by Katie Cross
They likely don’t know where we are.
Perhaps.
Quiet is good.
Is it?
It is more desirable than battle.
Or a precursor to it, she said. What if we’re focusing too much on this? What if Selsay’s pursuit of the blood of the forest dragons is just a distraction from a different … thing?
What else could we fear now?
I don’t know. That’s just the problem. None of this fits together.
Luteis fell silent. Sanna’s thoughts wandered to Finn and the attack. Her face flared with fresh heat, as if the wounds recognized her memories. The burn of acid in the air. The way the mountain dragons seemed to just appear, then disappear.
If Selsay was truly the wrath-filled goddess that she seemed to be, she should have attacked by now. Should have been more ruthless in some way.
Maybe she wants us alive, Sanna said.
The massacre of the Dragonmaster family and your father would suggest otherwise.
Sanna scowled. He had a point.
Can we go in a different direction? she asked.
You want to go North.
Yes.
He hesitated. It is my wish as well. It will be a risky flight.
We’ve done risky before.
Though their usual rounds varied every night, they’d begun to travel farther and farther from Elliot’s camp. Sanna wondered, but didn’t dare ask, if Deasylva had some part in protecting them. In that convenient way that she helped some and not others.
While the moon hid behind a bank of clouds, Luteis used his mighty wings to climb higher. His energy seemed unflagging these days, as if being around other dragons had energized him again. Sanna ducked closer to him as the air thinned out, cooling. He flew above the clouds, turned to the left and leveled out.
It will be several hours before we reach it.
Sanna burrowed closer, warmed through by his heat and the lull of his wingbeats. That’s all right by me.
The hours slid by, lost in snatches of sleep and thought and the warm burn of Luteis beneath her. Every now and then, he dipped below the clouds, providing a brief glimpse of the landscape below. For much of it, trees unfurled as far as the eye could see. The distant horizon remained dark until it slowly changed, trees giving way to chunky black mountains.
By the time they passed over the last of the thinning forest and into the rolling, rocky hills, Sanna’s legs were cramping. Even Luteis’s breath was a bit strained.
Ahead, she said. Do you see the movement on the horizon?
Teeming dots flittered here and there in the moonlight. Luteis darted above the cloud cover, going higher. His breath huffed, as did Sanna’s. She shivered in the bitter cold even as she pressed her body against his burning spine.
Mountain dragons, he said.
There are so many.
They pressed on, cutting through the quiet air. The farther they crossed into the rolling hills and toward the sharp, craggy mountains, the more mountain dragons appeared. They seemed to dance in the air with unusual ease. Even more congregated amongst the rocks below. Sanna peered down at them in surprise.
“There are so many,” she murmured.
How do they eat? Luteis asked. Can there be enough food in such hostile terrain?
She thought back to Pemba—who had seemed healthy enough—and the other mountain dragons. They had been thin, certainly. Nothing like the thick, muscular bodies of the forest dragons.
The rocks here were sharp. Barren. It was an exposed life, no doubt creating tougher creatures than any Letum Wood sustained. Even the scariest mountain troll seemed less formidable than anything this desolate world could produce.
They’re strong, she said, watching several mountain dragons whirl in an airborne dance, snapping at each other. Despite their ferocity, she couldn’t deny something magnificent about their sharp way of flying. The angles of their wings, their studded necks.
Smaller in size, he mused. Size may be one of our only advantages, outside of fire.
Something glimmered in Sanna’s fingertips, then faded. Despite watching them soar through the hills, Sanna couldn’t track the mountain dragons. Just as she’d catch a glimpse, they’d disappear.
They take on the color of the night, she said, pointing. Four dragons that had been soaring side by side disappeared against the mountain backdrop, then reappeared against a cloud. Their color seemed to fade into the wisp.
The color of their surroundings.
Or they just disappear and reappear.
Perhaps both.
Her stomach dropped. This wasn’t good. Thousands of mountain dragons must live here, and who knew how many places they congregated? Growls and bellows rippled through the air, reaching them even at their considerable height.
Luteis, she murmured in her mind. We cannot defeat this many.
We may not ha—
Something hard landed on Sanna’s back. Luteis screamed fire. The thick burn of acid filled the air, stinging her face like a thousand needles. Claws wrapped around her body and snatched her into mid-air. She scrambled for Luteis, flailing.
“Luteis!”
The word had barely left her mouth before his head whipped around with a livid shriek and snarl.
Sanna was whisked away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hours after confronting Cecelia, Isadora’s hands still trembled.
Maximillion stood in front of the fire, arms folded. His broad shoulders pulled his jacket tight, making them appear wider than ever. Curls of chocolate hair gleamed in the flickering firelight. Isadora forced herself to look away, sniffling. Tears lurked in the corners of her eyes. She banished them.
Maximillion’s office wrapped around her. She’d transported back to the Central Network as soon as she’d regathered her wits.
It didn’t feel any safer.
Her mind whirled with questions. Was this her fault? Had she inadvertently killed Giorgia in her attempt to save Lucey? What did saving one witch mean if others died? That maid had no less worth than Lucey.
“She knows.”
