Page 58 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Treacherous Night

Hattie

I landed on damp grass and hard gnarled roots.

My head throbbed. My shoulder and hip were sorely bruised.

My muscles ached with the long-held tension of being strapped to the back of a horse like a saddle bag and jostled for a night and a day of hard riding with few breaks.

It was a relief to rest on solid ground, even if I did feel like the land was still juddering underneath me at a gallop.

With my hands bound behind my back and my ankles tied, all I could do was roll awkwardly onto my side, then shimmy into an upright position to lean against the trunk of a tree.

The night was inky black, the forest at my back a depthless mass of shadow.

We were on the upper edge of a shallow valley, a plain unfurling before me like a moonlit sheet, meadow grass rippling in the soft breeze.

I had awoken from the blow to my head already strapped to the horse, so it’d been difficult to get my bearings at first. As my captors rode through thin stands of trees and open meadows, I’d craned my neck for landmarks and watched the trajectory of the moon and sun.

Had I been taken west, I would’ve spotted the Western Wood on the horizon by now; had my captors headed south, we would’ve encountered the Wend.

But no . The Axe Mountains carved a rough line above the treetops to the left—which meant we were traveling east.

Toward Marona .

My captors bustled around, making camp with gruff efficiency.

They wore black clothing and cruel scowls, all armed to the teeth.

If it weren’t for their fine saddles and healthy-looking horses, they could’ve been bandits, but Marona was known for its horsemanship—wild herds still roamed the territory’s wide plains—and the quality of their mounts was another clue that they were of higher Maronan station.

As was the fact that I was still alive.

My parentage—specifically, the identity of my father—might’ve been a secret to the citizens of the kingdom, but I was not. For once, being Hattie Wynhaim—at least, the Wynhaim half—hadn’t endangered me, but saved me.

For once, I felt lucky to be who I was.

I didn’t trust my captors not to change their minds about killing me, though.

Earlier, when I’d finally glimpsed my assailant from the alley—Corla—I’d immediately recognized her as the brunette who’d stabbed Viren.

These were clearly the miscreants tasked to murder Collegium alchemists.

While I had royal blood in my veins, I was also complicit in the research that my kidnappers were clearly sent to uncover and end.

But who’d sent them?

They wore no uniform, and I hadn’t gotten a good enough look at any of their throats to notice if they bore Oath tattoos.

I couldn’t imagine King Braven—my kind-hearted uncle—sending spies out to murder academics in another territory.

Then again, given what I’d learned about Lord Haron’s schemes, perhaps drastic measures were justified (too bad they were targeting the researchers tasked to fix the problem, instead of the Arcane magicians who caused it).

An association with the crown would explain why my captors hadn’t killed me yet—but if they weren’t associated with the crown, harboring the king’s niece was excellent leverage for all manner of nefarious aims.

Essentially, I had only half an idea of what was going on—and I had no desire to stick around long enough to uncover the rest. I was still close enough to Fenrir City to return on foot if I could escape.

Slumping against the rough bark of my tree, I rolled my neck, wincing at the way the muscles twinged.

My hair was a loose tangle, frizzy tendrils tickling my cheeks and nose; the pins that’d held my bun had fallen out long ago.

The cuts under my jaw stretched uncomfortably when I yawned, scabs reopening for the thousandth time.

My whole sternum was crusted in dried blood; the neckline of my blue dress was stained crimson.

Miraculously, I still wore my vial necklace, though I wasn’t sure what good the sentimental keepsake would do, aside from reminding me of how far away I was from everyone I loved.

I smelled like horse. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a bed . I wanted Noble. I wanted…

Fates , I wanted to wallow in self-pity while someone else worried about getting me out of this quagmire.

But no one was coming to save me. No one knew where I was.

At some point, Noble would’ve realized something had happened to me, but there was no way he’d know where I’d gone.

Exhaustion threatened to pull me under—to drown me in a deep and dazed slumber, far away from the terror—but I had to come up with a plan.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm my pounding head and heart—trying to think .

