Page 161 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

There was a canvas tarp above me, lashed down tight to the wooden wall. I frowned at it, then shifted again, alarm replacing my sleepy confusion.

I’d been laying on another canvas. Craning my head, I followed my line of sight upwards, finding a bundle of spearpoints poking from beneath the canvas bedding, and…velvet boxes. Blinking, I lifted a shaking hand to pry a lid open. The gleam of jewelry, dull in the half-light, met my eyes.

The world lurched and swayed, making my bed of spears and canvas rattle, and I heard a soft voice call out. A male voice.

Miro’s voice.

I licked my cotton-dry lips, pulling a memory from the vague recesses of my mind. Bane, warped into a form more hideous than I’d ever imagined. Ellena, her eyes scarlet with burst veins. Miro… pulling the note from my hand, crushing a reeking cloth to my face.

Breathing rapidly, I took stock of my current situation: I recognized the inside of one of the supply wagons, and all I could see of it beyond the jewelry boxes above my head was several crates stacked to my right, and the spears beneath me. My leather bag had been tossed in carelessly, and I sorted through it. My journal, the ritual book, a pen… the hunting knife was gone.

But the pen might work. I held it up, testing the metal of the barrel. It was solid, sturdy… not as good as the knife, but any port in a storm.

There was no way of telling where we were, particularly under the canvas, but if I could slip out of the wagon and into the wilds of the Rift, there was a decent chance I’d come across a legion. I would have to be swift, silent, and hope I found the vampires before the wargs found me.

I swallowed hard, looping my bag’s strap over my shoulders and scooting down to the end of the wagon as quietly as possible—difficult to do with limp, weak muscles. My breathing was shallow, as though inflating my own lungs was too difficult.

The spears rattled against each other and I froze, holding my breath, waiting for Miro to speak.

But the wagon bumped on, swaying on an uneven road, and I tucked myself up against the rear hatch.

The quickest way to escape was directly through the canvas. Even if I’d had my knife, it would take too long to saw through the ropes holding the canvas down. I ran a finger along the oiled fabric, stretched taut.

Easier to slice through, considering I was using a fairly blunt instrument.

My hands were weak, refusing to grip the pen with my usual strength. Whatever Miro had used, it left me feeling feeble and shaky, the headache growing in strength as though my wakefulness had summoned it to life. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as the muted crush of pain crept towards the back of my skull.

What had he drugged me with? I’d never felt so ill in my life, and all I could do was hope it would wear off eventually . But that was a fear for later.

Now I was struggling to fight the fear of what Miro intended, why he’d poisoned me and dropped me in the back of a supply wagon, and where we could possibly be.

I swallowed again, thirstier than I’d ever been in my life, and angled the pen’s tip against the canvas.

I’d have to do it quickly, then. Climb out and run for the deepest part of the forest. I could retrace my steps once Miro gave up…ifhe gave up.

Save the pessimism for later. Just get out first and figure the rest out as you go.

“Go,” I thought, and pushed all my weight into the pen, dragging it through the canvas, hearing the rip of cloth—

Shaking, sweat beading my temples, I looked up at the two-inch long tear. Pale dawn light stabbed through it, mocking me, driving nails of pain through my eyes.

The wagon lurched to a halt.

“I hear you, sleeping beauty.”

Goosebumps broke out over my arms. I gripped the pen as tight as I could, nearly fumbling it, flooded with despair.

How had he taken me from the keep? How did I manage to get here?

Where was Bane?

Footsteps crunched outside the wagon, rounding to my left. There was the soft sound of hands tugging at the ropes, Miro humming cheerfully to himself, and he finally tore a corner of the canvas free, lifting it back to expose me crouched there like a rodent, pen in hand to stab.

I tried, swinging as hard and fast as I could, but my limbs were weighed down by the drug, like bricks were tied to my hands. Miro caught my wrist easily, plucking the pen from my loose grip and sliding it into the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

“Perfect timing, Lady Silence.” He grinned down at me. “I was about to get you up anyway. We’re at the first stop.”

I blinked owlishly at the misty world beyond the wagon, and for a moment relief swamped me at the sight of the crowns of pine trees surrounding us. We were still in the Rift. There was still hope.

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