Chapter 23
Casrian stared at the spot where Rowan had disappeared over the top of the cliff for several moments before he remembered to breathe. Watching her slight body hanging by her fingertips so high above him had knotted his guts.
She was a good climber. He’d give her that. She knew what she was doing—that was clear—and had a good deal of experience, which surprised him.
Everything about her surprised him.
Her head appeared at the top. She smiled down at him and gave him a cheerful wave before disappearing again. He turned away, his gaze sweeping the area behind him. A familiar could have walked right up behind him while she was scaling the wall and he wouldn’t have noticed.
As competent as she was, he hated letting her put herself in danger when there was nothing he could do to help. He hated that he was the one putting her in danger. He also knew it would have been wrong on a fundamental level to stop her. She would chafe at any kind of leash.
There was a shout from above.
He turned to see his rope drop, unspooling as it fell. He grabbed the end to steady it and looked up, expecting to see Rowan preparing to climb down.
The rope jerked in his hand at the same time he saw her swing out, her legs searching for a grip. He started to call out for her to go slow, but the words died in his throat. She was already sliding down the rope. Too fast. She was going to lose her grip.
That fear was quickly overshadowed by the thing behind her, crouched on the ledge, watching her flee. A nightmare wrapped in living flesh. A creature warped into an abomination to serve the witch. The same familiar that had attacked his patrol in the woods.
Closer to a wolf than a cat, it wasn’t built for climbing, but it looked like it was considering hurling itself after Rowan anyway.
Its mouth stretched open as it let out a long wailing howl, and Casrian’s blood went cold at the rows of needle-sharp teeth visible even from below.
There were too many teeth for a mouth of that size.
Claws gripped the rock face, digging in, sending a spray of dust and pebbles pinging down the side.
It could shred the rope. One swipe of those claws, a bite of those razor-sharp teeth. The wound on his chest throbbed with the memory of exactly what that felt like.
The familiar growled at Rowan. She was less than a dozen feet down. The shadows wrapped around it began to unravel, tendrils stretching out and coiling around the rope like dripping ink, reaching toward Rowan’s bare hands.
“Off the rope!”
Rowan glanced down at him with wide eyes. “It’s faster.”
“Get off the fucking rope,” he said again, thinking they needed to have another conversation about her following orders.
She looked up, saw the black shadows stretching toward her, and froze.
He thought she was going to lock up. Trained soldiers did that all the time, and Rowan wasn’t trained for any of this.
She’d thought witches were herbalists and charm peddlers until just a few days ago.
But she moved, sliding down another foot and stretching out her leg to reach a foothold, searching for another even as she pressed her fingertips onto a ledge.
“Cut the rope,” he shouted. “Keep moving down.”
He didn’t want to take the chance that the shadow threads could hurt her. The way it looked now, he suspected they would. He’d seen things infected by rot that way. The touch of a witch’s hand, poison rain, why not the shadow?
He saw her reach for her knife, and his hands flexed as he dropped the rope.
His crossbow. Running to Kenzi, he jerked the weapon from the saddle.
There were a half-dozen bolts fitted to a holder on the stock.
All of them blessed. If he could hit the familiar, it would do enough damage to buy her more time at least.
The rope fell to the ground. The thing wailed again.
Rowan hitched up her leg so she could sheathe her knife. She was amazing, hanging there, working her way methodically down, not losing her shit like any normal person would do.
He cocked the crossbow and loaded the bolt.
Bracing himself, he took aim. It wasn’t an easy shot.
It wasn’t the distance. If it had been a horizontal shot, he’d have made it easily.
This was nearly vertical, even from the edge of the woods.
And he couldn’t miss. The last thing he wanted to do was have the bolt bounce off the rock and land on Rowan.
He moved to the right so he was angled away from her, adjusted his stance.
Took aim. He wanted to drive it away, not kill it, not risk having it fall over the edge.
Rowan was halfway down when the thing dug its claws into the ledge as if deciding whether to climb down or leap directly at her. He couldn’t allow either. He took his shot.
The bolt hit its shoulder. The familiar jerked back, howled.
Cold moved through him as he heard an echoing cry in the far distance.
Another familiar called to the hunt.
He cocked the crossbow again, reloaded. The familiar had pulled back from the edge. Rowan was almost down. Twenty feet. Ten. She scrambled down the last and jumped.
He kept an eye on the top of the cliff. “Gather the rope and your boots. We need to get out of here.”
She skidded to a stop beside him and looked back up at the cliff. “Did you kill it?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t want it to fall. I clipped it on the shoulder, and it retreated, but now that it knows we’re here, it will stalk us.”
She stared at him, eyes wide and scared.
Her whole body was shaking, and all he wanted to do was gather her in his arms and tell her it was going to be all right.
