Page 38 of The Dead Saint

“We need to move,” he whispered in her ear, the words barely there. “We need to go while they’re distracted.”

Sorcha nodded, following as he turned, his arm around her as he led them away from the clearing. Behind them, the snarling continued, the pair of werewolves still bickering over their dinner. The wet sounds followed, clinging to the inner shells of their ears, holding on to the backs of their minds.

* * *

The howls stopped as soon as they reached the temple. His men were waiting within the walls, the horses untouched. Sorcha was sticky with blood, and she’d put a little distance between them as they’d trudged back through the trees. The men had studied her briefly as Adrian shared what they’d seen in the forest, and then he’d told her to get cleaned up in the spring.

Adrian sat beside the spring as Sorcha washed the blood away. The water was teeth-achingly cold, but she sank into it as if it were a warm bath. He kept his eyes averted though he could see her pale skin glowing out of the corner of his eye.

Sorcha didn’t speak to him again, didn’t meet his eyes. But she accepted the blanket he handed her with one hand and a dress he’d pulled from her pack with the other.

“There’s a fire,” he began, motioning to where they’d been gathered before the werewolves had appeared.

The spring was red, and at first, he thought she’d been hurt. The water couldn’t have been that red from what she’d washed from her skin.

He bent and scooped up a handful, letting the liquid fall through his fingers. It was no longer water. Now, the spring was made of blood.

“Do you turn water into blood?” he asked, not sure if it was a genuine question.

If her Saint could resurrect the dead, maybe this woman could turn water into blood.

She looked from him to the spring and then shook her head.

He led her back to the fire, a hand on her elbow, grip tight. He knew she wouldn’t run from him again. But he needed to make sure his men were aware of it as well. The rest of the night, Sorcha’s teeth chattered. She sat close to the fire, with two blankets wrapped around her shoulders with a glassy-eyed gaze.

They had found nothing but death here. No relic to carry out. No answer to any of the questions the men had. And now several had died. The prince had given him one more task to complete before they could leave the Horde and the Traveling City behind.

Cautes and King Marius lay between them and the next location on the map. Several battalions had broken away from the main body of the Horde and had begun marching in that direction. The prince had tasked the Black Tomeis with meeting them there.

Adrian had a king to kill.

Chapter Twelve

A hazy tower rose above a steaming, rocky landscape. Everything was various shades of red, as if Sorcha watched it all through stained glass. Hot air filled her lungs with each breath, rasping over her tongue and burning her throat. The hiss of steam and a distant voice echoed in her ears: words spoken but not understood.

A golden figure stood beside her, one hand reaching out. The Saint. Magnificent and fierce, he towered above her and she tilted her head back, moving to meet him. She wanted him—to be held, cradled by a being of eternity. The security he offered. Protection.

But from what?

He wavered, his gold skull shifting, jaws opening.

“Sorcha.”

Her name cut across the vision. Sensations faded, the burning becoming memory. She turned to Adrian, caught off guard by the easy tone of his voice. He looked at her strangely, as if he might have been worried. For her? Surely not. Sorcha shook off the fleeting thought, pulling at the rope around her wrist. It was connected to another rope stretched from Epona’s saddle to Nox’s. Revenant had insisted. The whole group had been furious with Sorcha’s escape in the Silvas. No one wanted it to happen again.

“You were somewhere else, weren’t you?” Adrian asked.

She nodded, reaching for her waterskin to wash out the lingering taste of dust and heat from her mouth. It had been so intense, a few heartbeats in another place, the vision clearer than so many others had been. The Saint had been so close and yet so very far away.

“The murals in the temple,” Adrian jerked his head to where it lay several days’ ride behind them. “Is that the full history of the Saint?”

“Of course not,” Sorcha’s face scrunched. “That’s only what came later.”

“What came before?”

She sighed. “Are you truly curious?”

“A smart man understands his enemy,” he responded, chin lifting slightly.

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