Heir of Fire (52 page)

“It has our attention and it knows it,” she said. “It's targeting demi-­Fae—either to send a message, or because they . . . taste good. But—” She pictured the map Rowan kept in his room, detailing the wide area where the corpses had been found, and winced. “What if there's more than one?” Rowan looked back at her, brows high. She didn't say anything ­else until she had moved to where he stood by the body, careful not to disturb any clues. Her stomach lurched and bile stung the back of her throat, but she clamped down on the horror with a wall of ice that even her
fi
re could not melt. “You're old as hell,” she said. “You must have considered that ­we're dealing with a few of them, given how vast the territory is. What if the one we saw in the barrows ­wasn't even the creature responsible for these bodies?”

He narrowed his eyes, but conceded a nod. She studied the hollowed-­out face, the torn clothes.

Torn clothes, what looked like small cuts along the palms—as if he'd dug in his
fi
ngernails.
Th
e others had barely been touched, but this . . .

“Rowan.” She waved away
fl
ies. “Rowan, tell me you see what I'm seeing.”

Another vicious curse. He crouched, using the tip of a dagger to push back a bit of clothing torn at the collar. “
Th
is male—”

“Fought. He fought back against it. None of the others did, according to the reports.”

Th
e stench of the corpse was nearly enough to bring her to her knees. But she squatted by the decaying hand and forearm, shriveled and wasted from the inside out. She held out a hand for Rowan's dagger, still possessing none of her own. He hesitated as she looked up at him.

Only for the a
ft
ernoon
, he seemed to growl as he pressed the hilt into her open palm.

She yanked down the dagger.
I know, I know. I ­haven't earned my weapons back yet. Don't get your feathers ru
ffl
ed
.

She turned back to the husk, cutting o
ff
their wordless conversation and getting a snarl in response. Butting heads with Rowan was the least of her concerns, even if it had become one of her favorite activities.

Th
ere was something so familiar about doing this, she thought as she carefully, as gently and respectfully as she could, ran the tip of the dagger under the male's cracked and
fi
lthy nails, then smeared the contents on the back of her own hand. Dirt and black . . . black . . .

“What the hell is that?” Rowan demanded, kneeling beside her, sni
ffi
ng her outstretched hand. He jerked back, snarling. “
Th
at's not dirt.”

No, it ­wasn't. It was blacker than night, and reeked just as badly as it had the
fi
rst time she'd smelled it, in the catacombs beneath the library, an obsidian, oily pool of blood. Slightly di
ff
erent from that other, horri
fi
c smell that loitered around this place, but similar. So similar to—

“
Th
is isn't possible,” she said, jolting to her feet. “
Th
is—­this—this—” She paced, if only to keep from shaking. “I'm wrong. I have to be wrong.”

Th
ere had been so many cells in that forgotten dungeon beneath the library, beneath the king's Wyrdstone clock tower.
Th
e creature she'd encountered there had possessed a human heart. It had been le
ft
, she'd suspected, because of some defect. What if . . . what if the perfected ones had been moved elsewhere? What if they ­were now . . . ready?

“Tell me,” Rowan growled, the words barely understandable as he seemed to struggle to rein in the killing edge he rode in response to the threat lurking somewhere in these woods.

She li
ft
ed her hand to rub her eyes, but realized what was on her
fi
ngers and went to wipe them on her shirt. Only to recall that she was wearing nothing but the so
ft
white band around her breasts, and that she was cold to her very bones. She rushed to the nearby stream to scrub o
ff
the dried black blood, hating even that the trace of it would be in the water, in the world, and quickly, quietly told Rowan of the creature in the library, the Wyrdkeys, and the information Maeve held hostage regarding how to destroy that power. Power that was being used by the king to
make
things—­and targeting people with magic in their blood to be their hosts.

A warm breeze wrapped around her, heating her bones and blood, steadying her. “How did it get ­here?” Rowan asked, his features now set with icy calm.

“I don't know. I hope I'm wrong. But that
smell
—­I'll never forget that smell as long as I live. Like it had rotted from the inside out, its very essence ruined.”

“But it retained some cognitive abilities. And what­ever this is, it must have them, too, if it's dumping the bodies.”

She tried to swallow—­twice—but her mouth was dry. “Demi-­Fae . . . they would make perfect hosts, with so many of them able to use magic and no one in Wendlyn or Doranelle caring if they live or die. But these corpses—­if he wanted to kidnap them, why kill them?”

“Unless they ­weren't compatible,” Rowan said. “And if they ­weren't compatible, then what better use for them than to drain them dry?”

“But what's the point of leaving the bodies where we can
fi
nd them? To drum up fear?”

Rowan ground his jaw and stalked through the area, examining the ground, the trees, the rocks. “Burn the body, Aelin.” He removed the sheath and belt that had ­housed the dagger still dangling from her hand and tossed them to her. She caught them with her free hand. “We're going hunting.”

•

Th
ey found nothing, even when Rowan shi
ft
ed into his other form and circled high above. As the light grew dim, they climbed into the biggest, densest tree in the area.
Th
ey squeezed onto a massive branch, huddling together, as he would not let her summon even a
fl
icker of
fl
ame.

When she complained about the conditions, Rowan pointed out that there was no moon that night, and worse things than the skinwalkers prowled the woods.
Th
at shut her up until he asked her to tell him more about the creature in the library, to explain every detail and weakness and strength.

A
ft
er she
fi
nished, he took out one of his long knives—­a fraction of the marvelous assortment he carried—­and began cleaning it. With her heightened senses, she could see enough in the starlight to make out the steel, his hands, and the shi
ft
ing muscles in his shoulders as he wiped the blade. He himself was a beautiful weapon, forged by centuries of ruthless training and warring.

