Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(32)

“Get out your book.” I toss him his pack. He doesn’t catch it fast enough, and it thunks against his chest. “You want to see Birdie? Start reading.”

His brows wrinkle. “I fail to see the connection.”

I crouch beside him, my back turned to Ailesse. “The queen will track us here as soon as tomorrow night,” I whisper. “We’re not getting out of these catacombs alive unless we form a proper plan to”—I slice my finger across the base of my throat—“her. That involves you doing what you do best: reading between the lines of those Old Galle folktales.”

“Ah, I see.” He pulls into a cross-legged position and glances at Ailesse before he winks at me. Twice.

“Listen, we’ll talk more after the Bone Crier is sleeping, but for now . . .” I scoot closer and lower my voice another notch. “Do you know how strong the queen will really be down here? Will she be able to use any of her bone magic?”

“I think so . . .” Marcel unfastens his pack. “But it will cost her more energy. Eventually, she’ll run out, though I have no idea how long that will take. It isn’t mentioned in any stories here.” He pulls out his father’s book and sets it in his lap. “Unless I’ve forgotten something.” He turns the pages, and the book falls open where the spine has cracked. I twist to look at it with him. Ailesse sits up taller and tries to peek at it, too. Can she read? I always imagined Bone Criers doing things like drinking blood from horns or eating the raw flesh off animals, not studying out of books. Hell, I can barely read.

I tip up the book so she can’t see inside. The story I’m looking at is a myth about Bone Criers, complete with an illustration of a woman with unbound hair. The train of her dress is so long it spreads from the center of the bridge to the foot, where an unassuming man comes near. I see my father. I see Jules and Marcel’s father.

I see me.

Acid rage hits my stomach. I abruptly push up on my feet and stride away from Ailesse. She isn’t close, but she’s still too close. I lean against the only brick wall in the room—a place like others in the catacombs that’s been shored up to prevent the tunnels from collapsing—and fight to breathe.

“Are you all right?” Marcel asks, a vague note of concern in his voice.

I wait for my pulse to slow. “Just hungry. You?”

“I suppose.”

I steady my legs. Pull away from the wall. Rummage through a few jars and tins on the jutting bricks we use as shelves. Keep yourself together, Bastien. Focus on a plan. Like food and supplies. We don’t have much, except the little we left last time we had to hole up in here. If we have to stay much longer, one of us will need to make a run to Dovré.

Jules ducks back inside the chamber and brings a puddle of water with her. The clothes she wears are soaked, but not dirty anymore. She’s fully bathed, something each of us always does in turn—part of our routine here, or else the silt-mud itches like the plague.

She wrings out her hair, lugs in a bucket of water, and shuts the door panel. “Marcel, you’re actually awake.” She chuckles, already in a better mood for being clean. “The way you were snoring, I thought you’d sleep another fortnight.”

He grunts distractedly, his head bent over his book.

She limps closer to me and totes the bucket along with her. I arch my brow. “More drinking water?”

She nods, passing me my rinsed shirt. I hang it from a brick to dry. “Anything good in there?” She eyes my tin.

“The usual.” I offer her a piece of dried meat.

She pops it in her mouth and chews it for a moment. “You know, I’ve been thinking.” She limps toward Ailesse. “Wouldn’t it be a shame, if when the queen comes, she doesn’t even recognize her own daughter?”

Ailesse tenses and slides back on the slab. But she can’t escape. Jules tosses all the contents of her bucket at her. Ailesse breaks into a coughing fit and shudders.

Jules grabs a fistful of her dripping hair and studies Ailesse’s face. “There, much better. Now the muck is gone, and we can see the monster.”

Ailesse’s mouth forms a vicious line. She thrusts out her ankle-bound legs and kicks Jules hard in the stomach.

Jules flies backward and hits the ground. As soon as the shock fades from her face, she’s back on her feet, her eyes livid.

Merde.

“Jules,” I warn. She doesn’t listen.

She draws the knife sheathed at her thigh.

Ailesse lifts up on her knees, agile even tied up. “You want my blood?” she sneers. “Come and take it. Watch Bastien die with me.”

Jules’s grip on her knife turns white-knuckled. Marcel shuts his book. I take a tentative step forward. “Jules,” I say again. I’m not going to die. I can’t be the Bone Crier’s soulmate. “The queen will know if she’s dead.” My pulse pounds harder as I look at Ailesse. “Won’t she?”

Ailesse’s feverish eyes drift from me to the sharp point of Jules’s blade. She presses her lips together and nods.

Jules cries out in frustration and throws the knife. Ailesse jerks aside, but the blade flies wide and clatters against the stone wall.

A flood of cool relief washes over me.

Scratch, scratch.

I glance behind us. Something chirps faintly. I frown and move near the small door of our chamber. The scratching comes again. Another chirp. An animal? I’ve never seen so much as a rat down here.