Endless Knight (The Arcana Chronicles #2)(53)

Only one can win.



I woke to the sound of metal being pounded and the smell of wet dog. It was nighttime, and I was tied up once more, lying on a dry sleeping bag.

Direct from another disturbing dream.

One of Lark’s wolves lay before me, its snout inches from my face, eyes gazing into mine with that unnatural intelligence. Or rather, its eye, singular. Hello, Cyclops. Probably the mangiest of the three.

The other Arcana had made camp beneath a bridge and lit a fire, seeming to dare anyone to attack.

In addition to posting the guard wolf, they’d bound my elbows tightly behind my back, making it impossible for my claws to reach the rope. I still had difficulty moving in general, but at least feeling had returned to my limbs. Unfortunately, that meant I experienced every second of regeneration as bones reset and regrew, as skin fashioned itself anew. My thumb was a fleshy nub.

I tried to call on my powers—like the Empress in my dream, I was ready to strike—but they were tapped out. Damn this rain! Even if I could manage spores, they probably wouldn’t be strong enough to kill this trio.

I gazed past Cyclops to find Ogen and Death beside the blazing fire. The two horses rested nearby. No sign of Lark or the other wolves.

Ogen squatted next to the flames. In the firelight, his eyes were even more revolting. Around his diamond-shaped pupils, those greenish-yellow veins bulged. They were the color of sickness, of infection. Uneven before, his horns were now the same length. I squinted. There were two raised scars across his back. As if something had been cut from him.

Without hesitation, he placed his arms directly in the fire to stir the logs. Immune to fire and poison? Would’ve been good to know.

I’d failed to defeat them today, with my full arsenal and a devious plan. Against me, they were invincible together, as Death must know.

Unless I could get him out of his armor.

Tonight he’d shed his helmet and breastplate. As I watched, he used his sword blade to carve a line of metal from the side of the latter. He handed that metal strip over to Ogen, who plunged it into the flames with his bare hands. The Devil blew on the fire till it climbed high.

Why hadn’t Death let Ogen kill me? What plans did he have for me? Obviously not the same ones as he’d had in a past life.

Lark reappeared, briefly parting the curtain of water running off the sides of the bridge. Her arms were full of wet firewood, and her other two wolves each carried a log in their jaws, dropping them at Ogen’s feet. She told Death, “The falcon can scout for another couple of hours, but then she’s got to sleep.”

A weakness. Her animals could only go so long. Yet another Arcana who needed to conserve.

“Very well.” Death couldn’t have sounded less interested.

Lark tugged down her poncho hood as the wolves shook out their sodden fur. “You almost done?” she asked him.

Ignoring her, he began tinkering with his breastplate, tightening screws on the sides of it. Had I somehow pierced the armor? Maybe they were repairing it.

When that strip of metal glowed red, Ogen removed it from the fire. Placing it on a nearby boulder, he hammered the piece with his fist, flattening it.

Leaving Ogen to his work, Death put his breastplate back on, then leaned against the embankment. His helmet was close at hand. I watched as he sharpened one of his swords, running a stone over the edge again and again. He seemed soothed by this repetition.

Lark sat nearby. When I caught her gaze, she flashed me a wounded look—as if I had betrayed her—then turned away in a huff.

I worked myself into a sitting position, tilting my head to study Death. How different he was now from the boy I’d dreamed of. He looked about six or seven years older and much harder, even more ruthless.

Death lifted his sword and eyed the edge in the firelight. “What are you looking at, creature?”

“A stone-cold killer.”

“Shouldn’t be such a new sight.” He lifted his other sword to sharpen. “I’m sure you pass a mirror every now and again.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my stronghold. If you survive the next week.”

“Where is it?”

He didn’t deign to answer.

Okay, so if his lair was a week’s journey away from the Hierophant’s, that could mean Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, either of the Carolinas.

“What are you planning to do with me?” What was I planning to do with me? If I could escape, I supposed I’d start for the Outer Banks once more. Give myself the time I needed to grieve all I’d lost, and fulfill my promise to my mother. I’d sworn I would get to my grandmother, find out why the earth had failed, find out if I could help it.

For all I knew, Death might be taking me in the right direction.

To carry on my mission without Jack and Matthew? The idea sent anguish ripping through me, worse than any physical pain I’d ever known.

The Reaper finally faced me, resting his weapon across his lap. “I plan to make you suffer, up until the moment I decide to cut off your head.”

His confidence was disturbing. I decided then that I would do anything to deprive him of that pleasure—and of my icons. I’d rather Joules have them. “And when will that decision be?”

“Every morning when I wake, I’ll ask myself, ‘Is this the day I decapitate the creature?’ If you retain your worthless life by that night, then you’ll know my answer. And so it will be every day.”