Maximillion’s words shattered the quiet, drawing her attention away from her miasma of grief, terror, and rage. Isadora glanced up from the teacup she’d been staring into, unable to muster the strength to sip it. She untangled her thoughts slowly, coming out of the haze.
“What?” she asked.
“Cecelia knows.”
“What does she know?”
He frowned. “She knows you’re a Watcher, for one. And … she knows something we don’t.”
He hadn’t yelled at her. Yet. Hadn’t even raised his voice when she’d quietly confessed all that had happened, from finding the entrance to Carcere to hearing Lucey’s whistle to impersonating Cecelia. A small part of him seemed resigned, as if he’d known this would happen.
As if her disobedience had been expected.
“Of course she knows something,” she muttered. “She’s … odd, Max. Frighteningly so. And there’s something about her that’s wrong.”
He snorted. “Everything about her is wrong.”
“No. No, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
She shook her head, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. But she let me live. I think she knew I was a Watcher, and she didn’t even try to stop me. That means … something.”
“Precisely. It means I have to get Lucey out tonight. There’s clearly no alternative.”
Isadora’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Go home.”
“I am doing nothing of the sort,” she snapped, shooting to her feet. “I will see this through.”
“Not if you’re dead.”
“Maximillion, you can’t! We’ve argued about this so many times now th—”
He spun around, all cold, glacial lines. The frost in his eyes sent a chill through her. She quieted.
“I can’t?” he purred.
She reached out to touch his arm. “Please, Maximilli
on. I—”
He wrenched free with a growl. “Never touch me!”
“Let me make it right. I-I shouldn’t have transformed into her.”
“That’s big of you. You really think you could cause all this?” he demanded.
She shuffled back a step, cowed by the sheer power of his annoyance.
“This is bigger than you, thank you very much.”
“I did more than you have!” she cried.
He stilled so completely Isadora feared he’d leave. Something churned in his expression. Something wounded. Something like …
Pain.
“I … I’m sorry, Maximillion. I just meant that I … I’m just not sure about—”
The momentary window into his soul closed, his expression resuming its usual stoic, subdued rage that burned in the background of his disdain. “You’ve done admirably,” he said, flicking each word off his teeth. “You managed to find an entrance I couldn’t. We may even know where Lucey is in Carcere, at least generally, which is no small feat. But now you’re finished.”
“We can’t abandon Lucey.”
“I’m not.”
“Please,” she pleaded, her voice ragged. “Don’t make all of my work mean nothing.”
“Don’t blame me.”
It wasn’t until that moment that Isadora realized how close they stood. If she reached out, she could place both of her hands on his chest. Something crackled between them—a tension she’d never comprehended before. Maximillion’s nostrils flared. He glared at her.
“Go home. You don’t belong here. You wouldn’t survive Cecelia a second time.”
“I would.”
“Demmed arrogant witch. Leave before you’re hurt!”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked. Her chest slammed into his with a thud. His lips pressed hard into hers, sealing off her reply. His touch burned like a poker against her mouth. She threw her arms around his shoulders. He lifted her off the ground, grabbing the back of her neck with a hand. Isadora tilted her head, forcing him to deepen the kiss. All the terror, pain, and uncertainty faded. She knew nothing but Maximillion. Felt every hard angle of his shoulders. The sweet taste of peppermint lingering on his tongue.
When she couldn’t bear another moment of such strange, exquisite agony, he was gone. She stumbled back onto a chair, stunned. He stood halfway across the room, his back to her. His hand trembled against his lips. Several long, drawn-out moments passed.
“Leave immediately.”
“No.” She straightened her shoulders, her voice shaking. “If you’re going in after her, I’m going with you. You can’t take Cecelia on alone. No one can. Besides, there must have been a reason she let me live.”
He hesitated, staring at her through slitted eyes. If they hadn’t had that heated kiss—if things weren’t totally, unexpectedly, frighteningly different—he would have refused her. Forced her to leave. He would have taken this beast on by himself, the way he always had.
But now, a flicker of uncertainty lingered in his gaze.
She stood.
“You need me. You need me to help with the intricacies of the castle and Carcere and Cecelia’s apartments.”
“It’s a suicide mission.”
“It has been from the beginning.”
“You could die.”
“So could you.”
“I don’t know why she let you walk away, or what it means. We could discover something you don’t want to be part of.”
“You can’t scare me, Maximillion. I’ve been living this.”
He stared at her, hard, as if trying to get her to back down by the sheer force of his intimidating stare. She met it. If she could face down Cecelia, she could face down Maximillion. Besides, something in his gaze had shifted.
A new angle she hadn’t seen before.
“Get ready,” he said. “We’re breaking her out tonight.”
Maximillion stood across the room—as far away from Isadora as he could manage—when he extracted something from a pocket deep in his coat and sent it to her with a spell.
“Here.”
She accepted it, recognizing it as a knife only after she grasped it. She didn’t have to ask what it was for. She strapped it around her left forearm, then pulled her sleeve down to cover it.
He watched with one eyebrow raised.
“Sanna,” she said. “She always carries a knife. Daid insists.”