“Do you think I was mistaken?” she said as he put away the knife and reached for the ones hidden beneath his clothes. Like the
fi
rst, none of them ­were dirty, but she didn't point it out. “About the creature, I mean.”

Rowan slung his shirt over his head to get at the weapons strapped beneath, revealing his broad back, muscled and scarred and glorious. Fine—­some very feminine, innate part of her appreciated
that
. And she didn't mind his half-­nakedness. He'd seen every inch of her now. She supposed there was no part of him that would be much of a surprise, either, thanks to Chaol. But—­no, she ­wouldn't think about Chaol. Not when she was feeling balanced and clear-­headed and
good
.

“We're dealing with a cunning, lethal predator, regardless of where it originated and how many there are,” he said, cleaning a small dagger that had been strapped across his pectoral muscle. She followed the path of his tattoo down his face, neck, shoulders, and arm. Such a stark, brutal marking. Had the scars on Chaol's face healed, or would they be a permanent reminder of what she'd done to him? “If you ­were mistaken, I'd consider it a blessing.”

She slumped against the trunk.
Th
at was twice now she'd thought of Chaol. She must truly be exhausted, because the only other option was that she just wanted to make herself feel miserable.

She didn't want to know what Chaol had been doing these months, or what he now thought of her. If he'd sold the information about her past to the king, maybe the king had sent one of those things ­here, to hunt her. And Dorian—­gods, she'd been so lost in her own misery that she'd hardly wondered about him, whether he'd managed to keep his magic secret. She prayed he was safe.

She su
ff
ered with her own thoughts until Rowan
fi
nished with his weapons, then took out their skin of water and rinsed his hands, neck, and chest. She watched him sidelong, the way the water gleamed on his skin in the starlight. It was a damn good thing Rowan had no interest in her, either, because she knew she was stupid and reckless enough to consider whether moving on in the physical sense might solve the problem of Chaol.

Th
ere was still such a mighty hole in her chest. A hole that grew bigger, not smaller, and that no one could
fi
x, not even if she took Rowan to bed.
Th
ere ­were some days when the amethyst ring was her most precious belonging—­others when it was all she could do not to melt it down in a
fl
ame of her own making. Maybe she had been a fool to love a man who served the king, but Chaol had been what she needed a
ft
er losing Sam, a
ft
er surviving the mines.

But these days . . . she didn't know what she needed. What she wanted. If she felt like admitting it, she actually didn't have the faintest clue who the hell she was anymore. All she knew was that what­ever and whoever climbed out of that abyss of despair and grief would not be the same person who had plummeted in. And maybe that was a good thing.

Rowan put his clothes back on and settled against the trunk, his body warm and solid against hers.
Th
ey sat in the dark for a little until she said quietly, “You once told me that when you
fi
nd your mate, you can't stomach the idea of hurting them physically. Once you're mated, you'd sooner harm yourself.”

“Yes; why?”

“I tried to kill him. I mauled his face, then held a dagger over his heart because I thought he was responsible for Nehemia's death. I would have done it if someone hadn't stopped me. If Chaol—­if he'd truly been my mate, I ­wouldn't have been able to do that, would I?”

He was silent for a long while. “You hadn't been in your Fae form for ten years, so perhaps your instincts ­weren't even able to take hold. Sometimes, mates can be together intimately before the actual bond snaps into place.”

“It's a useless hope to cling to, anyway.”

“Do you want the truth?”

She tucked her chin into her tunic and closed her eyes. “Not to­night.”

46

Shielding her eyes from the glare, Celaena scanned the cli
ff
s and the spit of beach far below. It was scorching, with hardly a breeze, but Rowan remained in his heavy pale-gray jacket and wide belt, vambraces strapped to his forearms. He'd deigned to give her a few of his weapons that morning—­as a precaution.

Th
ey'd returned to the latest site at dawn to retrace their steps—­and that was where Celaena had picked up a trail. Well, she'd spied a droplet of dark blood on a nearby rock, and then Rowan had followed the scent back toward the cli
ff
s. She looked down the beach, at the natural-­cut arches of the many caves along its curving length. But there was nothing ­here—­and the trail, thanks to the sea and wind and elements, had gone cold.
Th
ey'd been ­here for the past half hour, looking for any other signs, but there was nothing. Nothing, except—

Th
ere. A sagging curve in the cli
ff
edge, as if many pairs of feet had worn the lip down as they slid carefully over the edge. Rowan gripped her arm as she leaned to view the crumbled, hidden stair. She glared at him, but he didn't let go. “I'm trying not to be insulted,” she said. “Look.”

Th
ey ­were hardly steps now—­just lumps of rock and sand peppered with shrubs.
Th
e water beyond the beach was so clear and calm that a slight break could be seen in the barrier reef that guarded these shores. It was one of the few ways to make a safe landing ­here without shattering your boat, only wide enough for a small cra
ft
to pass through. No warships or merchant vessels would
fi
t, undoubtedly one reason this area had never been developed. It was the perfect place, however, if you wanted to surreptitiously enter the country—­and stay hidden.

She began sketching in the sandy earth, a long, hard line, then drew dot a
ft
er dot a
ft
er dot.

“
Th
e bodies ­were dumped in streams and rivers,” she said.

“
Th
e sea was never far o
ff
,” he said, kneeling beside her. “
Th
ey could have dumped the bodies there. But—”

“But then those bodies probably would dri
ft
right back to shore, and prompt people to look along the beach. Look ­here,” she said, pointing to the stretch of coastline she'd sketched—­and where they ­were currently sitting, smack dab in the middle of it.

“
Th
ere are countless caves along this section of the shore.”