Eversworn: Daughters of Askara, Book 3 (10 page)

Dillon stared off in the direction he’d last seen Isabeau and muttered, “What are you up to?”

Several possibilities occurred to him, and they ranged from bad to worse. She’d been with him at the hush tent earlier, when he’d suspected a break-in. Had she sauntered into the tent secure in the knowledge the only tampering had been her own? Or had she brought a partner? That would explain her jaw-dropping arrival. Scatter the guards, put on a show up front while her partner got what they’d come for and snuck out the back undetected. Only Dillon had interrupted them. Had the partner been in the tent when they arrived? Had Isabeau known, and that was why she entered the tent without fear? Was that why she let him…?
No
. She wasn’t that type of female.

Then what type was she? Lying and scheming, manipulative, it looked like.

Caving into the pain throbbing behind his eyes, Dillon rubbed until his eyeballs threatened to burst like grapes under the pressure. Harper wouldn’t let Isabeau walk away from this. Whatever her reason, it wasn’t a good enough excuse to endanger the livelihood of the colonists.

Dillon dropped his hands and waited for anger to snap his composure. None came.

Instead his calf twinged a reminder of her with every step. Isabeau’s actions had just marked her. By order of the queen, justice was the colony’s to claim—
his
to claim. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, knowing if Harper were here, Dillon would be the one he sent to retrieve her. It would be his hands restraining her during her trial and his hands tying the noose about her neck if she were found guilty. While there were no witnesses to the crime, if she had salt on her…

Glamour tingled across his scalp, tickling down his spine to his wing joints and lower.

“Head to the stables,” he said to Church, straining to hold his illusion. “I’ll meet you there.”

Once Church had gone, Dillon scanned the area. Another shiver sent his glamour sliding free of his skin.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Swearing, he pulled back bloody fingers. Gingerly this time, he stroked from his hairline as far down as his hand would go. Shock dropped his arm. He sank to his knees into the sand and waited, hoping he was wrong. He smoothed past his nape.
Spines
.

His first thought, his only thought, was this wasn’t proof Mason was right. It couldn’t be.

Chapter Six

A mouthful of mane was the first indication my tithe to the grimoire had come due. Unable to sit upright, I let the saddle horn dig into my gut and the smells of horse fill my nostrils. Secure in my bag, the tome shifted with the horse’s steps, bumping against the back of my thigh, nudging me, reminding me of what it was owed and that it was as parched as the ancient papers its spells were written upon. Steady pulses of energy washed over my skin in sharp, stinging waves.

“Give me a moment to…” I gasped as its static annoyance burst into slaps of genuine pain.

My desperation fueled the grimoire’s greed, but if I paid my debt now I would be left vulnerable to discovery. I couldn’t afford to honor our bargain. Already it siphoned my energy, luring me into a dreamless sleep as it consumed the dregs of my will. Either I paid my tab in full, willingly, with blood, or it would ensure I paid my tab in full and left a healthy tip in the form of my death.

A grimoire would remain sated for years after such a feast. I doubted its treacherous spine would crack after having such a meal. A priestess drained dry, how quenching. Pages full, its covers would close and it would sleep. Until the cost of sentience, the price of containing such powerful glamour, corralling it and controlling it, forced the grimoire into ravenous cooperation.

Another slap of pain, and I jolted, agitating the mare. She snorted as I braced on her back and pushed myself upright in the saddle. A quick glance around told me I was a safe distance from the colony. Inhaling sharply, I spoke, even though I’m not convinced the book understood.

“Once we reach—”

Agony spread from the back of my thigh, up my leg, into my hip and through my chest until I wheezed in the viselike grip of its furious power. I clawed at my neck. All I managed was to snap my locket’s chain. When it slid through my fingers and hit the sand, I leapt from the mare. Pressure increased as the grimoire registered the distance between itself and my horse and me.

