Page 79 of Quarter Labyrinth

Clark would love me even if it drove him to his grave, then he’d keep loving me from his coffin. Meanwhile I’d be too oblivious to realize he’d died.

Our love might be a field of flowers, or we’d be petals on a tomb. There was no way to guess which way we’d fall.

Clark didn’t give me time to say it back, leaving me to guess if he suspected the words would get caught in my throat. He led the way back to the group, while I tried to see him differently—as a partner who stood at my side in the battles ahead. It was adifficult image to conjure. To me, he’d always be the lanky island boy whose innocence I needed to preserve.

THIRTY-SIX

The night passed in an eerie quiet, free from dreams of stone gods or the lurking shadows of wolves. It was also free from the distant sound of other competitors, which hadn’t happened in a while. It felt unnatural, as if the labyrinth itself had paused to watch us. Morning came like a hesitant breath, and most of the day followed without incident, but my ears were trained now for the sound of others. The scrape of boots against the ground, the grind of a weapon being sharpened by rock, the chatter of carefree competitors.

We heard nothing.

The quiet bothered me, but the reason for it bothered me more.

The competitors were dying off. As we got nearer to the end, only the stealthy remained. Those who watched their steps and guarded themselves against sound.

Only the killers lingered, along with a few prey.

The landscapes shifted gradually, as though the labyrinth sought to disorient us. Jagged rocks gave way to thickening groves, and then to stretches of swamp and marsh. The air grew damp, heavy with the scent of decaying vegetation. Pools of murky water gleamed dully in the sparse sunlight, reflecting the gnarled shapes of trees like fractured glass.

Thirst clawed at our throats, a constant reminder that we couldn’t drink the foul, brackish water. By midday, we’d all complained of thirst at least once.

Gunnar was the latest to grumble, his voice rough with irritation, when the stillness shattered. A splash, sharp and sudden, broke out from behind us, sending ripples through the silence. We froze.

“What was that?” I hissed, my heart racing.

“Alligator?” Aiden suggested hopefully. One usually didn’t wish for the foul presence of alligators, but here—it’d be better than any alternative.

Clark was already drawing his sword. The metallic ring sliced through the air. He placed himself between the group and whatever made the noise. “There’s no animals,” he said flatly. “Not here. Except the wolves.”

The reminder sent a chill skittering down my spine.

Another splash. Whatever had made the sound, it wasn’t an alligator. And it wasn’t alone.

“We mean you no harm,” a deep voice broke through the wet marsh. Before we could lower our weapons, he added, “Not all of you.”

“Not all of us?” I whispered. “What does that mean?”

He answered as if he’d heard the question. “Just the girl. Give us Ren Montclair and we will be on our way.”

Hearing my name was like a knife slicing through my skin. Quick and searing.

Dread snaked up my spine. I pushed to get in front of Clark, as he shouted back, “Why her?”

“Never mind why. We are ten strong. Give her to us, or we kill you all.”

We were cloaked in a thick mist that swallowed sound and sight alike, but it wouldn’t provide enough cover if they chose to shoot an arrow or throw a spear.

“We can’t fight ten,” I hissed. Behind me, the others moved into a futile fighting position, their stances already tired. Gunnar clutched his sword that had always been too massive for him. Tove was already poised like a coiled spring, her daggers ready. Astrid shifted as if ready to flee. “Let them take me.”

“Never,” Clark said as he moved.

Across the bog, the others moved too. From the shapes, I counted five, perhaps six, picking their way cautiously through the marsh, their weapons held high to avoid the sucking mire. Their leader, a man clad in patchwork leather armor, held a shield large enough to hide behind.

“How about this? Let’s split the reward for her. Eight hundred for you, seven hundred for us.”

He didn’t.

My blood turned white hot. Whose money would Leif use to pay my bounty? His father’s? My father’s—when he took control of the Silver Wings?

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