Page 108 of The Second Death of Locke
“Very well. Go now,” Kitalma said, turning away. “It is not safe here, in the between, for one who is yet so alive.” She glanced over her shoulder at Grey as the mist rose and thickened. “Be careful, daughter. Iron, too, has its weaknesses.”
Grey turned to look at her mother, but she too was gone. They all were. She was alone in the misty wood.
“Grey?”
Her breath caught in her chest—not alone at all. She spun around to see Kier getting up from the altar, wincing at the way every movement jarred his broken bones. She stared at him, the words stuck in her throat, as he eyed her warily.
“Where are we?”
“We’re in the Ghostwood,” she said, the words barely making a sound.
He looked around, taking it all in. “I don’t… I don’t remember getting here.”
Grey shook her head. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could stop the ache of losing him, as if she could rip it out of her. “No,” she said, voice raw.
He stopped scanning and looked at her, his eyes warm and soft, his mouth tugging up into a relieved smile at the sight of her. He came close, his smile faltering as he reached very carefully to touch her face.
“My beautiful Locke,” he said, his fingertips only just brushing the bruise on her cheek. “Does it hurt?”
She did not know how to stop the pain, even now when he was standing in front of her. “Yes,” she said, the word sounding more like a sob.
She threw herself at his chest, not caring about the blood and dirt and seawater. He made a low noise in his throat—she was obviously hurting him, ruinously prodding his broken ribs, but he didn’t care enough to push her away. His good arm wrapped around her, holding her tight, and it was as if the entire world made sense again.
His freedom or her power. She gripped him tighter, as if she could will the choice away.
“Are we home?” he murmured in her ear, his voice a raspy whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Yes,” she said, bittersweet. The relief was just as heavy as the power welling between them. She found the tether and locked into it, pouring so much power into him that he jerked. He shivered, then swallowed it down. She pressed her hand into his broken collarbone, forcing it back into place. He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing hard, as she finished her work and moved her hand to run her fingers through his wet, wild hair. “We’re home.”
When Retarik died defending the Isle, Kitalma laid her body over her wife’s and wept, begging her life from Gremaryse, pleading with the goddess of sea and death for her mercy. After thirty days and thirty nights of weeping, Kitalma woke to her wife restored and blessed with an heir to carry on the line in the blood of Locke.
Folklore recovered from the Isle of Locke, date unknown, author unknown
twenty-six
SAFELY TETHERED, GREY LEDthe way back toward the fortress at the highest point of the Isle. Her body moved without her telling it the directions, sinking into the inheritance of muscle memory her brain barely recalled. She kept one hand in Kier’s, unable to let go; the other, she draped awkwardly across his chest, making sure his collarbone had healed. Though she could not heal him with power alone on the mainland, she could feel his bones under her hand now, knitting back together as her power poured into him.
“Do the others know? About you?”
“Brit, Ola and Eron did already.”
“I mean the High Lord. And Cleoc.”
“Oh. Yes.”
He glanced at her sideways. Grey only shrugged. She had too many emotions right now to deal with any of them, and the reality of being on Locke was closing in on her.
She could barely breathe with the crush of power swirling around the island. It was like pressure all about her—when she was young, she remembered it as a stomach ache, but that wasn’t quite right. It was like electricity in the air, crackling through her lungs when she drew breath, sticky on her skin.
Kier was not unaffected either. He looked down at Grey, her hand on his chest as she poured power into him. “I think…” He stopped, looking up at the fortress as they breached the edge of the Ghostwood, back out into the mist of the day. The fog rolled in, heavy from the sea. He frowned, and Grey treasured every expression his face made even as she wanted to rub her thumb across his lips to smooth away any unhappiness.
“You feeling okay?”
“I feel… likeeverythingis trying to give me power,” he said. “But that’s…”Impossible. He didn’t say impossible.
“We have a lot to talk about,” Grey said. She did not think she could look into his eyes and tell him about his death, still cold on his bones and heavy on her heart, nor the decisions she had to make regarding it—but first, she had to tell him that he, too, was Locke.
They passed through the walls, under the open portcullis, to where the hulking stone keep waited. She sucked a breath through her teeth, staring up at the great doors.