On my knees, I sifted until I grasped the locket’s familiar contours. Wrapping chain about my wrist, I knotted the ends and made a bracelet. Rising on shaking legs, I trotted after the horse.

The farther the mare ran, the easier I breathed. I gulped air and savored my lungs burning.

I was trapped. The colony lay behind me, and Sere lay days before me. My spike of relief eddied. Forget the grimoire. The mare carried the bulk of the salt. The pittance shoved into my top wouldn’t purchase my freedom. More importantly, it wouldn’t buy my daughter’s freedom. What was the point of this charade if both of us weren’t freed? I had to get the horse and the salt back. The book…well…it had realized my reluctance to pay. Perhaps the best idea was to trail the mare. As long as no one was around, I didn’t see the harm. I’d guard the book and the salt but from a safe distance so the book couldn’t touch me. I rubbed my neck. Yes. I liked that plan.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. For a moment, I considered whether or not it was worth the effort to lick my own sweat droplets. Then I realized I wasn’t sweating. I was past that. Once you were thirsty, you were already dehydrated. Out here, on foot, I was digging my grave.

After hours of trudging through shifting sand, I acknowledged the plan of following the mare wasn’t my best idea. I blamed exhaustion or blind panic for making me think that allowing my sole transportation to run from me was anything less than suicidal. After securing my locket, the salt and the grimoire had been my priorities. Only now did I recall the water tins and meager rations legionaries carried on patrol were also strapped behind the saddle. And the horse? Gone.

Her hoofprints were blown smooth before I reached the freshest set. Her bay hindquarters were all I saw now. If I’d had Dillon’s horse carving to hold to the horizon, I bet their size would match. Some thief I was. Perhaps I was the whore Roland had named me, except my skill in that area was untried and untested. My title of priestess had been voided the night I accepted Roland into my bed. What did that make me? I was a failed mother and friend, things that mattered most.

“I am a healer.” My self-assurance fell short.
What sort of healer uses her talents against the lives under her care?
A desperate healer with a narrower goal than benefiting Harper’s
many
.

My steps came heavier now. I was wearing down, ready to fall down if I were being honest. I took one step, and this time my leg snagged. With a jerk, I freed it and carried on another two steps before the opposite leg caught. I glanced down, and a low whimper passed through my lips.

Desert swirled below me and suckled the toe of my boot. Grains abraded the leather, and in a panicked flash I imagined the same weary grind against my flesh, my bones. My voice failed as I mouthed the words
sand trap
. I caged my panic as the hum of spell crafting whirled beneath me.

Don’t panic
.
One step forward and…
I was stuck.

Sand traps were magical remnants of failed roadways or forgotten buildings. Others were strong spells gone awry and gone to ground. Once their tethers were cut, the strongest sections broke free. With no spell crafter to rein them in, they scoured the desert, mindless predators in search of energy to consume. Now I hopped as my ankle mired in the hungry void churning ever closer to my other foot. The ground beneath me began shifting as the sand trap spun farther out.

“Give me your hand,” a masculine voice growled from over my shoulder.

I started, putting weight on my stuck foot and sinking lower. Stumbling, I pitched forward.

“Isabeau,” he snapped. “Give me your damn hand.”

With clumsy effort, I threw my arm behind me and let Dillon’s rough hand enclose mine.

The soft assurance of Isabeau’s hand in his allowed Dillon his first easy breath since witnessing her attack on Osher.
She’s safe
. His jaw set. Safe was a relative term considering why he was here now. When she glanced over her shoulder, those dark eyes of hers met his. The skin beneath them was smudged with exhaustion. His chest wound tight.
I shouldn’t give a damn
.

“It’s a sand trap.” Most city-dwellers hadn’t encountered them before and they panicked. That spike of energy was all the encouragement most traps needed to chomp on their next meal.

Other than when he’d surprised her, she hadn’t moved. She appeared remarkably calm.

Her chin upped a notch. “I know what it is.”

Why wasn’t he surprised? “Do you know how to get out?”

