Page 71 of Bloodwitch
For several long moments, Merik sucked in air. It vibrated in his lungs. No magic, only cold and the scent of rock and soil. He stayed this way until he was certain Esme was gone. He stayed this way until the Northman finally rasped, “Help.”
Merik twisted toward him, assuming the man needed help. But no. He was pointing at Merik, then patting at his neck.
“Help,” he repeated, and Merik realized he meant the collar.
“No.” Merik shook his head. “No help for me.” This man wore no collar—none of Esme’s Cleaved did, save Merik. And since it soundedas if this man had no idea how he had healed, then there was nothing at all Merik could do. If he tried to leave, Esme would just summon him right back.
Shuffling back to the man’s side, Merik pointed up the hill. “North.” He pointed again. “Go north. People. Help you. And here…” Merik scooped the knife off the dirt. Its red tassels laughed at him now.
The Northman did not take the knife, though. “You.” Again, he pointed at Merik. Then at his neck. “Use?”
Merik wanted to. He wanted the security of knowing he had protection, that he had some secret weapon Esme did not know of. But what would he even do with the blade? He could not attack her—she would simply attack him,destroy himfirst. And as gnarled as the logic might be, he was safe in Poznin. Right now, Esme had no desire to kill him. She needed him for the Fury. She needed him for her experiments.
Besides, if she ever turned her Cleaved army on him, a single knife would do nothing against thousands. This Northman, though—he could use it. He might even need it, trying to reach those people with the fires.
“You,” Merik said again, and this time, he took the man’s skeletal hand and wrapped the man’s fingers around the hilt. “You.”
The man’s papery brow pinched tight. “What… place?” He motioned to the shrine, to the hill he’d come from, and then to Merik’s collar. “What place?”
“A nightmare,” was all Merik replied, wondering why he remembered that word yet he couldn’t remember how to count. Either way, it was the right one to use here. So he said it again: “A nightmare.Run.”
THIRTY
Stix awoke to voices. Not voices inside her head, either, but real voices attached to human throats. They were arguing.
About her.
“We can’t just leave her, Ry.”
“We can’t wait for her to wake up either. We have a job to do, Cam. I promise, we’ll come back for her after that.”
“But what if she wakes up before? Or what if raiders get to her first? Please, Ry. My gut’s tellin’ me we ought to bring her with us.”
A frustrated huff. Then a muttered, “Who’s the Sightwitch here?” A heartbeat later, Stix heard footsteps approach, and when she hauled open her eyelids, light seared across her vision. She winced, arms—weak and sore—rising to block her face.
Wherewasshe?
“You’re awake,” said a young woman with short black hair, warm skin slightly lighter than Stix’s, and eyes of moonlight silver. She held a lantern high, brow tight with worry. “Do you know how you got here?”
Stix shook her head, the faintest of movements. Her brain throbbed. Her body ached. She remembered voices… and water… and a doorway. Not much else.
“Do you know who you are?” the young woman pressed. “Can you remember your name?
“Stacia… Sotar.” Her voice sounded—and felt—like broken razors. Noden curse her, wherewasshe? And why did everything hurt?
“Well,” the girl said, glancing behind, “she’s already doing better than Kullen. When I found him, he couldn’t remember his name or position or anything.”
“But First Mate Ikray had already cleaved, right?” The second speaker moved into view, coppery brown skin with paler patches over his right cheek. He held a bandaged hand to his chest. “First Mate Sotar doesn’t look like her magic has gone corrupt.”
“It’s… Captain Sotar.” Stix tried to sit up; her stomach muscles very much disapproved, pushing a grunt from her abdomen. “And I’m not… corrupted.”
The boy scooted closer, easing his good hand behind Stix’s back and helping her to sit up. “Be careful, Captain.” He offered a bright smile, so at odds with the dark and dank that surrounded them.
“How,” Stix asked roughly, “do you know who I am?”
“We were in the Royal Navy, sir. Stationed on theJanabefore…”
“Before it blew up,” finished the girl. She strode closer and knelt on Stix’s other side, setting the lantern nearby. Then she unlooped a canteen from her belt and offered it. “I’m Ryber. He’s Cam.”
