Page 85 of Oracle of Ruin

“I hate to question your intelligence—”

“Then don’t.”

“But this doesn’t look like the Bone Wood,” I finish with a hint of ire in my voice.

Derrín sighs then sets to rummaging through his pack before producing the map still marked with Gadsden’s dried blood. Amír marked it with ink as well, just in case the blood flaked off entirely.

“We are here, and the Bone Wood is here, just over a mile away. Is here sufficient, or did you want to sleep right outside a forest potentially filled with monsters that feast on your flesh?”

That nagging sense of horror reclaims its spot curled around my heart. It squeezes like a serpent, pushing its venom through my veins. “I thought you said you didn’t believe in that.”

“I ran the calculations in my mind and there’s a tenth of a percentage point of a chance that it could be real once compared to all the other things we’ve seen born of magic, and I don’t like those odds. Do you?”

“Here, it is,” I decide.

He nods in confirmation, then sets to gathering firewood. I take the time to study our map and surroundings. The Oracle should only be a day’s trip away on foot, but an ugly red smear on the map blocks our path. With the Bone Wood in our way, we will have to trek through the mountains that barricade our borders, adding another five days onto our journey. We are prepared to make the trip, both in terms of mentality and provisions, but I cannot truthfully say that I am looking forward to the journey.

A ghost of a hand flutters across the back of my neck. I reach to clasp it only to find the wind dancing in my hair. I inhale sharply through my nose and force my breath out from my mouth. I’ve long since given up on believing in ghosts, but wraiths are a different story. Goosebumps prickle across my skin at the memory of Mavis crashing through the brush, bloody yet alive after our encounter. My thumb grazes over the thin white scar on my wrist. The blood bond no longer throbs, but the scar remains.

Derrín returns before my memories can consume me, a welcome distraction that allows me to shove the thoughts to the back of my mind again. He settles beside me and drops the firewood before pulling out a gadget from his pocket. I hold my hand over my chest. He glances over with a knowing look, Any other of the Nightwalkers might have let it go, but not Derrín. Derrín has to push as always.

“Repressing your emotions is just going to make the burnout worse.”

I take to setting up our fire instead of responding. The sun has begun to set, the days growing slightly longer now, though still not as long as what they might be in the city.

“You’re just doing the same thing you and Rowan have been doing for months, and look how that ended.”

The sparks refuse to take to the wood as I strike the flint.

Derrín’s gaze never leaves his device that he is fiddling with, still refusing to let the conversation go. “You aren’t handling her death well,” he states plainly.

“Oh, fuck off. Like you’d take it any better.”

The spark catches and the log bursts into flame.

How long is it going to take for them to stop comparing me to how I used to be? How long until they stop hating me for how I choose to handle my grief? How long will it takeme?

“I have anddohandle it better, actually.” The mechanic furrows his brow as his machine sparks. The electric ember catches on his tunic and he swears. “I still blame myself for my sister’s death. If I hadn’t refused to kill, maybe all three of us could have made it off that island. You don’t see me vomiting every five seconds or turning to dark forces.”

My limbs freeze and all I can do is gape at the Nightwalker. I had nearly forgotten about the twins’ sister. My heart rises to my throat and I swallow my apologies. “You blame yourself?”

“I wasn’t good with a sword and I couldn’t bring myself to hunt. There were no fruits or herbs grown on the island, the whole place was designed so that you had to kill something, one way or another. I was a dead weight.” Derrín cuts a red wire with a sharpened stone. The machine sputters for a moment and he grins. “The only thing I could do to help my sisters was make their weapons. Anything they brought me, I could work with. I let them kill for me.”

“And you don’t feel guilty at all?”

Derrín pops out his bottom lip and shrugs. “I’ll always feel guilty over Natara’s death. I’ll always have to deal with the fact that if I didn’t have this aversion to killing, then maybe I could have saved her, but I know she wouldn’t want that. I’ve made peace with my guilt. It’s the only way you can keep going in a world like this.”

“That hardly seems fair,” I groan, rolling onto my back and sounding wholly like a spoiled child.

Derrín sets the trinket aside and tucks his hands under his head. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

The stars are slightly obscured by the rising smoke from our fire. A few embers leap into the air, ash falling back down in its place. I stretch my palm skyward, relishing in the slight burn as they press against my sensitive skin.

“What do you think we will find when we get there?’ I ask, lolling my head to the side.

Without missing a beat, Derrín deadpans, “A crap-ton of Kijova probably.”

“Stop.”

---