Page 53 of Lana Pecherczyk

“Energy distribution,” Rory said, voice fading as she circled behind him. “Protection.”

“From what?” he whispered.

Pandora’s eyes snapped open. Her head rotated with mechanical precision until she faced him, neck still at its unnatural angle. She reached up and caught his wrist, her grip calibrated to cause maximum discomfort without permanent damage.

Her other hand opened to reveal the glass coin—an invitation to the Great Murder.

“Your move, Nero,” she said. Her eyes flickered, and for an instant, something alien lived behind them. Not his design.

He blinked, and then it was gone.

Behind Pandora, Rory smiled. Adult, and dressed as his Reaper once more. Copper beads clacked against each other as she faded into the shadows.

“Check,” she whispered before vanishing completely.

Chapter

Seventeen

River’s jaw clenched with each step on the narrow path through the forest toward Deyleese. Blake’s footsteps thrummed beneath his skin. Together, their boots crushed aromatic sweetgrass over pebbles, releasing bursts of scent that mingled with the perfume of moss and the earthy smell of dirt.

He pivoted, tracking her approach, and his breath caught. Her hair streamed like wings in flight, iridescent colors shimmering through strands. The sun outdid itself today, adding even more hues to the existing rainbow with each dappled ray. Perspiration gleamed on her skin. Her eyes lit with wonder at the forested slopes, and his traitorous heart skipped.

“This place is bloody beautiful,” she said, cradling her plant against her chest.

You’re beautiful, he thought, the truth burning behind his teeth.

The plant looked heavy. He took it from her, and she was too busy gawping at their surroundings to protest. He tried to surrender to the world through her eyes. Down the hill, farther across the valley, tropical trees pierced the clouds. Their trunks were wider than three men witharms outstretched. Kaleidoscope-winged insects darted through sunlight. Vegetation was verdant. The sky was blue. Farm animals bleated and mooed as they grazed in pastures by the village at the hill’s base.

“A far cry from the world you left behind,” he said.

Melancholy seeped through their bond. It tasted like ash. He’d learned she felt this particular brand of sadness whenever she thought ofhim.

River’s fingers dug into the plant’s pot, nails scraping the vase. Copper flooded his mouth as he bit his cheek. Another man’s hands on Blake’s skin—the image constricted his chest, strangled his lungs. His free hand foundPeacemaker, thumb tracing the familiar curve of metal for comfort.

“We need to move.” He shoved the words through clenched teeth. “Fewer horses available after sundown.”

A stupid excuse. The village lay minutes away. The sun was still at high noon.

He quickened his pace and descended the hill.

Deyleese wasn’t so idyllic up close. Weathered buildings circled a central square like wary predators surrounding prey. It was small, with perhaps only a few hundred inhabitants. But it was the last place they could find a horse before entering crow territory.

At the first outbuilding, River returned Blake’s plant, his fingers brushing hers.

“Need both hands free for this,” he said, casting a vigilant glance around. Curtains twitched. Villagers gave him a wide berth. No one wanted to draw the attention of a Guardian.

Danger lurked everywhere for a human, especially forhisWell-blessed human.

Her hand sign of gratitude sent heat racing to his ears. Pride swelled in his chest, unexpected and addictive. He jerkedhis attention forward to the Drunken Drake, where merchants traded goods, secrets, and occasionally lives.

This time, River walked by her side so he could keep her in his sight. He didn’t think other crows saw her so brilliantly as he did, but he couldn’t be sure. He would ask Ash when they met again. The crows stalking her on the first day might have been attracted to her sparkling dress, but he didn’t want to take the risk.

Blake halted abruptly. River sidestepped to avoid a collision and followed her transfixed gaze. At the tavern’s entrance, over the doors and in the shadow beneath the porch, crystal lanterns pulsed with trapped manabeeze. Their light fractured into ribbons that moved across the worn wooden sign.

“Look how the light dances!” She jogged up the rickety steps, shifted the weight of her plant to one hip, and used her free hand to trace the air beneath a lantern where bright patterns split and reformed.

“It’s just containment lighting,” River explained as he joined her, but Blake leaned closer, wonder illuminating her face.