CHAPTER ELEVEN
Finding an excuse to walk through the woods alone was more difficult than it seemed.
They’d all agreed that, given the potential of Mages hunting them, no one should go out on their own.
And Deckard didn’t have the luxury of offering to hunt.
Aside from the Calders, he had the fewest skills in that arena.
Part of him questioned the value of trying to sneak off at all.
Deckard knew it was ridiculous, thinking that he could glean wisdom from his subconscious. But it helped. Somehow, his mad visions helped him sort through the stress and fear, allowing him to focus on the issues at hand.
Like why Evylin was suddenly so happy all the time.
But thinking around camp was like trying to talk underwater. You might get a few words out, but the pressure in your ears and the air escaping your lungs would suffocate any rational thought before long.
It took him a full four days to come up with a solution.
“Evie,” Deckard said, crouching down beside her at the campfire. They’d all finished their meal a few moments before, Ilain and Ethenn settling in to start their watch while the rest of them prepared to sleep.
Evylin looked up at him, steady fingers rebraiding her hair. “Jonn,” she replied, giving him a teasing smile.
Deckard hated to use her newfound joviality against her, but he couldn’t figure out another means of slipping away. “You know how I’m boring?”
“Intimately.”
“Mm-hm.” He’d anticipated the jocular reply and took it as proof that his plan would succeed. “Well, boring people like myself have the occasional desire to be alone.”
She held a hand to her chest in feigned offense. “Are you saying that you don’t want to spend your every waking second with me?”
“Believe it or not.”
She tied off the braid, still smiling. “Why are you telling me this?”
Deckard intentionally gave a slow scan over the rest of their companions. “Because I plan to take a walk, and I need you to cover for my absence.”
“A walk?” Evylin quirked her brow. “In the woods? Alone?”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes. They glowed like embers in the firelight. “I thought we agreed not to split up.”
“We did.”
“And you’re breaking that agreement because you’re a boring sap who likes to spend time alone?”
“Precisely.”
She shrugged. “Fine. How can I help?”
“Come with me.”
Evylin looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “I hate to tell you this, Jonn, but if I come with you, you can’t be alone.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said with a chuckle. “We’ll tell them that we’re taking a walk, but instead of you coming with me, you’ll stay right on the other side of the trees over there.”
“And what am I supposed to do in the trees over there, hm?”
“Think. Sleep. Eat.” He held up his dinner ration of the bread they’d purchased in Vaulley. Bread didn’t keep long enough to carry enough for more than a few days, and to Evylin, every piece was sacred. “Do whatever it is you’d be doing if we were in camp.”
She eyed the slice of bread greedily. “I’d be talking to you if we were in camp.”
“Then pretend you’re talking to me over there.”
“My imagination of you isn’t as entertaining as the real you. He doesn’t respond when I make fun of him.”
“Do you want the bread or not?”
She took it and stood, hiding her hand under her cloak. “Jonn and I are going on a walk,” she announced.
“A walk?” Auden asked warily. “At night?”
“Auden,” Ilain chided.
“What?”
Rafferty sniggered. “I believe ‘walk’ is married people’s code for ‘time alone.’”
“Shut up,” Evylin said, but she grabbed Deckard’s hand and started for the trees.
The ruddy light of the fire faded behind their backs as they stepped farther into the foliage. In the night, the forest looked like an emerald shadow. Though the rain had stopped, remnants of its deluge dripped from the tree leaves and pine needles.
When they were thoroughly out of sight, Evylin dropped his hand. “You owe me,” she said, then took a vicious bite out of her bread.
Deckard motioned to the mutilated slice. “I’ve already paid you.”
Her jawline grew taut with irritation. “They think we’re out here . . . kissing.”
He found her disgruntlement rather cute. “Evylin, we’re married. They think we’re out here doing much more than that.”
“You owe me more than a slice of bread.”
Deckard set his hands on her shoulders. “Tell you what: While I’m gone, think of what you’d like in payment, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Anything?” she asked.
“Anything.”
She scanned him. “Hm. Good enough.”
Backing away, Deckard dipped his head in thanks. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Don’t take too long,” she called.
He waved in acknowledgment before heading deeper into the trees.
In the darkness, it was harder to see the overgrown roots and tangled underbrush.
Deckard moved carefully onward, searching for a good spot to sit and think.
Or pace and think, as he was more apt to do.
Somewhere clear and open, with plenty of space to spar.
The sort of place that Hewitt would have taken him to train.
