The Dragons of Nova (Loom Saga #2)(29)

Florence shook her head. “There’s light here. There’s sky, and up, and down, and headway to be made. In the Underground there is simply blackness. Inky, endless, blackness… and Wretches.”

“Perhaps the endwig are nothing more than forest Wretches?”

“You’d know better than I, Alchemist.”

“We don’t regularly find them in a state we can dissect. Or we would.”

Florence inwardly cringed at the idea. Her hands were kept busy with the revolver in her hands, diligently oiling it. Every day it had its turn, following the rifle slung over her back. “What are the endwig like?”

“Nightmare given flesh.” Derek’s tone was instantly grave.

“Have you seen them before?” Florence studied his face with fascination. It was an expression she knew, one of world-shaking horror—a death shroud pulled taut over one’s features, even if they escaped its clutches. She knew the answer before she even asked the question.

“Only once, from a distance. They hunt in the twilight hours; it was my mistake for even being out then.”

“What happened?”

“A nightmare.”

Florence knew she would get nothing more from him, and she didn’t pry. It would be like someone asking her to recreate the sound of the Wretches’ pincers, or describe the glow of their mutated saliva as it cut through the darkness like the most ominous beacon one could possibly imagine. She wasn’t that cruel.

The conversation faded with the light and the train’s steam. They coasted to a stop along the tracks, not risking wearing down their brakes for no good reason. By the time they jumped out of the nearly immobile vehicle, dusk was nearly upon them.

Nora made the fire that they would all sit around. Anders and Rotus were exhausted from managing the train, and did little. Derek kept Florence company as they ventured into the silent woods in search of game, hastily avoiding the impending twilight.

His hearing was better than hers. Pointed and ruby red, he had the ears of a Dragon instead of a Fenthri. Even though Florence found her senses heightened since the introduction of magic—years of ringing from explosions smoothed away due to the healing powers of her new blood—her aural acuity was nothing compared to his. They stalked quietly through the brush in the direction of a water source.

Derek would collect the water while Florence hunted their dinner. She was the best shot of the group and had yet to fail them. Creatures crowded around the streams and brooks that wound through the forest. She’d never hunted before this excursion, but it proved no more difficult than target practice.

Point, aim, shoot.

She adjusted her grip on her rifle, scanning the brush for any signs of life. A fat hare, a small deer, a wild boar—it made no difference. With her gun in hand, they were all made equal.

The rush of water over stones permeated the foliage, blending with the sound of rustling leaves. They broke through the brush and crossed onto a rocky bank. Florence scanned the edge of the small river they had come across.

“I don’t see anything.” She sighed heavily. “I’m going to track upstream a bit.”

“Don’t go too far, it’s almost twilight.”

“Just around the bend.” She kept her voice low to avoid scaring off any potential quarry in the distance.

“I’ll wait for you.” He slung the water bladders off his shoulder and they fell to the ground with a dull splat. Derek began to unscrew them, his skin almost the same shade as the dark leather in the fading light.

“I won’t wander,” Florence promised. She knew the dangers of wandering. It was what had separated her and Arianna in the Underground. She would only stay along the stream.

Derek vanished behind her as she trekked onward. Time and again, Florence ran her hands over the hinges of her rifle. She felt the tension in the trigger, assuring her that it was cocked and ready. She needed just one creature, and she could return back victorious.

With a grand stroke of luck, a pheasant made its way along the bank with an enticing little coo. Florence dropped to her knees, gun at the ready. The noise of her footfalls was covered by the sound of a nearby waterfall, seemingly the font of the river.

It rushed down around craggy rocks, determined to smooth over the rough hillside in long white strands that seemed to glow in the pale twilight. Florence brought the gun to her shoulder, adjusting her crouch so that one knee was up and the other was planted firmly in the river rock. She lined up the notches down the barrel of the gun, tracking it over the bird.

Florence took a deep breath and fought the urge to close one eye. With the bird securely in her sights, she brought her finger to the trigger and held her breath.

The creature raised its head suddenly, turning in surprise. Florence hadn’t heard what spooked the animal, but she didn’t hesitate; she took her shot.

With a crack, the bird was dead.

Satisfied, Florence stood, slinging the rifle over her shoulder. It wasn’t as much as she’d bagged previously but it would be enough for a night, even split five ways. So relived was she that Florence never bothered to heed to what had nearly scared the bird away from its watering hole.

She didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until she had the pheasant’s clawed feet in her grasp.

The sound of the water rushing over the rocks began to fade. Her head filled with a numbing white noise that set her inner ear to spinning. Florence blinked, turning, looking between the darkness of the trees. She grabbed for her revolver, waiting with heart-pounding dread for something to emerge.