Page 105 of The Secret Keeper's Daughter

Harek turns toward me, fear in his eyes. “We have to find your sword! Let him handle Gunnar.”

“No! You help him, I’m going to find my sword alone.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. You’re both skilled hunters in your own ways. The faster I can find my sword, the better.” I step away from him.

“All the more reason for me to help you.” Harek steps toward me.

“My palm will lead the way. Please help my father.” I give him my most pleading look.

Harek’s shoulders slump. “Fine. But shout if you need any help at all.”

“I will.”

He hesitates, like he’s thinking of going with me despite his promise.

“Help my father.” I run around the side of the house before he can change his mind, though there’s nothing stopping him from chasing after me. He can be stubborn like that.

Thankfully I don’t hear any footsteps behind me. My hand feels a little warmer as I near the back of the house.

I’m getting closer.

Crash!

That came from the front of the house. I resist the urge to race back and see what’s going on. If I’m going to help anyone, I need my sword.

The orange mist grows almost blindingly bright, increasing so much in its intensity. I’m either on top of the sword, or there’s an evil fae very close. The souls race around in my stomach worse than before. Do they sense something, too?

Acid churns, threatening to rise to my throat. I ignore it, looking around. Hold out my palm, spin slowly. The mist doesn’t grow bright or dimmer.

Shouting sounds from the other side of the house, followed by more crashing noises.

I need to hurry. Using my mist as a light, I study my surroundings. The ground appears undisturbed, meaning Gunnar didn’t bury my sword here. But there are bushes next to the house. I step near them.

The orange mist intensifies, forms into a ball. This has to be it.

Someone cries out in pain. From this distance, I can’t tell who. Hopefully Gunnar.

I kneel down and check under the bushes. No sword, but the dirt appears to have been moved around recently. Given how bright my mist is, my weapon could very well be buried here.

As I begin digging, the souls rage against each other. My stomach lurches, but I manage to keep from throwing up. The mist ball seems to soften the soil, making it easier for me to pull up dirt.

My fingernails scrape something metallic.

I stop, my breath hitching. Could that be my sword? It has to be. I dig faster, The souls thrash around.

Around the house, fighting noises grow louder. More intense.

Faint light shines from the ground. I reach down. Feel around.

A blade.

Heart pounding against my ribcage, I find the handle, pull it free of the mud. Yank the weapon out of the ground. Stumble back. Dirt falls from the sword, and the etchings glow the same color as my palm.

The blade points upright and shakes slightly in my grip, the runes changing from orange to black—yet somehow still lit. The souls slam around inside of me. It feels like they’re going to explode out of me.

Like I might explode.

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