A rather large request for the thick Waulden forest.
After several minutes of searching with no luck, Deckard allowed himself to stop.
He couldn’t stay out too long, and he didn’t want to waste precious time working his way back to camp.
Nor did he want to walk so far out that he lost his way.
He’d come just far enough that no one would hear him talking to himself, and he’d intentionally checked behind him regularly to ensure that Evylin hadn’t followed him.
Secure in his solitude, Deckard slumped against a densely rooted oak. “I’m not sure what to do,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s happening now?” Hewitt asked, the vision appearing across from him by a tree.
“Nothing new,” he said. “Something is just off. Evylin can’t have gotten over you so quickly.”
“She’s still acting happy?”
Deckard nodded.
“It’s a farce,” Hewitt growled. When did that deep grumble of the man’s voice become so reassuring? “She holds onto people too fiercely for that. It’s why she’s so selective. She can’t risk choosing them for them to disappear.”
“She’s not that good at pretending,” Deckard said. “Or at lying.”
“Maybe you just don’t want to see the truth.”
“But I’m actively seeking it,” he argued. “I’m genuinely trying to tell if she’s moved on or if she’s faking it. And I can’t see any way that this return to her good-humored self is a facade. Not when she hasn’t broken one single time.”
Hewitt stroked his scraggly beard.
“The only answer is that she’s moved on.”
“Not possible.”
“Why not?” Deckard threw his hands up, exasperated. “What if she really has let go? Am I holding her back by expecting her to cling to her grief?”
Hewitt eyed him. “I told you, she’s yet to recover from Ryen’s death. Mine will hit her twice as hard.”
“But she’s flirting with me,” Deckard said. “Intentionally.”
That caused the ghost of his subconscious to frown. “You’re sure?”
Deckard ran back through the memories of their days in Wauld.
He thought of how she’d warmed his hands and scooted closer to him, how she’d wrapped her arm around his waist, pressing herself to him, and teasing him about his attraction to her.
He remembered the kiss she’d planted on his cheek.
Even tonight, he’d seen the twinkle in her eye as she’d said, “You owe me.” She pretended to be perturbed by the others thinking they’d gone off to be alone together.
But he’d recognized the tilt in her voice and the lift to her lips.
“She wanted me to kiss her just now,” he admitted. “She was disappointed when I didn’t.”
“That’s not surprising,” Hewitt said. “Wives take comfort in their husbands.”
He scoffed at the idea that Evylin would ever see him that way. “She doesn’t want that sort of relationship with me.”
“You just said she wanted you to kiss her.”
“That doesn’t mean she wants to take solace in me.” He rose to begin pacing. “She’s not interested in my husbandly affection. Not like that. Not anymore.”
“This isn’t a conversation I relish,” Hewitt complained.
“I can’t say I care for it myself.” Deckard ran a hand through his hair, annoyed at its growing length. “But the thing is, she’s starting to touch me more openly. Not in a way that begs for reciprocation but simply in a manner of familiarity. And then, this.”
“If you came out here to determine the ethics of your attraction to my niece, congratulations, it’s justifiable.” Hewitt crossed his arms. “Now, go back, kiss your wife, and give her a good life.”
“I don’t know if she wants me to.”
Hewitt glared at him. “You just said that she did.”
“No.” Deckard brushed the thought away. “I mean, she hasn’t decided about us yet.”
“What is there to decide? You’re married. Even if she’s still working through her loss of me, she’ll come to trust you. Whether that takes a year or ten, she will let go and choose you.”
“If she gives me that long,” Deckard said through a sigh.
Hewitt’s gray eyes narrowed on him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I promised her that she wouldn’t have to decide about her future until after our mission.” Deckard ran a hand over his face, reliving that foolish promise. “I can’t go back on that.”
“Are you telling me,” Hewitt began, each word a sharp cut, “that there’s a chance she could leave you?”
Deckard glanced at the ghost his madness had summoned. “Well . . .” He shrugged. “Yes.”
“I’m going to kill that girl,” Hewitt snarled. He took a step in the direction of the camp before turning on Deckard, evidently remembering that he was a figment of imagination.
Hewitt’s fury gave him the wild look of a bear charging an unwelcome intruder. “I told her to finalize it,” he nearly shouted. “Did she not listen?”
Had the man not been a vision that only Deckard could see and hear, he’d be bothered by the loudness of his voice. Instead, he stared at the ghost, dumbfounded. “You told her to do what?”
“I told her to consummate the damn thing.”