Skylark (27 page)

I shivered again, repacking my bag, careful now that I knew the flowers were there. The stone was cold beneath me—I wasted no time moving on.

The feeling of being watched persisted. I waded through every stream that met the larger river, though the water soaked through my shoes and drove cold needles into my feet. If it would confuse my scent, it was worth numb toes.

I couldn’t convince myself that the feeling of being watched was my imagination. After all, I’d felt something similar—if less frightening—when Oren was following me.

“Have you ever heard of magic giving people other powers?” I asked the pixie, which was flitting on ahead and back, scouting the trail up ahead.

“Other powers?”

“Other than what we know about, being able to move objects and things.”

“I suppose anything is possible,”
it replied.
“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see shadows out of the corner of my eye. “Just making conversation.”

Perhaps it was possible that some extrasensory perception came hand in hand with the magic. Though no one in the city had ever mentioned such a thing, would they know? Everyone in the city had their magic taken away from them as children. Maybe I really was sensing something. It felt like a darkness, a strange, hungry pit somewhere at the edge of my senses. It was like the flashes of iridescence I sometimes saw out of the corner of my eye inside the barriers—but instead of light, this was dark. Empty. Void.

Or maybe my fears and imagination were conspiring against me. I picked up my pace.

By mid-afternoon the rain stopped, and by sunset the clouds were thinning. The sun glowed fiery against the overcast clouds as it sank, a sliver of it showing above the horizon to the southwest. I had begun to climb from the foot of the mountains. With visions of falling off a cliff in the dark, I found a copse of trees by the riverbank and made camp.

Weariness soon took over, and I barely had energy to clear away the leaf litter, much less dig a pit. Still, fear outweighed exhaustion and I found a stone to use as a shovel. The pixie joined in, shifting forms and tunneling like some grounddwelling insect, stirring up the dirt.

I scooped away the loose earth and lay down some kindling, starting the fire more easily than ever.
Thank you, Oren
, I thought, shoving the lighter back into my pocket. I was still shivering by the time I could sit back and let the fire grow on its own. My clothes were damp from the day’s rain, and a cold wind swept down from the mountains at my back.

Though I felt too tired to eat, I forced down a handful of nuts and immediately fell into a doze, lulled by the crackle of the fire and the distant howling of the wind in the mountains.

When I awoke, the fire was nearly dead. The sky was pitch-black, and through the treetops I caught glimpses of stars, the cloud cover having completely vanished. I sat bolt upright, breathing hard, straining to hear again the sound that had woken me.

I could hear only the low hiss of the dying fire, the river, the howling wind.

I stared at the fire, listening hard, trying to figure out what was bothering me so—then, with a jolt, I realized. The flames on the fire weren’t flickering. There was no wind.

I froze, listening to the howls. They weren’t so distant now as the wind had been earlier. They carried no triumph, as they had when they’d devoured one of their own, only hunger and desolation and, increasingly, excitement. They were hunting.

Dimly I saw the cobalt blue of Nix’s eyes appear in the firelight.
“Lark,”
it said, the word barely more than a hum.

“I hear them,” I replied. My breath sounded louder than any shout. I rolled over and kicked dirt onto the fire as I’d seen Oren do. The flames went out with a sluggish hiss of protest.

As my eyes blossomed with blue-white afterimages, the howls changed. Whoops and shouts, and with it—in the distance—the rattling of pebbles high above. They’d been watching my fire. They knew I was awake.

I scrambled to my feet.
Run quickly, run quietly. Cross water. Don’t let them get close.
I left the pack of supplies. It would only slow me down. Later—if there was a later—I could come back for it.

I heard Nix following me, a dim buzz in the background of the roaring in my ears. Something laughed in the distance, high and hysterical. I tripped and fell, and my hands splashed down into frigid water when I hit. I scrambled across the stream, every splash and gasp and step ringing like an alarm. So much for running quietly. I sucked in a breath of air and hurried low through the strip of woods, praying it was large enough to keep me hidden. I tried to remember what it had looked like in the daylight, and the only image that came to mind was agonizingly small.

I burst out of the copse and into a world transformed by moonlight. Every blade of grass was edged in silver, and my shadow stood ahead of me so solidly that I nearly shrieked at the sight of it. I stopped for a heartbeat, trying to figure out which direction to go. Ahead rose the mountains—but I had heard the sound of feet on rocky slopes, hadn’t I? That must be where they were coming from.

I turned to head out over the grassy hills. I had taken no more than a step before I saw them. Moving quickly, impossibly quickly, three shadows raced low to the ground, the grasses whipping around them. They were still some distance away, but closing fast. I turned so quickly my feet slipped in the still-muddy earth. I caught myself on my hands and then scrambled into a run.

My eyes sought a hiding place. A cave, a ledge, some corridor in the hills in which I could lose myself. My muscles screamed in protest, but I ignored them, sprinting as hard as I could.

Something black loomed up in front of me, and my head whipped up. Not a shadow—a shack, falling to pieces. Not great, but better than being run down on an open hillside.

I could no longer hear Nix. I had no time to look around for it, no energy to turn my head to see how close the shadow people were. I aimed for the black doorway of the shack, closing in on it.