As girls, Raina and I had been prepared for situations like this.

We’d learned how to hide in the secret passages at Castle Wynhaim, how to use daggers, how to fight back, how to survive in the woods for at least a day or two.

I’d used that knowledge when I escaped Poe-on-Wend, but those original lessons had happened two decades ago, and my memory was hazy.

And though Oderin had gotten me more comfortable with a sword in the past few weeks, I certainly couldn’t take five trained killers all on my own .

I would have to bide my time. Be clever.

A boot kicked my shin. “Wake up, Princess.”

I opened my eyes. A man stood before me. He was small-boned, athletic, with a patchy beard and scraggly, shoulder-length hair. Jord, I’d overhead someone call him.

“I’m not a princess,” I muttered. “You’re thinking of my cousin.”

He lowered into a squat so he could regard me at eye-level. “I was going to offer you a bit of food, but since you seem rather ungrateful, I’ve changed my mind.”

I pressed my lips together, trying to ignore the acid in my stomach as he sent his boot swiftly into the side of my hip. I took the hit, biting my tongue so I didn’t cry out—but he seemed satisfied by my wince, sniggering before he wandered off.

My mouth was dry. My belly hollow and sour. In the past twenty-four hours, I’d been given only a heel of bread and a few scant sips of water. But I would not beg. I didn’t want to give my captors the satisfaction.

The night carried on, bringing with it a damp chill.

The wind picked up, whistling through the forest, tree branches creaking and squeaking as they bobbed and rubbed together.

The ground was hard underneath my bottom, the tree unyielding at my back.

My cheeks stung with cold, as did my bare shoulders.

The dried blood in my bodice itched. But I remained silent, stoic, allowing the group of five to forget my presence as they supped.

They’d built a fire a short way down the hill from me, just past where the horses—tethered to tree trunks on long ropes—munched on grass along the outskirts of the camp.

There were three men and two women. After hours on the road, I’d managed to learn their names and voices, and pick up on their familiar but acrimonious interpersonal dynamic.

I closed my eyes again, listening.

“—still not convinced it’s her,” Jord was saying.

“Fits the description,” another man—Sid—pointed out .

“Plenty of blond-haired, blue-eyed, freckled bitches in Marona,” Jord said. “Royal or not, though, I can’t say I dislike the look of her.”

Corla grunted. “Pig.”

“I’d rather be a pig than an assassin who can’t make a kill,” Jord bit out. “First the blood alchemist, now her? Are you capable of finishing a job?”

“I’ll gladly prove it to you.” Boots on grass, a grunt, a scuffle.

I opened my eyes to see Corla’s shape silhouetted against their campfire, the front of Jord’s shirt twisted up in her fist.

“ Fates , you two.” That was Henren, their leader on the road. He was taller than the others, with light brown hair that fell past a small, pointed chin. “Save the violence for our orders, would you?”

Corla released Jord and sat back down on her log; the shadows the flames cast on her face made a caricature of her frown.

“And what are our orders, Henren?” Jord snarled, rubbing his sternum. “Because I thought they were to question and kill, not kidnap.”

“Her claim changes things,” Henren stated.

“Just because she knows the name doesn’t mean she is her,” Jord pointed out. “Seems a stretch that the niece of the king would be in Fenrir, working as an anonymous alchemist.”

“Wasn’t she married off to a nobleman in Fenrir?” Corla asked.

“About ten years ago,” the other woman, Breen, answered. “Who knows where her Grace could’ve ended up? I remember the rumors. They wanted her to disappear.”

Sid snorted. “Or she was just a royal girl who got married off. Rumors aren’t facts.”

“ Her rumors were damning, though,” Breen said. “Worth a cover-up.”

“Which means they could’ve killed her—not sent her away,” Jord argued.

Corla grunted again. “I don’t care for royal politics.”

“Funny, given your charge,” Henren quipped.

“That’s why I don’t care for royal politics,” Corla retorted.

Their voices continued, filling the night with chatter. Aside from their bedrolls, they’d left their packs and saddlebags heaped not far from where I sat, near where the horses were tethered. My satchel was among the gear, resting atop one of the saddles.

