Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(14)

5


Bastien


TONIGHT I’LL HAVE MY REVENGE. I feel it deep inside, past the jittery energy that’s kept me awake the last twenty-four hours. After tonight, I’ll sleep in peace.

I tighten the strap of the sheath harness on my back. Both my knives are hidden there. The Bone Crier will ask me to dance—part of her twisted cat-and-mouse game—but I won’t reveal I’m the cat until the time is right.

“I still vote we attack from the trees,” Marcel says, the last to crawl out from the cellar tunnel of La Chaste Dame. The brothel is near the south wall of the city. We could have taken the path through the catacombs, but this tunnel—the one Madame Colette turns a blind eye to if I toss her a coin—leads out of Dovré on the way to the bridges we’ll scout tonight. Last full moon, Jules, Marcel, and I started west and worked our way east. This time we’ll travel down from the city to the royal shipyard on the coast. South Galle is webbed with water and bridges.

“No, we’re going to do this properly, face-to-face.” I’m clean for the first time in weeks. We snuck into the Scarlet Room of La Chaste Dame, where Baron Gerard likes to slum around. Jules scrubbed my hair with his soap and used his razor on my face. She even gave me a splash of the baron’s fragranced water. Now I smell of licorice, watercress, and cloves. It’s enough to make me sneeze, but Jules promises the scent is enticing. When the Bone Crier plays her song, I should pass off as the fated boy she lures. Whoever he is.

“How do I look?” I ask for the first and hopefully last time in my life. Lunge, strike, parry. I practice my formations in my mind as Jules fusses with the cape I “borrowed” from the brothel. It’s fastened across my back and one shoulder, the same way upper-crusters from the noble district wear them. We’ll return it to the Scarlet Room once we’re done tonight. Madame Colette will poison us in our sleep if she learns we’re thieving from her regulars.

“Almost perfect,” Jules replies. “The only flaw is your breath. The sausage was a mistake.”

“You’re the one who pilfered it—and ate the other link.”

“I’m not the one trying to impress a demigoddess.” Jules turns away and rummages through the underbrush.

“Bone Criers aren’t immortal.” Marcel wipes his dusty hands on his trousers. “They live as long as we do. The old songs perpetuate that myth, but if you look closely to their source, specifically the epic poem Les Dames Blanches by Arnaud Poirier, you’ll see where the confusion began,” Marcel divulges in a lazy drawl. He isn’t trying to impress us, and he isn’t worried much about changing our opinion either. He speaks like he always does, sharing whatever pops into his head and turns the cogs of his mind. “‘With divine gifts, they lure, they kill,’ Poirier says, but of course he means Bone Criers derive power from the gods, not that they are gods. They just claim to descend from them.”

Jules plucks a handful of leaves, half listening to her younger brother. “Mint,” she announces, not a moment before she shoves it in my mouth.

I choke and spit out a couple leaves. “I don’t need the whole plant!”

“Maybe you do.” She fans her face and strolls past me. I don’t miss the sultry sway of her hips. She’s wearing all black from her leather bodice to her boots. She even sports a black hood-piece to hide her blond hair. Jules is always the shadow in our hunts, and I’m the distraction. Although she’s doing a better job at that right now. As for Marcel, we try to keep him out of sight. He’s good for strategy, but when it comes to stealth, he has two feet in the same boot.

He lags a step behind as we creep through the forest. The dry mulch cracks and snaps beneath his feet. The girls in Dovré don’t mind his clumsiness. I’ve heard them whisper about Marcel’s “sweet face” and “honey eyes.” If they whisper about me, I don’t hear it. Truth is, out of the three of us, Marcel is the only one who’s approachable. Slash, duck, roll. My muscles tense as I think through each move. The Bone Crier will be fast, but I’m ready for her.

“The title of Poirier’s poem is further responsible for the misconception that all Bone Criers are fair-skinned,” Marcel continues, “when in fact ‘blanches’ refers to their dress color.”

“Are you still talking?” Jules skips faster down the deer trail. “This will take until dawn if you don’t keep up.”

She’s right. I wheel back to help Marcel. We’ve been hunting bridges for over a year now, and my itch to finish this is festering. Tonight, Bastien, tonight. “How about you ditch the pack and bow?” I suggest. Marcel looks like a mule with all he’s carrying. “That gear slows you down every time.”

“I’d rather be slow than defenseless.” His eyes stray to a leaf caught on his cloak, and he touches its jagged edges. “Vervain,” he identifies, and sticks it in his pocket. “Besides, the book stays with me. You know that.”

I do. The book goes everywhere Marcel does. It’s the main reason for his pack. The lore of Old Galle is in those folktales. They don’t hold up to Marcel’s logic, but the book was on his father’s bedside table when he died. I understand the need for it. My father’s unwieldy knife isn’t as bulky, but I also never go anywhere without it.