Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(16)

She nods.

“Castelpont?” I’m still disbelieving. I never considered this bridge could be a target, just a shortcut. It’s in full view of Beau Palais.

“A woman in white is on the bridge and another one is retreating from the other side. That woman is wearing green, though, so your all-in-white theory doesn’t stand, Marcel.”

“Perhaps the white is ritualistic,” he muses. “In the legends, Bone Crier sightings happen during the dance on the bridge. Only one story mentions witnesses, and it doesn’t note the color of their dresses, but . . .”

I scarcely hear a word as Marcel drivels on. Jules finally smacks him, which shuts him up. She looks back at me, and her smile splits wide. “Bastien, we’ve done it! We’ve found them!” She stifles a burst of crazed laughter.

I don’t grin back. I can’t think, can’t find my breath. My pulse throbs behind my eyelids. I knew in my gut I’d have my revenge tonight. The scene I’ve captured in my head—the scene I’ve imagined for years—unfolds before me.

I step on the bridge. The Bone Crier and I clap eyes on each other. I pretend to be spellbound. We dance. I’m playing her game. Then I announce who I am. I name two of the men her people have killed. My father. Jules and Marcel’s father. I slit her throat with my father’s knife, and Jules kills the witness. We don’t bury their bodies. We leave them where they die.

“Bastien.” Jules shakes me.

I swallow, coming back to myself. I rub my hands together to get my blood pumping. “Marcel, guard the road—back where it’s out of sight of the bridge. The Bone Crier’s true soulmate will come at some point. With any luck, we’ll be finished by then.”

“I’ll climb a tree and watch for him.” Marcel looks upward, and his hair flops over one side of his face. The one eye I can see is already distracted by the variety of trees above us.

Jules frowns at him. “Don’t mess this up. No comparing sap or bark or whatever else fascinates you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of staying on task.”

“Are you?” She arches a brow. “Prove it. Stick to your post until we call for you, not a moment sooner. Leave the fighting to us. I don’t want to mop up your guts when this is finished.”

“He’ll be fine,” I say, and lean close to Marcel’s ear. “Think of rosewater.” I nudge him. After tonight, our revenge business will be done.

He tamps down a smile and gives me a private nod.

“Are we ready, then?” I ask my friends. “This is everything we’ve worked for. We’ve got to be flawless. That Bone Crier out there”—I point, as if I can actually see her—“will be lethal in ways we can’t even imagine. We have no idea what powers she’ll possess.”

“She won’t use them,” Jules says. “I’ll see to that. I’ll take her buried bones before you’re finished dancing.”

The two of us exchange a fierce glance. I trust Jules with my life, and I know she feels the same about me. “I’m counting on it.”

Marcel reaches for his bow. “If I do see the soulmate, I’m only aiming to maim, correct?”

I cringe, imagining all the ways that could go wrong. “How about you stall him with your words? The Bone Crier can’t catch a glimpse of the other man. That’s the most important thing to remember.”

Marcel gives me a lopsided grin, like he hopes he’ll still get to see some action. He better not.

“Don’t even think about—”

A mournful cry quivers on the air.

No, not a cry.

A melody.

A tremor chases up my spine and shudders across my shoulders. I’m ten years old again, alone in my father’s cart. I leave the cart and follow the song, walking in the small shoes my father made me. The music warbles. The low tones sound so ancient they spark memories I don’t have, shapeless echoes of a time before I was born, or my father was born, or any soul lived and died upon this land.

“Bastien.” Jules grabs my leg, and I inhale sharply. I realize I’m standing and facing the bridge.

“Stick to the plan,” I say gruffly, and spit out the rest of the mint leaves. I’m fine. If the Bone Crier wants a soulmate, I’ll give her one. I’ll give her me. Then I’ll break her.

Jules lets go. I stalk forward through the wild grass and roll out a crick in my neck. When I take my first step onto the road, my breath catches. The Bone Crier’s ghostly white dress stands out against the dark stones of the bridge. She’s real. This is finally happening. My fists tighten. I approach like the thief I am.

Her back is to me, her hair sleek and long and deep copper. My eyes follow the loose waves down to the curved line of her hips.

I can’t look away. Why should I? I tread louder, scuffing the bridge stones, bold and reckless. I’m here for you. The trap is mine this time, not yours.

Fifteen feet ahead, the Bone Crier pulls the flute from her mouth. Her shoulders rise as she breathes in. Like some creature from a dream, she turns to me. Her trailing dress resists the movement and clings to the ground in spiraling folds. She looks sculpted from marble, like something my father would have painstakingly crafted, one chisel strike after another. My skin flushes with heat.

The girl’s hair billows around her slender shoulders. Her beauty is unfair, masking the vicious predator within. But didn’t I expect that? Then why is my blood pounding?