He couldn’t do that. He wanted her on guard.
Needed her at least a little scared about what they might face out here.
If he took her trembling body into his arms, he’d want to carry her out of the woods, away from the danger.
And he couldn’t do that. There was the witch, his men, his duty.
He was an asshole for bringing her out here.
“What the hell was that thing?”
He slung the crossbow over his back and said, “A familiar. They guard the nest and hunt down humans within the territory the witch has claimed.”
It was a fucking enormous familiar, the largest he’d ever seen.
Rowan gathered her courage. He watched it happen.
Her back straightened and her chin came up.
Her jaw set in a stubborn line as she tamped down her terror after that descent.
He’d seen grown men curl into a ball and weep after facing their first familiar.
Rowan looked scared, but she wasn’t running.
“How many of them are out there?” she asked. “I heard one call out from the woods. At least, I think it was another one. I don’t know what animal would have made that noise.”
He nodded. “I heard it too. At least two. The witch is strong. Only the strongest can create familiars at all, and even then, they usually only manage one. As a rule, familiars don’t come out during daylight.
They like the dark. They stick to shadows and areas where the rot has set in.
It should have been safe.” He needed her to know that.
“I wouldn’t have sent you up there if I’d thought you might run into a familiar. I’m sorry.”
He expected her to throw his apology back in his face as she usually did. But she only nodded and gathered up her boots. She walked briskly to the horse and didn’t shove her feet into the worn leather until right before she mounted Copper.
He grabbed the fallen rope and wound it as he walked toward Kenzi. Sparing one last glance up at the ridge, he mounted and looked to Rowan for direction.
“Was there any sign of my men?”
She looked away from him, and a stone settled in his gut. The same feeling he’d gotten earlier when she’d insisted they turn east rather than follow the river.
Where was she leading him?
“The trees are bad along the river,” she said. “We need to keep going east.”
He called her bluff. “The ridge isn’t tall enough to see all the way to the river. There’s no way you could know how bad the trees are there. What’s going on? Tell me what you’re thinking. We need to be able to depend on one another.”
Could he depend on her?
He’d shared more with her about his past and his family than he had with anyone else.
Who else could he talk to about such things?
Not Daris with his perfect family or the priests who thought his mother was so beyond redemption they hadn’t allowed her to be buried on hallowed ground.
Not the men who looked up to him. Not anyone from court who would only see it as gossip. He’d trusted her. He trusted her.
Maybe he was a fool.
“Why do you think we need to go east?” He searched her face. “Is it nerves? Are you trying to lead us out of the woods? If you don’t want to face the witch, you can turn back. I told you I’d still pay you.”
“It’s not nerves,” she snapped, looking insulted. “It’s not about the money. I’m telling you the truth—the woods are bad along the river. We can’t go that way just the two of us. We should find your men first.”
“How do you know the woods along the river are bad?”
“Instinct.”
She lifted her chin, gray eyes flashing with challenge.
The freckles stood out starkly against her pale skin.
Scared and defiant. He’d known her beauty was going to be a problem for him going in.
He’d stupidly thought that after a few days of rough living some of the shine would wear off, but Rowan seemed to thrive in wild spaces.
She was more comfortable in the woods than inside her own home.
She moved through the forest like she was a part of it.
Silent and light-footed as the nymphs of legend.
She had a knack for choosing the smoothest trails through the tangled brush along the river.
It was like the thorn bushes parted before her.
He swore the willow branches had gathered over her last night to shield her from the rain while she slept.
She was a good guide. So good it was uncanny.
Some of her hair had come loose from her braid to drift around her face. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek that his fingers twitched to rub off.
Was she a witch?
She might be leading him away from his men and into some trap.
Would he be able to discern it?
He was attracted to her, and it was messing with his head. He genuinely liked her.
She was as skittish as a wild thing, but still kind, still hopeful, and incredibly, stupidly brave.
She didn’t go back on her word even when she was scared out of her mind.
He’d seen her face hardship and danger and fear.
She didn’t ever give up. There was something solid as granite at the core of her.
Something that wouldn’t be broken. He admired it greatly.
But he couldn’t forget she had fae blood.
“No spells, Rowan,” he warned her softly. “You can’t depend on any of that out here. It’s too dangerous.”
If she cast a spell, it would trigger a response from the witchstone which sat cold in his pocket. He’d never known it to fail.
She hadn’t cast any spells yet.
But how was she guiding him through the forest? The trail was gone. The only corruption they’d crossed had been the one he insisted upon entering.
She was doing something.
Her eyes softened, locking on him with a plea.
And he was a fool, because every part of him wanted to believe her.
“I’m not a witch.”
God, he hoped she was telling the truth.