Page 46

I truly am a monster.

The thought lingers in my mind, growing weightier by the step until we reach the road again. The sun emerges from behind the storm clouds to dry the damp, hard-packed dirt and our clothes, and the air smells fresh and clean, but I wish it held a hint of sour rot. Anything to mark the events of last night. Esme walks in front of me, her feet barely kicking up dust. She avoided eye contact all morning despite there being nothing but forest on either side.

Which is fine. I wouldn’t want to look at me either after what I did. Normally, I wouldn’t care what someone thinks of me, but Esme’s condemnation stings. She makes me wish things were different, that I could be different. But that’s never going to happen, so it’s best that she sees the truth of me now and stays far away.

At least by traveling behind her, I can distract myself from my worries by watching her ass and legs as she glides along.

The plan I created with the refugees involved meeting at the next town if we got separated. After last night’s horror, though, I’m not hopeful. Bandits, sure. We could work with that. Just not a nightmarish creature we could barely see.

I doubt any of the refugees survived.

A gaping pit hollows my stomach as the woods end abruptly in agricultural fields. Since I’m not optimistic about finding the refugees in the next town, maybe I should return to my earlier plan of flying Esme to my next check-in spot. I’ve missed two already.

With a narrowed gaze, I scan the empty fields to ensure we’re alone. When I don’t spy anyone by eye, I tunnel my magic into the soil.

Earth sensing isn’t one of my strengths, a fact that saved me when the elements went mad during the War of the Gods. I can’t decipher the emotions of dirt, but if I concentrate and pour enough magic into the ground, I can feel whatever touches it.

I gently push my magic southeast, away from the clearing where we encountered the monster. I don’t do anything with the earth except feel for movement, for the steady rhythm of walking feet, afraid that spilling too much magic into the ground will draw the creature to us.

I sense no life around us. The gray spring growth in the fields beyond the road doesn’t help raise my spirits either. The wind plays haunted, discordant notes on the hollow tubes of broken corn stalks poking out of the earth, and the dead plants give off no smell.

Esme glides along ahead of me, silent. This time, she doesn’t need to point out the Withering eating the fields. As we crest a slight hill, we find decay all around us.

Farmland that should teem with the yellow-green of growing plants after last night’s abundant rain appears lifeless instead. No root or stalk pinged the magic I pushed through here. I didn’t know of their existence until I laid eyes on them.

Carefully tilled rows show only miniscule progress, no flowers or uncurling leaves to mark maturation.

The only sound is the slow clomp of our boots, the occasional pebble kicked loose, and a repeating thud, like a broken shutter swinging in the breeze a good distance away. Overhead, not a single shape or shadow blots the view of the sky. Even above the scene, nothing lives.

Absolutely nothing.

Life fled this part of Meridia. And it did so within moments, catching everything and everyone off guard.

The village squats flat and drab. Buildings still stand, but nothing moves. The crunch of our boots on the dry road is too loud in the unnatural quiet.

What should be a thriving farm center lies eerily quiet, with no voices calling out morning greetings or complaints about the weather. Silence fills the empty streets. Fifteen buildings, two barns, a dozen homes, and a stable with wagons, yet not a single barking dog, whinnying horse, or clucking chicken.

I’m wary of shouting out, but I scrutinize each building in my search for the others. No Mal or Prim…none of the refugees we traveled with. It was always a long shot.

Esme slows her pace until she no longer gives the impression she’s about to flee. Within a few dragon-lengths, I reach her side. She peers at me out of the corner of her eye, then glances away when I look.

Using me as a meat shield, huh?

That’s fine. I’m always down to bash some heads or break some legs.

We see our first person when we round the bend in the road. The house on the corner and the woman outside it stand like props in the yard, both so lifeless that they look like a poorly done painting. A dry bedsheet hangs in the woman’s hand, twisting in the wind over her shoulder. Her other hand fastens peg after peg to the empty clothesline. One side of her face is sunburned. Her eyes are fixed and staring, not at the pegs or the line, but into the distance.

Withering.

I don’t see signs of puncture wounds on her neck, but I don’t want to get close enough to check.

Despite the warm sun, a shiver runs down my spine, chased by a strange thud. I swear, every time I approach a Meridian town, my nerves are stripped bare. All I can think about is how easily I could end this epidemic by burying each village. Holding the temptation at bay requires great concentration.

Turning right, I gesture at Esme and head for the noise, following a tiny footpath between the buildings. Inside one of the homes we pass, a pair of girls sit on their bed. One holds a book and speaks soundlessly. The other forms braiding motions with her empty hands.

Thud.

It’s nearer now. Coming from the barn?