Chapter 22 Esme
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ESME
We leave the Dog & Dagger while night still clings to the edges of dawn. The air hangs heavy and motionless, thick with the lingering dampness of days upon days of relentless rain that seems to have no intention of lifting.
Lucky stands sentinel on the weathered stone stoop, her arms crossed firmly over her chest, the fabric of her burgundy coat pulled tight against the morning chill.
“Take the back road,” she says, her voice carrying that particular authority that comes from years of knowing these lands better than the maps plastered on the walls of her tavern.
She nods toward the winding mountain path that disappears into the misty foothills like a serpent slithering into shadow.
“Cuts through the foothills proper, skips all the villages where curious eyes might linger too long on your faces. You’ll hit the Plains by dusk if you ride hard and don’t stop to admire the scenery.
” She pauses, her pale eyes catching the faint light filtering through the clouds.
“If all goes well, and the gods know that’s a mighty big ‘if’, the safehouse in the foothills has been prepared for your arrival.
Stocked with supplies and warded against prying eyes. ”
Locke’s expression darkens further than usual, his eyes narrowing as he studies the treacherous path she’s indicating.
The warrior in him is already calculating distances, assessing risks, counting the ways this could all go catastrophically wrong.
“That path’s the toughest route through the mountains,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s traveled these roads before and lived to regret it.
“Steep grades, loose rock, places where one wrong step sends you tumbling into ravines that don’t have bottoms.”
Lucky’s laugh is sharp and knowing. “It’s also your fastest route to where you need to be,” she replies without hesitation, her tone brooking no argument. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to take the scenic route through the valley villages, where you are likely to run into the queen’s hunters.”
Lucky turns to where Rue sits astride his mount, looking for all the world like he’s posing for a portrait rather than preparing to flee into the wilderness.
She tosses him a carefully wrapped leather satchel that I’d watched her methodically packing earlier, rolls of clean linen bandages, small pouches of healing powders in various shades of green and brown, several small glass vials filled with something that smells potent enough to strip paint and probably tastes worse than death itself, and a few ration bundles tied in waxed cloth.
Dense slices of emberbread, dried starfruit curls, and thin strips of moon-spiced jerky.
The kind that burns your tongue but keeps you warm in the snow. I know that now from experience.
“Try not to die out there, sweetheart,” she adds with genuine affection warming her voice, despite the casual way she discusses our potential demise. She blows him a theatrical kiss that would make a court dandy proud. “All of you be safe. The realm has precious little room for more ghosts.”
Rue catches the satchel with a flourish that would be impressive if it weren’t so utterly ridiculous given the circumstances, securing it to his saddle with practiced ease.
Then he sweeps into a bow so low and elaborate that it’s a miracle he doesn’t tumble right off his horse.
“I make no promises about the dying part,” he calls back, his voice carrying that familiar note of mischief that somehow manages to lighten even the darkest moments.
“But I do promise to look absolutely devastating while doing it.”
I turn in my saddle to face Lucky properly, this woman who has shown us kindness when she had every reason to turn us away, who had risked her own safety to help us when the smart thing would have been to pretend she’d never seen us at all.
“Lucky,” I say, my voice thick with gratitude I can’t quite express.
“It was nice meeting you. Thank you for all of your help.”
She waves her hand dismissively, but I catch the pleased flush that colors her cheeks.
“Oh, you’re most welcome, Miss Esme. I’m just glad I could help, even if it was only pointing you toward the right kind of trouble instead of the wrong kind.
Now go on, get moving before I change my mind and decide to keep you here where it’s safe. ”
Locke inclines his head to her with something approaching respect. Then he’s wheeling his mount around, and we’re following suit, the horses’ hooves ringing against the cobblestones as we clatter away from the safety of the Dog & Dagger and into whatever fresh hell awaits us on the road ahead.
We ride in silence for what feels like hours, the only sounds the rhythmic splash of hooves cutting through puddles and the steady drip of water from overhanging branches that seem determined to soak us to the skin despite our cloaks.
