“He grows weaker as we speak,” the wraith interjects, flourishing a long, bone finger through the air at Eogan. A hint of mist follows it before the ghostly thing inhales and pulls the fog toward its hooded face.
I can just make out the shriveled skin and skeletal cheekbones beneath eyes that are glowing a faint yellow. Before I know it the spider serum in my veins has lurched and begun vibrating with that low thirst.
Draewulf shifts and the starlight catches the scowl in his eye. “If your Mortisfaire powers worked the way—”
“It’s not my fault something’s changed his Medien ability.” It’s Isobel’s turn to snarl. “He’s never been able to block me before, and I assure you I will finish it. Perhaps it’s time I pay a visit to—”
“Out of the question,” Draewulf’s voice barks.
“May I remind you that with your own energy being spent maintaining your hold, you are—”
“We knew this would be the most critical. Even now I can sense it breaking,” he growls. “Prepare your guards. Leave me to focus. And you . . .” He glares at the wraith. “Alert me as soon as the army is fully in place.”
“Yes, m’lord,” the wraith breathes.
Isobel purses her mouth and glares. Until Draewulf turns his back on her. She flips around, then heads toward the rock waterfall with the wraith following and disappears opposite our hiding spot.
Draewulf watches them stride away until there’s the distinct sound of a door shutting somewhere. I swear his shoulders sag the slightest bit before he turns and spreads his hands toward the black masses in the distance. He becomes still.
Too still.
After one, two, five minutes my calves are aching and begging to change position. I’m just wondering how softly I can shift when he’s muttering loud enough for me to hear even if his words are incoherent.
Soon they’re so inharmonious and complex, it’s giving the effect of multiple voices. Beside me, Myles rocks forward enough that I can feel the tension rolling off him as Eogan-who-is-Draewulf lifts his robed arms to hold up an object out in front of him, as if performing a type of ritual.
Oh litches.
Myles’s hand is poking my shoulder, compressing hard. Apparently he’s caught on too and worried I might move. He should be.
Draewulf’s fingers are clasped around a large leather pouch, which looks very much like the bag the neighbor of owner number seven used for spells. I asked her about it once, and she told me she kept it full of enchanted bones. I never asked whose bones or what kind of enchantment, but the one time she tried to use them to rid me of my Elemental curse . . .
It didn’t go well.
I summon every nerve of strength I own to keep me rooted to this spot as Draewulf’s voice grows louder. He puts a hand in his robe pocket, pulls out a fistful of powder to sprinkle over the bag, then dumps the pouch’s contents onto the ground. There’s a clatter and a spark and then it looks like the whole thing catches fire. The smoke from it rises straight, eerily stiff, as it funnels up to the sky. The muttering stops as he watches it. After a moment, he steps into the thick smoke spire and inhales once, deeply.
The faint sound of a leaf being crushed underfoot is my first indication that I’ve moved. I bump into Myles who’s frozen except for his fingers curling into my skin, keeping me still and from giving us away.
“Use your mirage.”
I feel him shake his head just as Draewulf’s gaze darts over.
“He’s weakened. Use your mirage, Myles. I’m going to use my ability.”
An elongated pause. Then, “My power doesn’t work against Eogan’s block,” Myles admits in my ear.
It doesn’t? I glance back at him and almost laugh. So that’s why he hates Eogan so much.
There’s a low snarl, and I turn back in time to catch Draewulf looking over again. Searching our direction with those greenrimmed black eyes.
There’s no way he could’ve heard us, yet he steps out of the bone-incense spire and his eyes are seeking, glowering, and then they’re riveted on me.
Myles fumbles against my foot, and when I slip a hand back to make him stay still, the oaf isn’t there. What the—? Bleeding fool.
I’m just rising from my haunches when Draewulf growls and, faster than possible, bursts through the low branches. He stops in front of me, inches away, looking furious but also haggard. Beyond haggard. He looks ill.
He studies me, then suddenly smiles and tweaks his head to the side. His expression removes any question in my mind whether he can see through Myles’s mirage. “Little impotent girls shouldn’t eavesdrop.” He lifts a hand. “Unless they want their mouths sewn shut.” He scrapes Eogan’s short nails against my neck.
I utter a cry at the sting and aim my knee for his stomach at the same moment my hand lunges with my knife. He steps aside and swipes it away onto the grass, as if he can’t be bothered with such silliness, before reaching for my chin.