Page 49 of A Hunt Bound in Blood
“You—you ass! Find more? You think there are dozens of texts out there translating Oceal? Outlining the evolution of Old Golthic into modern speech? Thank Olodin I didn’t bring Tersey’s original journal, or we would have lost a priceless relic! This coming from you? From the treasures you have showcased in your gallery, I would have thought you of all people would appreciate the importance of preserving valuable history.”
She huffed out a breath, and when I looked over my shoulder, I could see she was gearing up for another go. Her anger sparked, flicking off her in puffs that tickled my nose, and I realized I’d lost my taste for it. Especially when it was directed at me.
I rose from my crouch and turned to face her before she could catch her breath. “I understand why you’re grieving, Glory. My point is that all we’ve lost is paper and ink. A heartbreaking loss, yes. But when I think of what we might have lost instead, it puts things in perspective.”
She stared at me, her lips parted, and the scent of her anger softened until the breeze carried away the last dregs of it. Satisfied that I’d made my point, I nodded and turned my attention to my bed as she retreated into her tent. I was just spreading my wrung-out blanket across the ground, prepared to forego the luxury of a cover for the sake of not sleeping directly in the dirt, when Glory emerged with her cushy bedroll.
“Here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m good.” I wasn’t about to deprive her of one of the few comforts she had left.
She shook it at me. “Please take it. It’s the least I can offer you for saving my life yet again.”
I accepted it, catching her eye so I could get a better read on her beyond the swirling maelstrom of her emotions. “The city mage will manage without it?”
The barb lacked the prickliness I’d jabbed at her earlier, but I was pleased to see that the spark of life in those hazel eyes hadn’t disappeared again.
“I’ll make do,” she said. “Sleep well.”
“I’ll do my best,” I replied with a bow.
“Considering you’re stealing my bed, you’d better.” The curl of her mouth made my mine go dry.
She left me, and after I made my bed, I did my best to obey her, bond or no bond… but it was a good long while before I could get that smile out of my head long enough for all evidence of my arousal to fade.
Glory
XXIII
“We’re supposed to be looking for a river,” I snapped. “Or a ravine. It was right there in the clue. Which, of course, we don’t have anymore, because we took a swim with the most important element of our search tucked into an outside pocket!”
I’d done my best to cling to Cammon’s logic that it was better our books were lost than our lives, but we’d been walking all morning without any written words to guide us, and my sanity was on its last thread.
“There was more to the clue than that,” Cammon reminded me. “We found that odd stone statue, didn’t we? We know we’re on the right path. And there is no river near here, so he can’t have been talking about anything literal. It must have been a metaphor or something. A convoluted, forced-rhyme metaphor that could mean a particularly winding path, or a fast-moving gravel pit, or some fucking—”
I drew to a halt sharply enough to cut him off. “Or a long, winding tunnel under a mountain.”
Cammon frowned. “That seems random. I know what I just said, but I don’t think we should just—”
I waved my hand to silence him again, and he pressed his lips together with an unimpressed eyebrow quirk. “I know it sounds like a nonsensical leap, but it’s not. Your rambling about metaphors”—I ignored him mouthing the word rambling with an offended mien—“triggered a memory of the rest of the clue we hadn’t finished translating yet. The symbol for darkness. One for mountain. He was talking about a cave.”
I buried my face in my hands and released a loud groan of frustration.
“What?” Cammon asked, concerned. As he was right to be.
“I know what signpost we’re at, and I’m not happy about it.” I rubbed my eyes, then propped my fists on my hips and brought to mind every chicken-scratch note Tersey had written. “I’ve been stuck on this one since I first came across his mentions of it. He references Ancient Perganic. Not even standard Demonic, but a language that’s rarely referenced in the most extended texts on antiquated languages. I spent months translating the runes he noted in his journal, and even then his message didn’t make sense.”
“Buttons.”
“Now we must be almost there, and I don’t have my notes. We’ve made it all this way, and we’re going to be bested by an ancient, forgotten, useless gods-damned script.”
“Buttons!”
“And what happens if we don’t translate it correctly? I don’t know what the consequences are for this one, but in his notes he seemed almost gleeful—as if he hoped someone would try it and fail.”
“Buttons!” Cammon gripped my shoulders and spun me towards him. My every breath drew in the spiciness of his scent and my heart rate kicked up another notch. I stared into his crimson eyes, watched as the inky blackness crept around the edges, and my lower stomach fluttered at the evidence of his desire. Not that I knew what he was desiring in his moment when he seemed to be irritated with me. Why couldn’t I read his emotions?
The mix of his irritation and my frustration made me snap. “What?”