Not so with the ruin on the doorstep of the killing grounds, in the shadow of a grave city.
“That’s it,” I tell Cara, and lean back against the closet wall.
She nods and folds away the broadcaster. “Nice to see you all chatting again.”
Before I can laugh, Tristan’s neat knock jars the shuttered excuse for a door. “Got company.”
Barrow.
“Duty calls,” I grumble as I scoot past Cara, bumping her in the closed space. Wrenching open the door, I’m surprised to find Tristan standing so close, his usual nervous energy on overdrive.
“Spotters got him this time, finally,” he says. On another day, he might be proud, but something about this sets him off. I know why. We never see Barrow coming. So why today? “Signaled it’s important—”
Behind him, the farmhouse door bangs open, revealing a red-faced Barrow flanked by Cris and Little Coop.
One look at his terrified face is enough.
“Scatter,” I snap.
They know what it means. They know where to go.
A hurricane moves through the farmhouse, taking home with it. The guns, the provisions, our gear disappears in a practiced heartbeat, shoved into bags and packs. Cris and Little Coop are already gone, into the trees, to get as high as they can. Their mirrors and birdcalls will carry the message to the others in the woods. Tristan supervises the rest, all while loading his long rifle.
“There isn’t time, they’re coming now!” Barrow hisses, suddenly at my side. He takes my elbow and not gently. “You have to go!”
Two snaps of my fingers. The team obeys, dropping whatever isn’t packed away. I guess we’ll have to steal some more tents down the line, but it’s the least of my worries. Another snap, and they fly like bullets from a gun. Cara, Tye, Rasha, and the rest going through the door and the collapsed wall, in all directions with all speed. The woods swallow them whole.
Tristan waits for me because it’s his job. Barrow waits because—because I don’t know.
“Farley,” he hisses. Another tug at my arm.
I cast one last glance, making sure we have everything, before making my own escape into the tree line. The men follow, keeping pace with my sprint through tangled roots and brush. My heart pounds in my ears, beating a harried drum. We’ve had worse. We’ve had worse.
Then I hear the dogs.
Animos-controlled hounds. They’ll smell us, they’ll follow, and the swifts will run us down. If we’re lucky they’ll think we’re deserters and kill us in the forest. If not—I don’t want to think about what horrors the black city of Corvium holds.
“Get to water,” I force out. “They’ll lose the scent!”
But the river is a half mile on.
I only hope they take the time to search the farmhouse, giving us the window we need to escape. At least the others are farther on, spread wide. No pack can follow us all. But me, us, the freshest, closest scent? Easy prey.
Despite the protest in my muscles, I push harder and run faster than I ever have before. But after only a minute, only a minute, I start to tire. If only I could run as fast as my thundering heart.
Tristan slows with me, though he doesn’t need to. “There’s a creek,” he hisses, pointing south. “Shoots off the river, closer. You head for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can make it to the river. You can’t. And they can’t follow us both.”
My eyes widen. I almost trip in my confusion, but Barrow catches me before I can, sternly helping me over a gnarled root. “Tristan—”
My lieutenant only smiles and pats the gun slung across his back. Then he points. “That way, Boss.”
Before I can stop him, before I can order him not to, he leaps through the trees, using his long legs and the lower branches to vault over worsening ground. I can’t shout after him. Somehow I don’t even get a good look at his face. Only a mop of red hair, gleaming through the green.
Barrow all but shoves me. I think he looks relieved, but that can’t be right. Especially when a dog howls not a hundred yards away. And the trees above us seem to bow, their branches reaching like cloying fingers. Greenwardens. Animosi. Swifts. The Silvers will catch us both.
“Farley.” Suddenly both his hands are on my jaw, forcing me to look at a shockingly calm face. There’s fear, of course, flickering in his golden eyes. But not nearly enough for the situation. Not like me. I am terrified. “You have to promise not to scream.”
“Wha—?”
“Promise.”
I see the first dog. A hound the size of a pony, its jowls dripping. And next to it, a gray blur like the wind made flesh. Swift.
Again, I feel the squeeze of Shade’s body against mine, and then something less pleasant. The tightening of the world, the spin, the tipping forward through empty air. All of it compounds and contracts, and I think I see green stars. Or maybe trees. I feel a familiar wave of nausea first. This time I land in a streambed instead of on concrete.
I sputter, spitting water and bile, fighting the urge to scream or be sick or both.
Barrow crouches over me, one hand raised.
“Ah, don’t scream.”
Sick it is.
“I suppose that’s preferable at the moment,” he mutters, kindly looking anywhere but my green face. “Sorry, I guess I need more practice. Or maybe you’re just sensitive.”
The gurgling stream cleans up what I can’t, and the cold water does more for me than a mug of black coffee. I snap to attention, looking around at the trees bowing over us. Willows, not oaks like where we were just seconds ago. They’re not moving, I realized with a swell of relief. No greenwardens here. No dogs either. But then—where are we?
“How?” I whisper, my voice ragged. “Don’t say pipes.”
The practiced shield of Shade Barrow drops a little. He takes a few steps back from me so he can sit on a stone above the stream, perching like a gargoyle. “I don’t quite have an explanation,” he says as if he’s admitting a crime. “The best—the best I can do is show you. And, again, you have to promise not to scream.”
Dully, I nod. My head swims, still off balance. I can barely sit up in the stream, let alone shout.
He heaves a breath, his fingers gripping the stone until his knuckles turn white. “Okay.”
And then he’s gone. Not—not from running away or hiding or even falling off the rock. He just simply isn’t. I blink, not believing what I see.
“Here.”
My head turns so quickly I’m almost sick again.
There he is, standing on the opposite bank. Then he does it again, returning to the stone, taking a slow seat once more. He forces a tentative smile without any joy behind it. And his eyes are wide, so wide. If I was afraid a few minutes ago, he is completely petrified. And he should be.
Because Shade Barrow is Silver.
Muscle memory lets me draw my gun and cock the hammer without blinking.
“I might not be able to scream, but I can shoot you.”
He flushes, somehow his face and neck turning red. An illusion, a trick. His blood is not that color.
“There’s a few reasons why that won’t work,” he says, daring to look away from my pistol. “For one thing, your barrel’s full of water. Two, in case you haven’t noticed—”