His expression darkened. He turned away. Firelight flickered across the room. Isadora thought of Sanna, then Letum Wood, then the paths. Would there be—
“There’s no time for you to see your sister. Don’t look into the paths,” he said. “Never before a big confrontation.” Before she could protest, he met her gaze. “I’m serious.”
She nodded. “I know.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if he hadn’t expected her to acquiesce. The urge to let the eager magic loose surged through her, but she tucked it back down.
Soon, she promised.
This time, it calmed.
Maximillion went to the window and glanced out. With a murmured incantation, he conjured a gauzy bird. Although she strained to hear, Isadora deciphered nothing of his message. The bird winged away, disappearing into the darkness. He stared out several more seconds before he patted his chest, as if searching for something. His chin lifted. He pulled something from an inner pocket. A bundle of letters?
Isadora frowned.
“What’s that?”
“For you.” He tossed them on his desk. His face had become all lines again. Hard. Angular. Unreadable. Isadora reached for the letters, bound by twine. The haphazard paper and smeared handwriting looked like a bird attempting to wield a quill. That could only mean one witch.
Sanna.
“Letters?”
“From your family.”
Isadora felt them with her thumb. “You … lied?”
“I did.”
“But …”
“I had to. You have been in grave danger for weeks. You needed to focus.”
She clenched the letters tighter. “You’re a rat,” she hissed. “I could have used these for some courage.”
“I’ve never been in the business of caring what other people think of me. I kept you alive.”
Behind her disbelief and rage lingered a niggling doubt. Would it have been easier to cope with her mission if she knew Sanna had written? Did the letters contain good news or bad news? If bad news, then no. It would have been harder to be in the East. If good news, it might have only made her more homesick.
Isadora let her arm drop to her side.
“Fine. I will … I’ll read these later, then.”
“Fine,” he muttered. His eyes glittered with unfettered malice. “Let us be off. We have one witch to save and one to subdue.”
Isadora followed his transportation spell as he disappeared, shuddering as she wondered just what he meant by subdue.
The wheels of the laundry trolley squeaked with every turn.
With an irate Maximillion hidden in the bottom compartment, draped with a sheet, it certainly wasn’t the easiest thing to push. The uphill track near the servants’ quarters only intensified the strain.
Isadora huffed and puffed her way up, attempting to be as quiet as possible. La Torra lay in quiet repose. Likely, no one had even noticed she’d left, even though the temporary use of magic may have caught someone’s attention.
Outside, darkness had fallen. Torchlight illuminated the castle halls, oddly still in an usually breezy world. The crash of the waves sang through the air, wrapping around Isadora as she walked. In the distance, lightning crackled.
Her stomach churned as they reached the third floor. She parked the trolley, panting, then glanced around. No sign of Lorenzo or Fiona. After she tapped the trolley with her toe, Maximillion extracted himself. His hair was tousled when he straightened, but his eyes were sharp. He sent her a questioning glance as he straightened his shirt.
Isadora nodded. She l
ed him to the stairwell entrance several steps away. Getting Maximillion to the staircase wasn’t the difficult part.
Getting him inside was.
She stopped by the thick, hidden door, linens in her arms, and pressed against the hinge. As before, it creaked open. They stepped hastily inside, then forced it shut. Darkness surrounded them. Maximillion’s arm brushed against hers then jerked away—a reassuring accident.
“Feel your way up behind me,” she murmured. “They shouldn’t know we’re coming.”
He said nothing as she crept forward, searching blindly with her toes for the first step. Every now and then, he reached out, felt her back, then reared away. They said nothing in the seemingly endless dark.
Once the telltale flicker of light—and low voices—appeared ahead of them, the quiet shuffle of Maximillion’s feet paused. Isadora pressed on, heart in her throat.
A familiar scowl met her. The same East Guards waited at the intersection of the three tunnels. The smaller of the two sat on the ground, legs sprawled out. He scrambled to his feet once she moved into view. The burly one pushed away from the wall.
“You again?” he muttered. “What do you want?”
She held up the linens. “To deliver these.”
“We didn’t send any down.”
She frowned. “Really? Because they smelled awful and took hours to scrub.”
The burly Guard glared at her. “They aren’t for here. Get out!”
“But—”
The Guardian collapsed to his knees with a grunt, then fell flat on his face when a heavy rock slammed into his forehead. The second let out a shout, but Maximillion advanced from the shadows. Despite his usual elegance, he moved fast as lightning, using the smaller Guard’s surprise to his advantage. After only a short scuffle—and one hit to the jaw that drew a grunt—Maximillion subdued the Guardian, tied him, gagged him, and straightened up.
“You’re sure there’s only two?”
“That’s all I’ve ever seen.”
“Let’s go,” he hissed, yanking keys from the burly Guard’s belt. He wound a rope around the Guard’s wrists and ankles, then gagged him as well. The East Guard groaned.
Maximillion grabbed a torch. Something uneasy flickered through his eyes as he glanced around. Although it was intangible, Isadora felt it too. Something was … off. Whether they were walking into a trap, or Carcere just felt heavy, she couldn’t tell.