Crumpling the parchment in my fist, I take a deep breath and fight a sudden urge to scream. I have to stop this, all the death and disappearances. And Vane is my one lead, whether he’s the one who stole the Dead from the palace or not.
“Get Lysander,” I say softly, trying to keep my voice from shaking with rage. “I’m going to wake Master Cymbre and show her this.” I hold up the wrinkled letter. “We’re going to the Deadlands now. All this fear and hurting has got to end, and there’s only one person I know of who might be able to tell us something useful.”
XXV
Master Cymbre’s room is empty. A hint of spice and leather hangs in the air, a sure sign that she was here not too long ago. Yet all her things are gone: her sword, her boots, and the tiny book of poems she carries everywhere. The bed is neatly made, as perfect as though she never slept in it.
Meredy peers at something dropped behind a chair, then checks inside the wardrobe, her brows knitting together in concern. “There’s no sign of a struggle.”
Lysander watches from the doorway, unable to squeeze his bulk across the threshold.
“Right. I doubt rogue necromancers forcing her into the Deadlands would have made sure she had time to pack her favorite book and her weapon,” I murmur, thinking aloud. Besides, when Master Nicanor was abducted, there was evidence of a fight at his house. The only other option here is that Cymbre went against the rules she taught me for most of my life—that she went into the Deadlands alone of her own free will.
A faint blue glow from the windows draws my attention. There’s a gate to the Deadlands a brisk walk from the castle. Master Cymbre must have entered it to find Vane after hearing about the massacre. After promising me she’d rest.
I know that’s what happened, because it’s exactly the sort of thing I would do. It’s what I did do, when I needed to prevent the Shade that killed Evander from taking any more lives. For better or worse, she brought me up to be just like her, risking everything to protect the people she loves.
“She’s gone,” I whisper. “She went to the Deadlands alone. To protect us. To protect all these people. But if Vane is there, she’ll need our help. Who knows how many Shades he’ll have with him?”
“We’re going after her. Lysander can track her scent if we let him sniff her pillow.” Meredy’s eyes glitter in the candlelight, hard and determined. Some part of me wishes there was time to kiss her firmly set mouth, to finish what we started and see if it’s something I’d want to do again. To see if she tastes like Evander, or if there’s something distinct about Meredy that’s making me crave her like this.
Sleeping in Jax’s bed never made me feel this guilty, but maybe that’s because with Jax, I didn’t really think about it. About him. My time with him was always an escape from thoughts of Evander, like my potion addiction. What’s happening with Meredy feels like a force all its own, as strong and perplexing as lightning.
I can’t think about her this way, not now or ever, but especially not when Master Cymbre’s in danger.
When someone’s life depends on it.
Shoving Meredy firmly to the back of my mind, I turn to the small writing desk in the far corner of the room and pick up a quill and parchment from a tray. “Before we go, I’ll tell Jax and Simeon where we’re headed. Just in case.”
A short while later, we breeze past several stunned guards and out the back gates of Abethell Castle, with Lysander bounding ahead.
“We have to go through a gate to the Deadlands,” I murmur, glancing at Meredy through the inky darkness that’s settled over the grounds. Clouds have rolled in since our earlier target practice, blotting out the stars.
I offer Meredy my hand, much as I’m afraid of what her touch might make me feel. “You’ll have to hold on to me, because you can’t—”
“See it,” she finishes for me, taking my hand. “Evander trusted you. That means I trust you, too.” As we jump into the gate, just a short leap off the ground, she mutters, “Besides, if you screw this up, I’ll tell Lysander he can snack on you.”
It takes Meredy a few moments to get her bearings inside the tunnel. Brushing dirt off her clothes, she keeps her head carefully turned to the lichen-covered wall, like she doesn’t want me to see her face. Somehow, she commanded Lysander to leap through the gate after us without uttering a word, and now she keeps him by her side in the tunnel without the use of a chain. It seems she can’t stop him from snarling and pacing around us, though.
I wonder if he’s remembering the last time we were here.
Meredy takes my hand again as we hurry down the tunnel. Her fingers burn where they clutch mine, and I wish I could let go, but I don’t want her getting lost. The Deadlands have ways of calling to anyone living, luring them into forgetting why they’d ever want to return to the other world. The world where they belong.
For Meredy, it’ll probably be Firiel who appears to lure her into staying.
But no matter what we encounter, I’m going to keep Meredy alive. I can’t lose her, not after how much trouble I went through to save her the first time. Not after we’ve finally started talking about Evander, sharing memories to keep him with us. Not after . . . well, everything she’s become to me.
“Lysander’s found something.” Meredy squeezes my elbow, jarring me back to the present.
“Which way?” I demand, putting a hand on my sword.
The bear gazes straight ahead, at one of the Deadlands’ many gardens. I take a step toward it, but Meredy holds me back, her hand turning cold in mine.
“She’s nowhere near here,” she says in a dreamy, distant voice not quite like her own. Her face is completely blank. A shiver runs through me as I realize Lysander’s eyes are glowing a vivid green, identical to hers. Somehow, she’s searching his thoughts in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Then we’d better start running,” I murmur. Now that we’re in the Deadlands, there could be Shades nearby. Or the very man I’d like to catch by surprise.
“No.” To my relief, Meredy sounds more like herself. She meets my gaze, then nods to Lysander. “Riding will be much faster.”
Every necromancer should see the Deadlands on the back of a grizzly, I decide as I settle myself on Lysander’s warm bulk. The view is different somehow. Sharper, with every twisted tree and every moonflower seeming to jump out at me, vying for my attention.
Meredy sits in front of me, and at her urging, I wrap my arms around her waist.
My heart taps out its excitement against my ribs, and there’s nothing I can do—save for letting go of Meredy’s soft curves or tucking my nose into my shirt so I don’t have to breathe her subtle vanilla scent that makes my head spin—to slow it down.
I just hope she can’t feel the faint pounding against her back, or hear the slight quickening of my breath.
Lysander picks up speed, and I grip Meredy tighter. He seems to be following the meander of a dark and icy river. As the water rushes past in a blur, my thoughts turn to Master Cymbre.