While the five of them continued to debate the truth of my claim, I inched along the ground on my knees, using the mass of bags and tack as cover.

I prayed that none of them were sound magicians, able to hear the soft scuffing of my movements—and thankfully, no one seemed to hear me.

When I reached my satchel, I twisted around, facing the forest; with my hands bound behind my back, I had to rely on touch to open it.

The cloth was worn and supple, making no sound as I lifted the front flap and dug my fingers into the main pocket.

My heart leapt when I felt the hard leather sheath of my new dagger.

I didn’t waste any time—I withdrew the blade, swiveled it in my palm, and angled the point up between my wrists. I sawed at the rope, willing myself not to shake, whimper, or rush; I forced myself to take my time, knowing that slow and quiet was better than clumsy and noisy.

When finally, the rope slackened, I quickly turned my attention to my ankles, holding my breath as I sawed through the last of my bindings. My heart was a wild beast banging against the cage of my ribs, desperate for escape.

The moment my ropes were cut, I slung my satchel over my shoulder and ran for the forest .

Behind me, I heard Henren’s raised voice, still arguing with his subordinates: “—doesn’t matter now. She looks the part, and given her claim, the captain will want to see her for himself before—”

A branch snapped under my shoe, announcing my departure. Conversation morphed into shouts as my captors scrambled to find their weapons and begin their chase .

I pumped my arms, racing through the maze of trees.

Moonlight shined through the leaves overhead, lighting my path with shifting silver beams. The underbrush was brittle, branches snapping and cracking, snatching at my dress.

Roots and soft patches of decay made the ground treacherous, but I maintained my reckless pace, crashing through the gloomy darkness as fast as I could.

My chest ached with each breath, my pulse throbbed in my temples, but I pressed on, knowing I had to ignore the discomfort if I wanted to escape.

The deeper I ventured, the denser the forest grew.

Scraggly bushes and gnarled tree trunks hunched over me like huge, ancient beasts, curious about my frantic presence.

The terrain was changing, too, mounds of half-rotted logs and large stones creating new obstacles.

But my pursuers were quicker than I’d hoped, running just as carelessly as I was over the ankle-breaking ground.

I needed to find cover.

I needed to lose them.

Fates , I needed to catch my breath.

Cresting a gentle hillock, I spotted a huge boulder halfway down the opposite slope.

It was at least twelve feet high, tucked within a stand of pines, and covered in shaggy moss and vegetation.

I could climb it and hide above my pursuers’ sightline until they passed, but— no , that was too risky.

If they spotted me, they could encircle my perch, and I’d be trapped.

Best to use it as cover, instead, and hope the sudden silence would cause them to lose track of my direction.

Then I could press on at a more sustainable pace.

My shoes sank into loamy soil and soft decay as I ran downhill toward the boulder. When I reached it, I circled around the back, skidding to a halt. I placed my palm on the cool stone, lungs burning from the exertion, muscles quivering from fear and exhaustion .

But the forest did not quiet when my movements did.

The snapping and cracking continued, as if I were still clambering through the underbrush.

At first, I assumed it was the raucous pursuit of my captors—but the sound was closer than their shouts.

And it was coming from the opposite direction, deeper in, northward—not just the snaps of twigs underfoot, but a terrible grinding , with sharper cracks like breaking bones.

I turned toward the sound, peering into the woods.

A shadow lurked.

It was at least the height of a man, with hind legs that bent backward at the joints.

When it passed into a patch of moonlight about sixty feet away—emitting that horrible splitting noise—I saw claw-tipped arms. Red glowing eyes.

A crown of black antlers. Its body was mangled, skin stretched in some places and nonexistent in others, with white ribs poking through tendons and sinew, and a fringe of pointed appendages lining the sides of its torso.

Black veins spider-webbed across gray slabs of bare muscle.

I’d never seen anything like it. Or maybe…maybe I had.

It was a creature of nightmares . An abomination.

And it was coming straight for me.