Endless Knight (The Arcana Chronicles #2)(25)

For days, she’d been pining for him. It was so obvious. At first I’d been irritated, but then I’d put myself in her shoes. When Finn had tricked her, she’d thought that Jackson had chosen her. That her dream had come true. In her mind, she’d experienced his arms around her.

How strange for her, to be traveling with the boy she’d thought she’d kissed—and also with the boy who’d deceived her.

Now that everyone seemed to hate Selena, I was starting to feel sorry for her, even after the shit she’d dealt my way. Days ago, I’d realized nobody wanted to be a monster—yet that was how we were treating her.

Though she’d tried to draw Jackson into conversation again and again, he’d continued to ignore her, as if he couldn’t even hear her. With his hood over his head, he’d trudged on, seeming lost in thought. He hadn’t committed to anything.

I was past caring. I was.

Don’t think about him. I planned to make the most of this windfall of water—and time—to wash the ash away. Sometimes I felt like that ash was becoming a part of me, obscuring me, just as it had overcome Haven House, my home in Louisiana.

When I won the first round with the bathtub, Selena rolled her eyes. But she did sit outside with Matthew, settling in to whittle arrows. Finn ambled toward the barn, sourcing for supplies.

I shut the door and turned to my task. How hard could it be to boil bathwater? I’d watched an episode of Little House on the Prairie once. Ergo: Let’s do this bitch.

Four burn wounds and an hour later, I was lowering myself into the little tub, waist-deep water steaming around me. Bubbles from my bath wash pillowed over the surface. If my blistered feet hadn’t been stinging as they regenerated, I’d have sworn I was dreaming.

And if I hadn’t felt dread over Jackson’s leaving.

In front of the crackling fire, I soaped and rinsed my hair, reflecting on the last week.

Each day we’d hauled ass away from the Bagmen, but were forced each night to hide out. The Baggers did just the opposite, eating up the miles every night before dawn drove them into the ground, a thought that still gave me chills.

Our stop-start race had gone on for days. We were strung out on too little sleep.

I’d been constantly wary, unable to relax for a second. And I was still weakening. Yes, my blisters were regenerating, but more slowly. I’d figured out that since my skin returned to its state prior to any injury, I would never build up calluses.

Which meant I’d always have blisters. Beauty.

I wasn’t the only one who was wary. As a huntress, Selena always seemed hyper-aware, but now she was completely on edge. Each morning she would backtrack to scout the Baggers behind us. Yesterday, she’d told us, “Their numbers are still growing. They must be absorbing any stragglers they come across.” It was like a snowball, amassing size through contact with more snow. If that horde caught us . . .

Finn too grew antsier, but he was more like an addict coming off gear. What would happen if he didn’t pull a trick soon?

When we’d first met, he’d been a fun-loving jokester. Now he was always nervous—insisting on checking and rechecking our map to make sure we didn’t sidle too close to the mines.

He was over Selena, hadn’t spoken more than a few words to her, and he seemed determined to get Jackson and me back together, as if he was the sole cause of the dissension between me and the Cajun.

Good luck. I feared this was past even the power of magic.

Matthew had grown increasingly withdrawn, often gazing at Jackson with a speculative look. I had difficulty getting the boy to eat, and he was no longer making any sense in conversations.

If I asked him if his head was hurting him, he’d answer, “Beware the Touch of Death.” One night he’d torn at his hair, screaming, “Water! Water!” I’d scrambled to get him my canteen before he hurt himself, but he’d chucked it away.

Surprisingly, Jackson had been the one to calm Matthew down. As if he were talking to a spooked horse, Jackson had said, “Whoa, boy, tracasse-toi pas. Prend-lé aisé.” Don’t you worry. Take it easy

Whenever I could catch a couple of hours of sleep, I’d had more dreams of Death, all set in that same desert, all of that same encounter. With his hand reaching ever closer to me, I would scent the burning sands and his sweat-lathered horse. In the last dream, I’d looked up at the sky, and through my tears I’d seen the Judgment Card circling above.

Death had popped into my head less and less. I guessed he’d gotten busy or something. Right now my mind was blissfully free of him. . . .

Fauna’s three wolves continued to stalk us, their eyes gleaming in the darkness, like freaking cartoon fossa. But they never moved in enough for us to get a good look at them.

Yesterday, Fauna’s Arcana call—Red of tooth and claw!—had begun to echo louder than all others. Which meant she was finally within striking distance.

When would she make her move? Why not attack with her beasts?

My sense of foreboding grew. The stress of our situation was nearly unbearable. Wolves flanked us, Bagmen pursued, and we were skirting close to subterranean cannibals.

To top it off, the constant faint drizzle of rain was so irritating. Despite Matthew’s warnings, I almost wished it would pound down from the sky. Now it was like someone was poking your arm, going, “Nyeh, nyeh, nyeh.”