Eversworn: Daughters of Askara, Book 3 (9 page)

Mason collapsed halfway across the bed. I grabbed his legs and swung him the rest of the way. After checking his pulse—erratic but strong—I tilted his head so his face no longer mashed into the sheets. As an afterthought, I covered him. The healer in me hovered, wasted time I didn’t have to spare. The mother in me cut that cord with a quick snip and snapped my goals into focus.

Grab the bags. Free the grimoire. Find the tent. Bring the storm.
Don’t look back
.

Chapter Five

While peering through the tent flap, I reached for my necklace, but Dillon’s horse was crushed in my hand. I grasped my bags and tucked the halves inside. I should leave it, but I was reluctant to part with the carving. It was broken anyway. He wouldn’t want it. Clutching my locket, I tucked it into my top. That brief contact steadied my hands. With my saddlebags hung over one shoulder, I slipped from the tent. The aisle was clear and my path was straight. I set my shoulders back and made my stride sure. Counting beneath my breath, I covered half the distance before hairs rose on my nape. I spun around, but I was alone.

“Roland?” I tried again. “Phineas?”

All I heard was the howl of the wind and all I felt was sand pinging across my exposed skin.

Rolling my shoulders, I dismissed my unease and resumed my counting. Three quarters of the way there, my skin crawled yet again. The grimoire had lent me its power, and its senses were keener than mine. My fingers tightened on the leather strap. This was a trick. The book wanted me to use what it offered. Magic pulsed in the air between us. The more I drew on it, the hungrier it got. If I used much more, I wouldn’t have blood enough to pay it if I wanted to live.

Sacrifice
. The whisper through my head belonged to me. It must. The book couldn’t—it wouldn’t dare.
Sacrifice
. My heart beat steady as my mind whirled with the horror of my choice. I would exchange my life for my daughter’s safety, but I wouldn’t ask others to sacrifice theirs.

Focus
. I walked faster now, counting steps, numbers tripping over my tongue. Then I saw my final obstacle.

Three males milled around a single tent. From this angle, it was identical to its neighbors. I estimated my distance from them would cost the remaining footsteps I’d calculated. I searched their faces but recognized no one. I slipped behind the nearest tent before I was spotted. What did I do now? Was Dillon still inside? Did that matter? Of course it did. I could no more hurt him than… Wait. I heard something. Straining my ears, I tiptoed closer and leaned as far as I dared.

“…gone to his tent,” a low voice said.

A masculine chuckle drifted to me. “If I had a female waiting for me…”

I swallowed.
No, no, no
. Things were moving too fast. I had to act. Dillon would find Mason, and I would be caught. I couldn’t risk this. Not when I,
we
, were so close to tasting true freedom.

Scooping a handful of sand, I murmured part of the incantation the grimoire had given me. With a puff of air, I blew the grains toward the males surrounding the tent. My eyes widened as my breath turned solid, twisted, gulped sand and grew until a towering cyclone carved a path from my fingertips toward the men. Curses rang out. Then I heard the screams. Warmth tickled my cheeks. My tears turned solid as they mixed with sand and flaked from my face. When I risked a glimpse beyond my hiding place, two males were missing. I prayed they had escaped. The third lay facedown in the sand, his leg twisted. I ran to him, pressed two fingers beneath his jaw.

I felt a strong pulse, an outcome better than I’d dared hope. Turning toward the cyclone, I gritted my teeth and raised a hand. I used all my strength to deter its carnage. More screams arose. These came from families, the pitches varied from masculine to feminine to youths. I bought them time to seek shelter. The stables were nearby. The clinic sat on the opposite end of the residency tents, that much I remembered from my tour. If the colonists reached those spell-crafted walls, they would be safe. I only needed a few minutes. Then I could turn the storm into the open desert. No one would get hurt.
Someone is already hurt
. I shook my head to clear it. No one would die. I bit my lip, hoping I kept that promise. My girl was worth this, any sacrifice.