This time her answer came slower. “I’m not sure I can.”

If she’d been any other thief, female or not, he would have left her there and called justice served, but this was Isabeau. If she was Evanti, their race couldn’t afford to lose her. Females were too rare, even the troublesome ones—as if they came in any other flavor. Besides the fact she had saved his leg, she’d hovered at his bedside for months during his recovery. He owed her the benefit of the doubt. Justice would not be meted by him jumping to a wrong conclusion.

Damn those were lame excuses. The bottom line was, his skin itched with glamour now that he was touching her again. Even if he decided to leave, he wouldn’t get far. He was stuck as tight as she was. A single thought jostled past the others, something his father had said when Dillon caught his parents kissing and made the mistake of wrinkling his nose at them.

Primes mate for life
. Father had turned a heartbroken smile on Mother.
It is too short a time
.

He must have known, even then, what the ancients had planned. Dillon’s parents both died days later, protecting their children from Askaran enslavement. Both had died for nothing. His brothers were lost to different masters. He thought he remembered a sister. Now he wasn’t sure.

“Dillon?” Isabeau’s voice snapped him to attention. Her gaze drifted from him to his horse. He almost laughed. Stuck in magical quicksand and she was already planning her escape by stealing Diani. “Are you helping me out or holding me down until the sand trap finishes its job?”

“As tempting as that is, I can see salt cubes in your top.” He cleared his throat when she arched her brows. “I’m going to get you out, and then you’re going to tell me where the rest is.”

She nodded. “Fair enough.”

He exhaled with relief that they were acting civil. “You’re too weak to do this the easy way, so the hard way it is.” His chest wound tight with undeniable anticipation. “Drop your glamour.”

Her eyes rounded. “Excuse me?”

“You know how these traps work. They’re attracted to energy. You’re wearing glamour, I can feel it. I bet the trap does too. Drop it, and it will be easier for me to get you out,” he coaxed. She began struggling in his grip and sinking deeper into the sand. “Stop fighting me. I’m here to help you.”

“You’re here to retrieve your salt.” She didn’t sound too happy about the prospect. Noticing how far she’d sunk, she held still. “I’m not lowering my glamour. Help me get out another way.”

Maybe he had sounded too eager to see beneath her illusion. “What if I don’t look?”

“That’s a dirty trick.” She scoffed. “I’m trapped, and you’re forcing me to expose myself.”

“I’m asking you to help me save your life.”

Her lips formed a mulish line no words could squeeze past.

The ground shifted beneath his feet. A glance down confirmed the trap was inching his way. “If we don’t start soon, the trap will be under me and I’ll have no choice but to leave you.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Don’t make me choose your life or mine. I’m selfish. You’ll lose.”

Her indelicate snort said she didn’t believe him, probably because his voice had cracked under the stress and he wouldn’t have believed himself, either. “Isabeau,” he warned.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” She tried releasing his hand. “I don’t want you to risk yourself. You can’t afford injury to your leg out here in case you encounter raiders on the way to the colony.”

“Suit yourself.” His protective instincts screamed denial as he let her go. Stubborn fingers refused to pry loose and got tangled in her bracelet. With a quick jerk, he snatched free, chain in hand. Isabeau’s head snapped toward him. Her sharp glance from her wrist to his hand had him closing his fingers over his prize. She hopped on one foot and clawed at the air, reaching for him.

Oh yes, she wanted this back bad enough to fight him and the trap for it.

As if realizing her mistake, she stood tall as her one leg allowed and ordered, “Give it back.”

“What, this?” He dangled the locket between them.

Isabeau swiped at him. He danced back a step. She scowled. He grinned.
Now we’re talking.

“Dillon, please.” Her gaze hadn’t left his hand. “It’s mine and I want it back.”

He laughed, startling them both. “So says the thief. I should take this, and you, as my due.” He bit the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t meant to add that last part. Glamour rippled on his skin.