I was only a few strides away when shadows melted out of the landscape, emerging from behind rocks, trees, out of the darkness itself. They were so close I could see their faces lit by the moonlight, their white eyes staring, mouths open and pointed teeth bared in hideous, ravenous grins.

Chapter 22

They had once been human. What other creature, after all, could have set such a trap? Herding me like a frightened rabbit into such a dead end? They had arms and legs and feet like any person, and most wore clothes, torn and unidentifiably filthy. Their hair hung in clumps turned black with dirt.

I screamed and hurled myself at the shack. A hand closed over my ankle and yanked, throwing me down. My chin hit packed earth, and I tasted blood as I bit my tongue. As if they could sense that first blood, the air around me exploded into whoops and screams. I kicked back hard and felt my foot connect with something that crunched audibly. The hand let go, accompanied by a howl of protest and rage.

I scrambled for the doorway again only to feel multiple hands grab my legs and drag me out. Sharp nails dug into my skin, piercing through my pants, as my own fingers scrabbled at the dirt, trying to find anything to pull myself away.

They flung me over, giving me a glimpse of the faces crowding over me. Skin blanched of all color, ash-gray in the moonlight but for the darker gray veins spreading across cheeks and throats. Pointed teeth and bright, wet lips snapped at me, long-nailed fingers tore at my clothes and skin.

One of the creatures lunged for me, teeth closing over the fleshy part of my upper arm, sinking in. I waited for the agony of tearing flesh and muscle, but it never came. Instead there was a meaty, wet sound and the beast released me, flung away into the chaos.

The howling sounds took on another tone, and they abandoned me for something else. I tried to drag myself toward the ruined shack, but the bitten arm throbbed, and I couldn’t gather the strength to move myself.

The beasts were now a roiling cluster of shadows and torn clothing, their attention turned inward on something I couldn’t see for the mass of bodies. One flew at me and I rolled out of the way. It missed me by inches, spraying a fountain of something wet and hot over my face before hitting the ground and lying still.

The struggling form in the center of the cluster swept two of the monsters away with a low kick, and then dove for me. I saw only a pair of white eyes in the darkness, staring into me. I shrieked and tried to kick it away. My foot connected with a solid thud, and my assailant grunted with pain but didn’t let go.

“Lark!” it shouted, brushing my flailing foot aside. “Lark, it’s me!”

The eyes weren’t white—they were palest blue. His hand wrapped around mine and he jerked me to my feet, shoving me back into the shack. It was barely more than a tool shed, and so full of rubble that there wasn’t enough room for the two of us. Oren whirled, putting his back to me, to face the pack regrouping around us.

The moonlight glinted off a knife in his hand, its edge dripping blood. I tore my eyes away. There were three, maybe four of the monsters arrayed in a semicircle around us. I had no way of knowing how many others there might be still concealed by the darkness, or how many Oren had already killed.

One of the shadow people dove for him with a scream of rage, knocking him back against me. I could smell the sweat and the blood, hear the creature’s snarls as it snapped at his throat. Oren’s knife flashed, and the creature shrieked again, falling away.

Oren and the monsters were blurs of shadow and light, ducking and weaving. I could see the knife most clearly, its edge scattering the moonlight and blinding my straining eyes.

I saw more bodies hit the ground, but I could not see whose they were. Two left. Still fighting.

The last monster leapt at Oren, dodging the low sweep of his knife and wrapping its arms around his throat.

I started to struggle out of the shack to help him.

Oren needed no assistance. With a grunt he threw the monster down. As it struggled to its knees, Oren darted behind it and yanked its chin up with his free hand. He shifted his grip on the knife, flipping the blade the other way around.

For an instant everything was outlined by the moonlight, the entire scene edged in silver. The pulsing throat of the monster, lined with dark gray veins. Its hands desperately trying to claw free of Oren’s grasp. Its feral eyes knowing what was coming. Oren’s face, transformed by ferocity, the blue eyes wild and animal.

With a smooth, graceful sweep, Oren drew the blade across the creature’s throat, sending a cascade of dark blood down its filthy chest. He let the body fall, where it lay gurgling for a few seconds before going still.

Oren came at me, holding out one bloody hand palm up in reassurance, saying something gently in a low voice. I threw myself back against the rubble filling the shack.

“Don’t touch me!” I cried, the words tearing from my throat.

He stood there, his bloodstained body tense and edged in silver light, panting and gazing at me. Then he turned away, crouching by each of the fallen bodies. I could hear the sounds the knife made as he dispatched the ones who still lived.

He cleaned his hands in the dirt, bathing them in dust and then wiping them on his pants, doing the same with the blade of the knife before tucking it carefully into his boot. He made a point of checking each of the bodies, but whether he found anything in their tattered pockets, I couldn’t say. I kept my eyes turned resolutely upward at the square of night I could see through the door of the shack.

For once, the starry sky held no horror for me.

Oren moved past me, limping. The air was ripe with the tang of sweat and blood and fierceness. “We can’t stay here,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s go.”

•  •  •

He led me on up the mountain, moving slowly. He didn’t try to touch me again, though I struggled on the slope, my shaking legs failing to hold me upright and the bitten arm throbbing with every step.

Though the walk felt interminable, I don’t think we traveled more than an hour before Oren called a halt. He made no fire, but merely sat me down in the hollow of a rock that offered some shelter from the wind. “Get some sleep,” he advised. “I’ll keep watch.”