Panting, I had to release the storm or let it drag me under. It churned, a tower of grit and gloom swirling against the dark sky. I ran straight for it, ducked inside the tent and climbed into the sled. I dropped a single bar of silver into my bag. More and I would be too weighted down to run. I fumbled a modest-sized chest from the stacks of silver surrounding it. The lock was stuck tight. Cursing my weakness, I stretched my senses toward the grimoire, and it sighed in pure bliss as it siphoned power into my fingertips. A harsh command broke the lock. I flung back the lid and reached inside. Several small boxes fit inside the main one. Partitioned orders maybe? I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. I snatched them and shoved them in my saddlebags. When I ran out of room, I stuffed the remaining ones into my top. The sharp wooden edges cut into my breasts. I absorbed the pain and cupped my chest. Darting from the protection of the tent, I ran after the storm.

I met no one. Everyone was hiding.
Good
. I jogged toward the stable, skittering to a stop as I realized the shelter would be packed. I couldn’t waltz in and steal a horse or hope to separate mine from the herd. Sand pelted me, and I gasped for air but swallowed desert. What could I do?

“Lady?” a voice called to me on the wind.

Deafened by the roar of the storm, I missed whatever else he said. My attention had drifted from him to his horse. Whether he was a legionnaire on duty before the storm hit or had volunteered to gather lost souls, he was my salvation. Once he neared me, I held out my hand. When he took it, I let power unfurl through that contact.

His back bowed. His horse screamed. Once I withdrew, he slid from the saddle and hit the ground. Stepping over him, I mounted the frantic mare. She danced, eyes wild in the face of the storm. My arm felt hung with weights as I lifted it, palm out, and began a low chanting that made the wind break for a moment before its enraged roar redoubled. It was not pleased, but it did obey.

Assured the storm would spin itself out well past the colony, I guided the mare in the opposite direction and dug my heels into her sides. She was as eager to escape as I was. Once the howling ceased and the air cleared, I glanced back at the damage I’d done. Several tents had blown away and supplies scattered the dunes. I saw no more bodies. I prayed there were none.
Zaniah have mercy on those poor souls
. I gave in to bitter tears.
For you have never shown mercy to me
.

Ten steps,
turn
, ten steps,
turn
. Dillon retraced his tracks as he paced across his tent. He reached up and shook sand from his hair before more drifted into his eyes. He was working up a sweat and a temper. He’d seen the signs, knew a storm was rolling in but hadn’t uttered the first word of warning to anyone. Assuming they all knew the signs the same as him didn’t excuse him from the responsibility for Riley’s broken leg or Osher’s concussion. Both wounds were typical of weather-related injuries, but Mason’s wasn’t. Unless someone had supplied the storm with a hand-shaped stencil and a lightning bolt, they were looking at something else. Dillon frowned. Some
one
else was more like it, whose hands were smaller than a male’s but larger than a child’s.

Hands that had accumulated more mileage on his body than any other female, save one.

“He’s coming around,” Christophe said.

The healer stepped aside and gave Dillon room to stand at the foot of his cot, where Mason lay sprawled. “Hey.” He waited until both of Mason’s eyes had cracked open. “What happened?”

“Isabeau…” He swallowed and tried talking again. “Checking for scorps. Touched my back.” He rolled onto his side and gave Dillon a clear view of the handprint burnt into his skin. “Didn’t see it coming.” Mason’s shoulders slumped. “Can’t hurt…she’s…female.” Then he fell silent.

Dillon rubbed his face with his palms until his eyes stung where grit ground into them.

You saw what she did to Osher
. Five more yards and it would have been Dillon unconscious beneath a blanket of sand. Instead, Osher had shown up ready to give her a ride to one of the storm shelters. Dillon had been so relieved, he’d almost turned, almost missed what came next.

Osher had reached for her. Isabeau had taken his hand. Then what? If not for the third-degree burns across Osher’s palm, Dillon would have thought Osher had had a seizure the way he shook in the saddle. Isabeau, Emma’s healer,
his
healer, waited for Osher’s body to hit the ground and stepped over him. She swung into the saddle and urged his horse into a dead run from the storm.

She hadn’t looked back.

