Dead of Winter (The Arcana Chronicles #3)(45)

Just the results. In the rain, heads flew, bodies collapsed over each other, bone fragments and entrails spattered the air. Thanatos trampled some that hadn’t completely risen.

The clash lasted only minutes.

When Death returned, magnificent in his rain-slicked armor, he lifted his visor to narrow his eyes at Jack. The grueling tension between them only mounted. “It felt good to ride in and save her, didn’t it? Imagine how good she feels whenever she vanquishes her enemies—on her own.”

“Like a shadow, Evie,” Jack muttered as we approached our potential pit stop. The rain had turned to fog, painting the small cinder-block house in an eerie light.

He was tense, bow ready—because this might be a slavers’ den.

After three hours of passing one burned-out structure after another, I was so done in I’d rather face slavers than keep riding. The downpour earlier had soaked me through, and my teeth had chattered for miles.

At least it’d rinsed Bagger funk and corpse gore off me, like a car wash.

Jack had invited me to ride with him, but I’d said no. I doubted Death would approve. And Jack had confused me anyway. Why had his attitude toward me boomeranged?

We climbed the front stairs, Aric trailing us. “I’m surprised you’re amenable to stopping, mortal. With the clock and such. The Empress can ride with me, and we’ll continue toward Selena.”

“Even if there was a snowball’s chance in hell of Evie riding with you on that thing you call a horse,” Jack said, “we’re coming up on serious black-hat territory—which means our mounts need to be fresh.”

We’d pushed them all day. Not that Thanatos needed rest. Thanatos bench pressed three eighty and ate bricks for fun.

“This place has been occupied recently.” Aric drew one of his swords. “What makes you think the residents won’t return?”

“Wagon-wheel ruts lead away from the house. Deep ruts. The slavers took their wagon full of captives north to sell—to the serious black hats I just mentioned.” Jack certainly knew his way around this part of the world. “They set out after the last rain. But if they return, we’ll kill them. Unless the Reaper is afraid of mortal slavers?”

“In my lifetimes, they’ve come in many different manifestations. Not once have I feared them.”

Jack tried the door. Locked. He kicked it in, and we crossed the threshold into a front sitting room. The interior reeked, like someone had forgotten to take the trash out (for a garbage truck that would never come again). Most of the furniture had been destroyed, likely for firewood.

A line of shackles was bolted to studs in the wall. Definitely a den.

“Fuckin’ hate slavers,” Jack grated. “Worse than Baggers.”

I stared at those cuffs. “When there was no water, slaves dug wells. So what’s the appeal now?”

“Salvage crews.” Gaze alert, Jack checked a closet. “There are food stores if you know where to look—Prepper bunkers, government shelters, cargo ships that got beached, silos, rail cars. And sometimes bosses trade slaves for other goods.”

We entered a living room that smelled cleaner. There were a couple of lawn chairs, a plastic table, a stone fireplace.

Jack faced Aric with a mean glint in his eyes. “Maybe Evie should be asking you about slavers, since you’re the one who kidnapped her. Pretty much the same difference, non? I wonder how you kept her bound. You shackle her? A sixteen-year-old girl?”

Instead of denying it or downplaying it, Aric said, “Absolutely.” There was that startling honesty again. “And once she cut off her own thumb to free herself from her bonds, she called up an army of green and nearly destroyed us all.”

The mere memory of that day drained me. “Can we just not talk right now?”

“Come on, Evie.” With me in tow, Jack cleared two back bedrooms and a bathroom, ushering me into the latter. “Why doan you change?” he said, setting up his spare flashlight. “I’ll find some dry wood and get a fire goan. Stay in here, and take your time.” He obviously didn’t want me to be alone with Aric.

Dry wood? Was there such a thing anymore? “I can help.”

“Non, I got this.”

Guilt weighed on me. “You’re the one who was injured.”

“I ain’t unused to getting my clock cleaned, bébé.” Because his mother’s beaux had introduced him to violence early.

When he helped me take off my bug-out bag and poncho, I asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He turned to go, but hesitated at the door. “See things clearer than before.”

I felt just the opposite.

Once he left, I gripped the counter, fighting a wave of dizziness. Could I keep riding at this pace? My headache throbbed, my legs and arms trembling. I stared into the mirror. My skin was so pale, my eyes seeming too big for my face.

In the reflection, I spied one of those shower squeegees behind me and felt a pang for the previous owners.

What a waste of your limited time.

Things could be worse. I could be dead like them. Though waterlogged and chilled, I remained free. No shackles circled my wrists, no Bagger bites marked my skin.

I stripped and hung up today’s clothes, then unzipped my bug-out bag. Inside, I had an ultra-small sleeping bag, energy bars, a canteen, bandages for Jack, and more clothes. I dug for another change.