace of the leaves above her, she hadn’t drowned in the storm, which had passed. But the returning sun shone as if it thought it would never have the chance again.
“Fuck,” she gasped. Wincing, she pulled herself to her knees, then her feet, using the birch for support.
Something felt off – her equilibrium tilted. Her sense of smell seemed even stronger and strangely, less centralized in her nose. As the breeze lilted through, she felt a peculiar sensation on her forehead, like her hair being lifted from her neck, waving in the wind.
A puddle rested nearby, left by the storm. Haltingly, she approached and peered down into it.
Two orange antennae, long and spiny as the leaves of a fern, poked from her skin. Almost unconsciously, she reached up to touch one. It was soft and light as a feather.
It was then she noticed her eyes. Darker, as if someone had placed gray lenses over them. No white was left, though if you squinted, you might be able to see they had once had pupils, irises, some shade of green.
Turning quickly away, she pulled her hat tight over her head. As she did, she noticed her sense of smell muffled.
Angrily, she pulled the hat tighter.
This also had the happy, unintended effect of shielding her eyes, somewhat, from the blinding sun. Though her eyes burned with the light, if she stuck to the shade of the trees andkept her hat on, it wasn’t so unbearable that she couldn’t keep them open. It would have to do.
The ground was almost entirely muck, and she found the others’ tracks easily. She followed them and soon recognized Sy’s in the mix. So, Aquila was a competent tracker himself.
And deft at evasion. Soon, his tracks veered into a shallow stream made by the storm, then disappeared. He didn’t know who, or what, was tracking them, but he knew they were being followed.
She had more tricks up her sleeve, as well. Or rather, under her hat. She closed her eyes tight and took it off.
Soon, she smelled it – very, very faint, but unmistakable.
Hyacinths.
She found them at sunset in a grove of pine.
When she saw Sy, her heart did a peculiar somersault – relief that he was alive, fear that he was hurt, an impulse to leave him to his own fate. He was tied to the base of a pine, rope wrapped tight as a snare around his chest. His lip was split and he was paler than ever, but seemed otherwise intact.
Aquila and Claude had set up camp there; days ago, by the look of it. An expensive looking tent was pitched between two pines, and equipment was sprawled everywhere – maps, compasses, spare ammunition, nets, snares.
At the base of the pines circling their camp was an unwelcome sight: liar’s pigeon, a toxic fungus that liked to grow near evergreens. Encouraged by the storm and summer’s encroaching heat, the fungus was fruiting. The shimmering, indigo globes danced on their three-foot high stems in the after-storm breeze. Careful not to touch any of them, she ducked behind a trunk across from where Sy was bound.
Claude was pacing restlessly, his pistol held casually despite his quick step. Aquila’s injured face was now peeling in unsettling purple strips.
He stooped to pull something from one of his bags. A knife. He twirled its bone handle in his hand. The blade, curved slightly at the end, glinted dangerously in the orange evening light. He stepped in front of Sy.
“I’m growing bored of this game,” he said, crouching. Anya watched, frozen, as he took Sy’s left hand in his own.
“Then perhaps we should stop playing,” said Sy, incongruously bright.
“Did you know I skin my own kills?” Aquila placed the curved edge of the knife on Sy’s palm. Anya edged forward, but caught herself before she did something stupid. “There’s a fine art to it, but with the proper equipment, why, I could peel someone’s face straight from their skull and wear it as a mask.”
Sy’s voice went taut, revealing the strain he disguised. “I told you, I–”
The knife slipped into the meat of his palm. Anya felt Sy’s breath in her own lungs as they both inhaled sharply.