Why had she run? Easy, she almost killed two males. Okay, how had she done it? Both had entry and exit burns. If they’d been anywhere other than Askara, he would have guessed lightning strike or figured some other form of electricity was to blame. But this was Askara, and neither scenario was likely or explained the hand-shaped burns. His new best guess left his gut cold.
Glamour
. Magic was the most obvious choice, and usually the simplest answer was the right one. For Isabeau to wield that kind of power, she was either a very proficient Evanti or something else entirely. Next question—where had she gone? To the consulate? He doubted it.

Magic or not, even if he knew how she’d done it, it didn’t explain why she’d done it.

“I’ve got some news.”

Dillon turned to find Church standing outside his tent, staring in. “What?”

He grimaced. “You’re not going to like it.”

Dillon already didn’t like any of this. “Are you going to tell me sometime today?”

“I went with the others, like you said, to help with cleanup.” Church glanced over his shoulder. Low man on the totem pole, sent to tell the boss something the boss really wouldn’t want to hear.

Dillon’s temper sizzled. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“The worst of the damage was by the hush tent. We went there first. Uriah went with us to do inventory.” His throat worked in a hard swallow. “Three bars of silver were missing, but we managed to recover two.” Another glance cast over his shoulder. Dillon could have told him no one was coming to save him. “The salt chest was cracked open, maybe on impact, but the salt—”

“The salt is gone.” He shut his eyes, rubbed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

“Uriah said the smaller boxes were light, that maybe the cyclone sucked them up once the chest was open.” Church’s voice was laced with doubt. “I’ve experienced tornadoes, but this wasn’t like that. All the debris was in one area. Like the storm was stuck in a rut and spun itself out. We found canvas, snapped poles, everything you’d expect, but no boxes. Not a single one.”

Dillon headed for the exit, pausing with his hand on the flap. “Christophe, is Mason stable?”

“Yes.” He answered without hesitation. “He will recover in a day, perhaps two.”

“Good. When he wakes up, I want you to give him a message for me.” Dillon paused, considering what he could say that wouldn’t result in Mason tailing after him. He came up blank. “Never mind.” The second Mason was mobile, he’d follow Dillon. “Delay him as long as you can.”

“I’ll brew him some of your tea,” Christophe offered. “That should buy you an extra day.”

“Thanks.” The herbal tea hadn’t put Dillon to sleep, but it seemed to work fine on everyone else. He supposed biology was at fault. It’d take more than a shot of chamomile to knock him out.

Shoving past Church, Dillon strode toward the hush tent, or what was left of it. Uriah stood over the toppled remains of the sled, his arms crossed and lips drawn tight. Silver bars were stacked on the edge, leaving a gap one bar wide. He kicked the empty chest and sent it tumbling.

“Was that necessary?” Dillon liked that chest.

“No.” Uriah turned. “But it made me feel better.” He grunted and indicated the sled with his chin. “We have a thief among us, a coward who used the storm for cover. All of the salt is gone.”

“So Church told me.” He debated on letting them in on his suspicions as to who was at fault.

“What will you do?” Uriah drummed his fingers. “The next shipment is due out tomorrow.”

“We’ll send the silver on, cash in where we can.” Dillon stared. “As for the salt…I have an idea of who took it. I’ll need to leave now to catch her.” He glanced at Church. “Saddle Diani.”

Church looked to Uriah, who had resumed glaring at the silver. “She’s the white one, right?”

Dillon caught himself about to rub his eyes and forced his hand down. “Yeah. She is.” If Church hurt that mare even by accident, Harper would fashion her new saddle from Dillon’s hide for letting Church near her. “Come on. You can watch me this time.” They set off for the stables.

The quiet seemed to grate on Church. “So Mason’s going to be okay.”

“That’s what Christophe said.” Another bout of power-walking made Dillon’s leg ache. “If he wakes up and asks where I’ve gone, tell him I’ve gone after the thief and I’ll be back before the healer clears him to get out of bed.” Thief or not, dangerous or not, Isabeau couldn’t have made it far. He’d track her, reclaim the salt, send off the shipment as scheduled and then figure out what to do with Isabeau until Emma and Harper got back. Talk about piss-poor timing.