I take a deep breath, letting it fill me to the brim before releasing it. “When I indicate, you are going to flee east, never faltering, until you reach the sea. You will never return to the forest. You will never harm a human. The sea and the Deep will be your only homes. You will never speak of this night or of the stone you seek.” Then, to be sure, I add, “You will never speak again.”
Grapf doesn’t move.
I swallow. “Go.”
He runs.
He sprints through the forest, grazing tree trunks, tripping over ditches and inclines. He runs, and I watch him until the darkness swallows him. My stone warms ever so slightly against my palm.
I can will the gobler to run, but I cannot will it of myself. My body is spent, and without the scrying spell to mark my path, I am hopelessly lost. I sway and drop to my knees.
I know he will forgive me when I hold the stone to my lips and whisper, “Maekallus, find me. And don’t let anyone else see you.”
Resting my head against the earth, I close my eyes, but sleep is far from me.
With the last of my strength, I crawl forward until my once-scarred hand wraps around the hilt of the tusk dagger. Then I lie inert, listening to the rhythm of my breathing and the song of remembered nightmares.
The moon is high when I hear another set of footsteps approach. These, I don’t will away.
CHAPTER 27
Freblon are humanoid mystings that average about three feet in height. They are incredibly thin to the point of looking malnourished and wear a crown of bone across their foreheads.
The pull on his body suddenly stops. Panic rises. Does this mean something has happened to Enna? Is she . . .
But he sees her lying in the wild grass up ahead, her face pale in the moonlight. His stomach pitches as he runs to her and drops to his knees at her side. Feels for injuries, for breathing, for—
“Maekallus,” she whispers.
Relief blooms as he brushes hair off her face. “Are you hurt?”
“Tired.”
He lets out a long breath. “Gods below, woman.” He expected the worst, especially when the tug of the Will Stone took him away from the portal ring. There are too many mystings this deep in the wildwood. He’s already killed two, one who crossed his path and another who had followed the line of his curse.
He puts a hand under her head and helps her sit up. That’s when he sees it.
He freezes, staring. The dagger. The tusk dagger, clasped in her hand. For a moment he doesn’t breathe. A long moment. Until his lungs gasp for air.
A bubble of corruption rolls across his back, aching like a bad bruise. He ignores it. “You found it.”
She lifts the dagger. Smiles. “I can free you, Maekallus.”
He shakes his head, staring at his salvation. “But . . . how, when . . .”
She doesn’t answer his questions. Instead she grabs his blackened shoulder, presses the tip of the blade beneath his pectoral, and slides it across his chest.
It crosses the glowing thread of light, and the spell vanishes.
It feels like a boulder lifting from his ribs. He gasps, air filling parts of him he’d forgotten he had. Muscles unwind and joints relax. He falls forward onto his hands, nearly whacking Enna with his horn.
“Maekallus?”
“I’m . . . fine,” he says between breaths. He touches his chest, and the soul dances beneath his fingertips.
“I’m glad,” she whispers.
He looks back at her. Even in the dark he can see bags under her eyes. Her touch is chilly. Taking her hand, he puts an arm around her and helps her stand.
“Your soul,” he says.
“My soul.”
“If there’s a way, it’s in the monster realm. Attaby had a theory. But . . .”
Moonlight glitters off her blue eyes. Blue like the mortal sky. “But?”
“But it may not—”
“We have to try.”
He takes a deep breath, marveling at the freedom he feels. “You can only come to my realm unharmed if you’re one of us.”
She searches his eyes. “What do you mean?”
If you have no soul. He can’t bring himself to say it, to ask for yet more from Enna. Her soul stirs within him, eager, waiting.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer at first, and he feels like a fool for asking. Of course she doesn’t trust him. He’s lied to her for his own gain, betrayed her, stolen from her—
“Yes.”
The whisper shocks him like a bucket of cold water. He doesn’t understand. How . . . ? But it isn’t important now. He needs to act quickly. Once he takes it . . . he has only hours.
He puts a hand beneath her chin. Her skin is so soft, so fragile. He runs his thumb over her lips.
She closes her eyes and waits.
He leans down to her, pressing his mouth against hers. She meets him willingly, and it sparks a vigor in him that has nothing to do with her soul. Her ardor and trust make him feel human. Alive. It kindles a deep wanting only she can quench.
She whimpers against him, but doesn’t pull away. Heat runs down his throat—another piece of soul, fiery and thrilling. The want becomes so much more. It courses through his blood, sings in his muscles.
He breaks away and claims her again, drawing her into his arms. She shivers, and he hates himself. When the final shard of her soul fills him, she doesn’t make a sound. Her lips stop moving, fingers stop clutching.
It encompasses every last corner of him, illuminating shadows, brightening his memories. In that moment he knows Enna entirely, and he loves her. The whole of her spirit paints him—a flash of perfect clarity—and in it he sees a life left behind, a life that isn’t his, not anymore.
He wipes the bar with a wet rag. The cloth is starting to smell of mold, but he’ll scrub it clean, hang it to dry, and use it again. The little inn isn’t much, but he got it by scrimping and saving, and the habit has stuck, even into his middle years.
The moment Ganter Kubbs walks in, he knows it is going to be a bad day. A bad week. Maybe even longer. Ganter is local. He doesn’t drink here. None of the mobsters in the Factio do. But he pulls up a stool, spills a few coins on the bar, and says, “Stu, give me the strongest you’ve got.”
He’s never turned down a customer. And no one turns down Ganter Kubbs. So he pours him some ale and leaves to clean the kitchen.
But Ganter returns the next day, this time with two friends. Then it’s three friends, then five, and he says, “Don’t you have space in the basement? My boys would like space in the basement. Indefinitely.”
Stu rubs the stubble on his face—a nervous habit. He catches himself and drops his hand. “Just for storage. I don’t have the room—”
“We’ll make it work.”
He never said yes. The gang just makes itself comfortable down there, doing their busywork. Stu doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t get answers. He tries to move on like all is well, but mobsters are bad for business. Word gets out, and soon his only customers are the traveling variety who don’t know any better.