Blood of Wonderland (Queen of Hearts Saga #2)(14)
“Give me yer boots,” he ordered gruffly, and Dinah obeyed. He rinsed them out in the stream, taking care to scrub the soles with diligence. He handed them back to her. “Step lightly. Try not to tramp around the wood making as much noise as possible like yeh’ve been doing.” Dinah watched in fascination as the Spade fastened two low-hanging pine branches to his belt so they dragged behind him. He pointed to the stream. “You and the horse need to walk in the stream fer the next few miles. This is where I plan on losing them fer good.”
It was easier said than done. Getting Morte to follow her into the ankle-deep stream was incredibly difficult. Eventually he was lured in by the large piece of meat Dinah had grabbed in the farmer’s house. Morte didn’t like the water on his spikes, although it was clear they needed it—swirls of dried blood colored the water when he finally stepped in. They followed the stream as it flowed uphill. Everything flowed uphill now—the land, the flowers, the plants. Dinah quickly sweated through the heavy black dress. Walking in the stream was difficult. Several times she stumbled. Her ankle caught on seaweed, rocks, and much to her horror, a silver-and-rose-striped snake. After a few miles, the Spade ordered her to leave the stream and walk in only her socks. He shuffled behind her, erasing their footprints. Every once in a while the Spade would lick his finger and hold it in the air or stop and tilt his head, listening for something inaudible to her own ears. Then he would correct their tracks, step by step. At one point, he made Dinah climb a tree only to climb back down on the other side. She protested loudly, until the Spade drew his sword. She grumbled all the way up and all the way back down as Morte watched her with amusement.
Several times Dinah would begin to talk only to be shushed by him, and once, without warning, the Spade pushed her down into a bush, laying his body on top of hers, followed by several branches and brush. Dinah let out a shriek and pushed against him with all her might, fearing he wanted to defile her in a way she had only read about, but his hands had only cupped her mouth. Dinah struggled until she saw the red shimmer of the tracking hawk above, dancing in and out of the tree branches overhead. She fell silent, though she was certain that the hawk could hear the loud poundings of her heart. After a while they hiked again through the bleached trees, until dusk fell and the wood turned dark. Dinah felt as though she were wandering through a gathering of ghosts. The Spade stopped abruptly and pushed his ear against the ground. After listening for a few seconds, he hopped to his feet.
“We’ll camp here for the night.” He bound his mare, Cyndy, to a tree and looked at Dinah to see if she would do the same.
She laughed at the idea. “Try to tie him there. You won’t live long, but all the more reason to try.” Morte collapsed in a moss pile a few feet away and began eating all the wild grasses within his reach. The Spade was gathering sticks into a pile. Dinah realized too late what he was doing. She dashed dirt toward the pile with her foot. “Stop! Don’t build a fire, they’ll see it!”
The Spade laughed as he produced a tiny muslin bag. “Ever see nightpowder?” Dinah shook her head. The Spade lit the fire with a flint, but as soon as he saw the first sign of a flicker, he dropped a pinch of the powder onto the growing flame. “Aye, the trick is to get it on when it’s just a tiny thing. It won’t work on a raging fire, or even a burning log.”
Dinah watched in amazement as the flame grew—only instead of glowing with an orange heat, it was black, and emitted a clear smoke that disappeared into the sky. The flames still burned hot, and Dinah enjoyed the first feel of heat she’d felt on her face in a long time. The Spade roasted two rabbits he had speared that day and generously gave Dinah a whole one. She dived into it, relishing the drip of grease on her face. She threw the rest of her rabbit over to Morte, who cracked the bones between his teeth.
The Spade watched with disgust. “Unnatural, that is.”
Dinah shrugged. When the Spade finished eating, he dropped the smallest portion of nightpowder into his pipe and leaned back against a rock. His ease infuriated her, and Dinah could contain herself no longer. “Tell me about Wardley.”
The Spade inhaled a deep mouthful of his pipe and cleared his throat.
“So yeh want to know of the boy yeh left behind?”
Dinah thought long and hard before asking her question. “I would like to know any and all information that pertains to Wardley Ghane and the reasons behind any harms or dangers he might have encountered.”
The Spade’s drawn face scowled. “That seems like more than one question.”
Dinah grinned wickedly. “I think it seems like a perfectly valid question. After all, I’m just asking about Wardley.”
“Yer asking a bit more, and I believe yeh know that.”
“I believe that is what you believe.” Dinah continued smiling. She watched his features change through the flickering onyx flame. Dinah didn’t know much about the Spades—of all the Cards, they were the ones most shrouded in secrecy—but she did know that Spades loved to tell a good tale with their comrades, bloody tales of wars fought, of limbs lost, and of battle fever, tales that would make any other Wonderlander squirm. Dinah was baiting him—she could tell by the way his mouth twitched and the grinding of his filthy teeth. Sir Gorrann longed to tell her everything.
The Spade stood up in the clear night, the black flames of the fire kissing the tips of his boots. A thin trail of smoke curled out of the side of his mouth, and he began. “Well, if yeh must know, Wardley Ghane is alive.” Dinah felt a sweet wave of relief wash over her, sweeter than anything she had ever tasted. A sob escaped her throat.