Page 51

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Fortune and Death

Idris

R ed blood slicked Idris’s punctured palm. Black blood soaked his shirt. Everything reeked, everything hurt —but he was singular in his focus.

He held Halgren in his non-dominant hand, using the blade’s flame to light his way. The sword hummed with power, as if bolstered by the kill he’d made. A Morta, felled by Idris alone. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he’d done it.

The temperature of the air was warming, fog turning to steam. He heard the distant rumble of geysers, the trickle of water. His nose ached with the assault of monster stink and sulfur, but he kept his magic open to his surroundings, following the gold thread of Anya, fragrant and out of place as a flower. He clung to the scent with all the fortitude he had left.

The stars were fading when Idris reached the edge of the forest. A cobalt dawn twinkled above a rocky, fog-filled clearing. The scent of monster blood was especially strong, but something else pricked his senses, something Idris didn’t expect: the scent of man.

He hurried into the mist, eyes catching on a rumpled heap in the road: Anya’s cloak. He held it to his face, burying his nose in the fabric, breathing in the proof of her presence here, even as his stomach sank. Why isn’t she wearing it ?

He continued down the path, the fog thicker in the slight depression of this geothermal flat. Small puddles along the trail burped their earthen air, clogging his magic with sulfur. Up ahead, a small crossbow was lodged in one of the springs like a tiny shipwreck. The metal tooling was fine— noble . That explained the life-saving bolt he’d found in the woods.

Idris broke into an uneven jog, his body protesting fiercely. Wind gusted, clearing some of the steam, revealing another dark shape in the road. A body.

A reluctant sort of hope filled him, and he ran faster, boots skidding on the grit of the uneven path. When he reached the figure, he turned the body over—

“ Fuck ,” Idris cursed, jerking back.

He’d only met Remy once, but he’d recognize the man’s smug face anywhere. It’d been seared into Idris’s brain since the moment he saw Remy at the Possum, smelled the sex on Anya’s body, and felt a swift and illogical jealousy course through him. Idris really had been smitten since the moment he saw her.

This was not the Remy of his memory, though. The small, gnarled horns protruding from his blond hair, his claw-tipped fingers, and the nubs of new arms growing along his ribs told Idris everything he needed to know. That, and the black blood leaking out of the man’s slashed neck.

Anya was a Mirror Criminal, after all. She had done well.

So why was the clearing so quiet?

Idris forged ahead, into the gloom. It only took him another few paces to spot Anya crumpled on the ground.

Idris rushed to her and sank to his knees, hands grasping at her hip, her shoulders. She was limp, her face alarmingly serene and streaked with monster blood and grime. Her pretty dress was soaked with red, hiked up on one side to reveal—

Idris’s eyes widened at what he saw. The damage. The blood .

He lowered his ear to her mouth, listening for the faintest of breaths. He palpated her neck, feeling for a pulse.

It was there, but it was faint. She didn’t have long.

“Anya.” Terror made his tone guttural. “Anya, Dearest, stay with me,” he bellowed.

Carefully—oh, so carefully—Idris gathered her into his arms. Her leg dangled in an awful manner, her boot knocking against his thigh as he carried her into the mist. With her head nestled against his chest, he pressed a firm kiss on her forehead.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat, roused by pain or movement or maybe his presence, he wasn’t sure, but the sound was everything to him. Everything .

“I’ve got you,” Idris said. “I’ve got you.”

In the stories Idris had heard about the old custom of the Well of Fate, those seeking an altered future would plead with the water’s surface, perhaps touch it with their fingertips. But so close to death, Anya didn’t just need a new Fate—she needed a miracle.

When Idris reached the pool, he didn’t think about his Oath. He didn’t think about his Fortune. He didn’t think about her Death. He thought only of Anya’s wellbeing as he waded into the strange, warm water.

When he was submerged up to his waist, Idris gently swiveled Anya in his arms, supporting her back and neck, keeping her head tipped above the water. Her eyes fluttered open, finding his face, wide with wonder. He only waited a moment, long enough for her understand what was happening. Then, in the faint light of morning, with bloodied hands and fear in his heart, Idris pushed Anya—his love—beneath the blue-green surface of the pool.