Page 82 of Last Rites

The air shrank in my lungs. The cleaver weighed twice as much now, slick in my palm. Ahead, Kit was pinned between Klaus and Violette. Behind, my would-be allies stood frozen under the swords of soldiers who outnumbered us ten to one.

My jaw clenched, and my heart thrashed against my ribs, urging me one way, then the other.

Kit was still in sight. If I ran now—if I hurled myself forward—there were only two to face. Klaus and Violette. Maybe I could tear Kit from their hands before they dragged him further into the dark.

But behind me, Ben, Rosie, and the others had been forced to their knees. They were safe, weren’t they? The militia was here to help, called by my summons, answering my warning. And yet as their banners snapped in the air and their swords glinted in the moonlight, they seemed less saviors than executioners. A hinderance, not a blessing.

They could kill us. At least Rosie and me. We wore Eeus’s mark and presumably bore his curse. I wasn’t confident I could convince them we were anything but villains.

Again, I glanced side to side, swaying with indecision.

I thought I’d made up my mind, but I didn't move before another voice shouted.

“You there! Stop where you are!”

I already was. Mired in place with one fist grasping at the air and the other wrenching around the handle of the cleaver.

“Drop your weapon!” the voice bellowed.

I saw him then, a man on horseback with short sword drawn and angled toward me as his mount trotted forward.

My muscles bunched and my face scrunched with the strain of holding everything inside. I flicked a desperate gaze once more toward the road.

Klaus and Violette had reached the distant tree line. Kit stumbled between them, still allowing himself to be led like a lamb to slaughter.

I could call for him now. Assure him I was near and that he hadn’t been forsaken. But I wasn’t confident enough of my own fate. Turning the militia on him might be another kind of death sentence.

So, I stared after the trio in retreat, watching until the darkness of the woods swallowed them whole.

Emotion swelled inside me, anger, fear, and heartache clawing over each other and straight out of my chest. I let out a wounded cry. Not words, just a hollow sound that seemed to scorch my throat as it broke free.

The cleaver slipped from my hand and struck the cobbles with a dull clank.

My arms rose, slow and shaking, fingers spread to show I carried nothing else as the horseman bore down.

Then, as if my very bones had broken, I dropped to my knees. Grit bit through my trousers as I knelt in miserable submission with my head tipped back enough to watch the night close over the place where Kit had vanished.

30

Penny

The militia moved into Forstford as if they owned it. It was a swift and successful takeover, aided largely by the absence of residents to protest.

They claimed the abandoned tavern for themselves, herding Ben, Rosie, me, and the last stragglers into a corner while they turned the place into an outpost. Not that we were ignored—far from it. We were interrogated, one by one, and then interrogated again.

I didn’t take kindly to the suspicion. The moment they started insinuating I was lying about having sent the message that brought them here, I lit into them, demanding to know what right they had to barge in here and treat us like criminals. I might’ve raised my voice. I might’ve thrashed when one of them laid a hand on me. And when another sneered that my protest looked a lot like guilt, I might’ve lunged.

That was enough to get me trussed up hand and foot and left to sit, chewing on the kerchief they’d stuffed in my mouth and glaring daggers at any soldier foolish enough to look my way.

Ben smoothed things over as best he could. He was a town elder, after all, and what authority remained in Forstford clung to him. But the commanding officer—a stately woman with blunt brown hair and a blunter manner—made it clear that no one would be overruling her.

They were talking even now, and Ben was doing his best to advocate for us. He gestured toward me as if to emphasize his point, repeating what I had already made clear.

“We were warned,” he said. “A messenger came, telling us there would be an attack. That we should evacuate.”

The ward commander leaned on her sword hilt, the picture of impatience. “And this attack?” she asked, sounding bored. “Is it imminent?”

My answer came muffled through the gag, the words slurred into nonsense. Still, I tried to tell her, yet again, that the Bone Men had been sabotaged and scattered. Violette and Klaus had fled the moment soldiers appeared on the horizon. Forstford was safe.