Page 18 of The Dead Saint

“Don’t,” he warned.

The single word was hard and final. If she went for it, she might not survive. He needed her, she knew that, but his stony expression promised nothing. The prince might be angry his monster had killed the woman he needed, but by then, it would be too late.

“Get it over with if you’re going to kill me,” Sorcha challenged, lifting her chin slightly.

He leaned into her, coming so close she could smell apples and a trace of mint beneath that spiced armor polish and sharp copper. In a sudden, graceful move, he rolled away from her and stood, gaze averted. Sorcha lay there panting, hand easing toward the blade. But he picked it up and tucked it into his belt without a word.

Sorcha began to stand, but he scooped her up before she could. He threw her over his shoulder, and her breath pushed from her lungs with a grunt.

“Do that again, and I’ll kill you,” he said, adjusting his hold on the backs of her thighs. “Do anything but follow my commands, and you die. Understand?”

Sorcha braced herself against his muscled back, cheeks hot and mind whirling. His large hand was warm, his hard shoulder digging into her abdomen. The contact was too much. She wriggled, wanting him to release her, to not feel how small she was in his arms—how breakable.

They reached the tree line before she spoke, pushing hair out of her face with one hand, too aware of where her other hand was.

“Put me down,” she said. “I can walk.”

“I don’t trust you.” His voice was flat, giving nothing away.

“I won’t run,” she promised.

The Wolf snorted, continuing without pause as they crossed the meadow and entered camp. Revenant stood at the entrance to the Wolf’s tent, yellow eyes piercing in the gloom. As they neared, he opened the flap, letting it fall behind them once they were inside.

Without ceremony, the Wolf dumped her on the pile of furs that had been her bed before.

“In the morning, you’ll bathe,” he said, returning to his cot. “You stink. I’m not taking you into the Traveling City smelling like Nox’s ass.”

Chapter Eight

They traveled for two days before Sorcha saw the Traveling City.

The Wolf kept her close, sharing the saddle with her, leaving Nox irritated at carrying the extra weight. The horse tried to bite her every chance he got. When she wasn’t sharing the horse with the Wolf, he was sleeping beside her when they camped, and when she needed some privacy to take care of things, he stood with his back a few feet away.

By the time they reached the prince’s city, she was almost glad. But as they neared, her heart dropped, filling her stomach with acid and stress, sinking until it could sink no further.

The Traveling City rose from the plains—a dark wooden mass—floating above the dead grass and trampled snow. White banners with an emblem of a black snake flapped from the highest towers, easily several stories tall, though it was hard to know the exact height.

Sorcha would have called it a village if it hadn’t been so extravagant. A traveling city, a moving palace, slowly overtaking a stationary world. It moved forward constantly on a grinding journey without end.

No, that wasn’t right. It would end with the Saint. It would end in blood.

As they neared, the carvings on the wooden walls and towers became clear. Spring trees, flowing branches laden with blossoms covered the outer walls. Animals peeked around the trunks, gathered in small groups beneath the flowering boughs. Even the towers were covered in carvings of the sky—constellations and fluffy clouds, a lightning storm striking. It was strange and beautiful, and unlike any place she’d ever seen or heard of.

Curiosity got the better of her.

“How does it move?” she asked, searching the gloom beneath the city.

It was a forest of piers and giant wheels of wood banded in iron.

“Oxen.” The Wolf nodded at the herds that had come into view behind the city.

Long lines of animals were tethered together with mounds of hay before them. There were thousands. Hundreds of thousands. She’d never seen animals quite like them, huge and broad with dark hides and long curved horns that weighed heavy on their heads.

The Wolf pointed to a village of gray canvas tents beyond the animals where cooking fires were lit and torches burned. “And men.”

Sorcha nodded, wondering how it had all come to be. Who could have dreamed of such a place? A city plodding across the landscape, crossing rivers and mountains piece by piece. It was something from a dream.

As they reached the city, a wide set of stairs lowered from a hidden location beneath the large main doors. Metal gears grated and wood creaked as the stairs dropped the last few feet in a rush, thudding onto the ground and sending chunks of dirt flying.

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