The landscape around us is painted in shades of gray and green, muted and melancholy beneath the overcast sky.
Sam’s taken his wolf form again, and I can’t help but smile despite our grim circumstances as I watch him bound alongside my mare with obvious joy at the chance to stretch his legs properly.
His massive brown form moves with surprising grace through the muddy terrain, his heavy paws sending up great splashes as he leaps through puddles with the enthusiasm of a puppy discovering rain for the first time.
The sight makes something warm bloom in my chest. After everything we’ve been through, after all the darkness and pain, there’s something profoundly healing about watching him simply exist in a moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness.
Even as I laugh at his playful antics, I can feel the nervous tension rolling off him in waves, the way his ears stay constantly alert, swiveling at every sound, the way his eyes keep darting up to check on me with worry.
He keeps pace easily with the horses, but there’s a restlessness in his movement that speaks of instincts screaming warnings he can’t quite articulate.
I feel it too, that prickle along my spine that says something is shifting in the wind, something that tastes like danger on the horizon.
After what feels like an eternity of riding through increasingly desolate landscape, I’m grateful when Rue finally breaks the oppressive silence that’s been weighing on us all.
“This place we’re heading toward,” he says, and his voice is quieter than usual, stripped of its typical flair. “It was once a battlefield. Thousands upon thousands of years ago, back when the Light and Night Courts decided they’d rather tear each other to bloody pieces than find a way to coexist.”
I guide my horse closer to his, drawn by the unusual gravity in his voice. Rue has always been the one to lighten dark moods with jokes and flirtation, but there’s no trace of his usual levity now. “What happened there?” I ask, though part of me already dreads the answer.
His eyes grow distant, as if he’s seeing scenes from that ancient carnage play out before him.
“Blood spilled into the ground in rivers. Not just the blood of those fae, but their magic too. The worst kind you can imagine, dark and hate-filled, poisonous with rage and despair. It all seeped deep into the soil like acid, tainting everything it touched. The dead. . .” He pauses, his throat working as if the words themselves taste bitter.
“They say the dead were left exactly where they fell. No rites, no proper burials, no songs to speed their souls to whatever comes after. Just bodies rotting under the open sky while carrion birds feasted.”
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the damp air. “Why would they do that? I thought even in war there were codes, honor among enemies, respect for the fallen.”
Rue’s laugh is harsh, devoid of any warmth.
“Honor?” He shakes his head slowly. “There was no honor in that war, Esme my dear. Only hatred so pure it burned everything it touched. They say the land itself wanted us to remember, wanted the scar to remain as a reminder of what we’re capable of when we let our worst impulses drive us.
The ground refused to heal. Nothing grows in the Plains now, not so much as a blade of grass.
Death feeds more death, they say. The place is cursed, and creepy as fuck in my professional opinion. ”
Before I can respond, Locke suddenly pulls his mount to a halt at the crest of a ridge ahead of us.
There’s something in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hand unconsciously drifts toward his sword hilt, that makes my stomach clench with dread.
When we join him and follow his gaze down into the valley below, I understand why he’s stopped.
Sam immediately drops out of his playful demeanor, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest as his hackles rise. He paces in tight circles, whimpering softly in the back of his throat, and I can feel his distress like a physical weight pressing against my ribs.
The Plains of the Dead spread before us like a wound in the world itself.
Gray and brittle and rotting with the weight of ancient memory, the land looks diseased, as if some terrible plague had drained all life and color from it.
The transition is so abrupt it’s almost violent.
Healthy trees and green grass simply stop, as if refusing to grow another inch forward into that cursed ground.
Fog rolls across the barren expanse in slow, lazy waves, and high above, carrion birds circle in patient spirals.
These aren’t ordinary crows or ravens, these creatures are twisted, mutated things with too many eyes that gleam like polished glass and hooked talons that look capable of tearing through steel.