The Glass Arrow(72)

I take the deepest breath I can, and roar. I catch the bear off guard, and he spins from Daphne, from the crumpled form of Kiran, towards me. He rises up to his full height and his chest is so broad he blocks my view of the horse behind him. Black lips pull back over sharp white teeth. The muscles in his neck ripple beneath the skin.

The air locks in my throat, and my great roar ends in a whimper.

It’s not working. He won’t move. I raise the bow.

If he doesn’t change his mind soon, I’ll have no choice but to shoot him, and I know where that road will lead. The first arrow would just be an irritating prick into his thick hide. I don’t know if I’d have the chance to fire again before he’d be on me.

Finally, the bear drops down to his front feet and ambles away.

With the blood still hammering through my ears, I run to Kiran, praying that the Trackers are so far away they haven’t heard me. I search for a bullet wound for evidence of a bear’s swiping paw. When I pull back his coat, I suck in a sharp breath. The wire wound has gone straight through the cloth, straight through his coat. It’s left a dark, wet stain all the way down to his hip.

Daphne’s weeping.

“He started bleeding a lot,” Daphne says, and when she holds out her hands, I see they’re smeared with red. “He didn’t say a word, he just fell. He’s dead, isn’t he?”





CHAPTER 18

KIRAN IS NOT DEAD. He can’t be. He was just talking to me as if nothing was wrong.

I put my hand on his brow. His skin feels like he’s slept too close to the fire. Dead people aren’t feverish. And he’s still sweating. Dead people definitely do not sweat.

My eyes blink out of focus, and suddenly I am looking down at my hand atop my ma’s forehead. Her curly black hair sticks to her brow and her breathing is much too shallow. Even all these years later I can perfectly recount the last moments before her death.

I banish the thought from my mind. I will not let Kiran die.

“Wake up.” I slap Kiran hard across the jaw. His eyes flutter open, whites with no golden iris. My stomach lurches, and then sinks. Brax has begun to growl again, and Dell’s ears have pinned back to her head.

The Trackers are coming.

“Not now, Kiran,” I say. “Just hold out a little longer.”

He doesn’t move.

“Leave him, we need to run!” shouts Daphne.

“Quiet!” I nearly slap her, too. Kiran is the only reason she is still alive. Without him, the Trackers would have found her and who knows what they would have done with her.

The thoughts scream in my head, one clawing over them all: We need to hide.

“Water,” I say. “A stream—did you see one near here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“Think!” I grab her shirt and pull her down close to me. “Think, Daphne,” I say more calmly. “Did you ride through water?”

She closes her eyes tight, then nods. “Back that way.” She points down the shale cliff.

“Help me move him.” I stuff my arms beneath Kiran’s shoulder, hook them under his armpits. He doesn’t make a sound. I tell myself that’s because of Driver habit, not how injured he is.

“He’s dead!” Daphne backs away.

“He’s not dead, you idiot. He’s sick.” Because of me. Because I was stupid enough to save Daphne.

She approaches slowly, wiping her hands down the sides of her dress.

“Help me get him over the back of the horse.”

I stand with a groan, hoisting him up against my chest. Kiran may not be bulky, but he’s long, and his body is hard to maneuver. After a moment, Daphne grabs his waist and lifts from beneath, and somehow we manage to lay him facedown over the saddle.

A hiss escapes through my teeth. I know it must be tearing at his wound, but we have no choice.

Daphne takes Dell’s reins and leads her against the cliff through the brush. I hold Kiran’s legs, steadying him over the back of the horse.

The hoofbeats pound in the distance. Head low, Brax slinks off. I don’t want him to go, but I can’t make him stay now.

“Quick!” I whisper. Daphne begins to run, pulling Dell at a trot. Kiran is jostled all over, but I hold on tight, not letting him fall.

Finally, the gurgle of water sifts through the trees. I direct everyone straight into the shallows and while they wait, backtrack fifty paces to cover our tracks. We’ve travelled mostly on shale, and there are few prints to hide. When I’m done we move upstream, downwind, so that our scent blows away from the Trackers and our path is swallowed by the current.

The hoofbeats fade and then disappear.

“There,” I say, pointing to the mouth of an old fox den just off the shore. We make our way over, and I’m relieved to find it empty. A roof of tangled roots hides us from above, and the water has worn away the entrance, making it wide enough for the three of us to squeeze in.

Dell snorts and prances nervously while Daphne and I slide Kiran off her back and lay him down in the cave.

“Water,” I say to Daphne. “Bring me the bottle.”

While she retrieves my things from Dell’s saddlebags, I remove Kiran’s shirt. With the thin metal dagger, I saw through the felt wrapping, soaked with his blood.

It’s the smell that hits me first. Sour enough to bring the bile up my throat. The skin has turned white around the wound, and though the worst of the bleeding is over, it doesn’t look good. The puckered lips tracing around his torso haven’t even closed. It’s infected.