Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(77)

I start to reach for him, then draw back. I want to offer him comfort, but how can I? It was a Leurress, like me, who killed his father. I tighten my hand into a fist. For the first time, I’m bitterly angry with whoever it was in my famille that hurt Bastien so badly.

He rubs his fingers across his lips and takes another moment to compose himself. “What I’m saying is Castelpont can’t be significant to all the Leurress.”

“But could it be significant to us?” I lean closer, my pulse surging faster with hope. “Maybe if you and I return there on the next full moon, we can break our bond.”

“How?”

I shake my head, trying to find a reason. “Different songs make different things happen. The song I played near the soul bridge isn’t the same song I played to lure you to Castelpont. Maybe there’s another song that can help us.”

“Do you know any different songs?”

I sigh. “No.”

A nearby candle flame quivers as we grow quiet. The wick needs trimming. On the floor between us, Bastien’s fingers subtly bend and straighten. He takes a tremulous breath and slides his hand over mine. He gives it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll figure it out, Ailesse.”

Warmth shivers through me. I shouldn’t allow his touch to affect me like this. Not when our fates are so bleak. But I can’t help it. I tentatively turn my hand over. Our palms meet, our eyes connect, and I curl my fingers around his. My heart gives a hard pound, reminding me to draw breath. “Bastien,” I whisper. There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t find the words to express how much I’m coming to care for him. “I . . . I don’t want you to die.”

He doesn’t look away from me. Any trace of his earlier shyness is gone. “I don’t want you to die either.” The candles shimmer in his eyes, and he brushes his thumb over mine. “There’s an Old Gallish phrase my father used to say whenever he’d have to leave for a little while. He’d hold my hand just like this and whisper, ‘Tu ne me manque pas. Je ne te manque pas.’ It means ‘You’re not missing from me. I’m not missing from you.’”

I smile softly, committing those words to memory. “I like that.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Ailesse.” Bastien’s gaze is earnest and tender and deeply affectionate. It’s like Elara’s Light shining down on me. “We’re going to stick together, all right? No one’s going to die.”

I nod, trying my best to believe it. I lay my head on his shoulder.

No one’s going to die.





35


Sabine


I RUN OUT FROM THE catacombs tunnel and roughly extinguish my torch on the grass. With a furious cry, I hurl the torch across the ravine floor and dig my fingers in my hair. I still haven’t found Ailesse.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve ventured here, finally daring to enter the catacombs with the help of my three grace bones. Now I resent them. If my muscles ached or I was short of breath or my fatigue felt unendurable, I might feel like I was working hard enough to save my best friend. Instead, I’m growing so agitated and angry that I want to claw anything in sight. I don’t know if it’s an effect of my new golden jackal grace or my own frustration with myself.

Eleven days have passed since ferrying night—twenty-six since Ailesse’s failed rite of passage. She must think I haven’t even tried to help her. I won’t return home until I do, although I’m avoiding home, anyway. No one knows I killed the jackal.

I shake the silt mud from my hunting dress and hear the swoop of the silver owl before she lands on the ravine floor. I glare at her heart-shaped face and lovely eyes, glinting in the afternoon sunlight. She tilts her head, rasp-screeches, and flies to the top of the ravine, waiting for me to follow. I place a hand on my hip. “Are you going to lead me to Ailesse this time?”

She flaps away, and I lock my jaw, racing after her. I’m careful to run light on my toes and keep under the tree cover, but the miles pass without any cries from the dead. Lately, I’ve spied Ferriers trying to herd them into an abandoned prison near Chateau Creux, but they have to guard them constantly. Some souls have inexplicably escaped the iron bars, and the last time I checked, only twelve or so are still there—nowhere near the number that came to the land bridge.

I chase the silver owl another mile until I’m standing at the foot of Castelpont. Again. A low growl rumbles in my chest. The last few days have been a maddening circle of running in and out of the catacombs and back and forth to Castelpont. And I have nothing to show for it.

The silver owl blinks from her perch on the center of the bridge’s parapet. She might as well roost here for how often she brings me to this place. “If Elara sent you, she’s going to have to teach you how to speak,” I snap, although Ailesse would call that blasphemy.

The silver owl scratches her claws on the mortared stones, emphasizing our location.

“That doesn’t help.”

She spreads her wings, flies in a circle, and lands on the opposite parapet.

I throw my arms in the air. “What do you want? I already killed the golden jackal, which isn’t the fiercest predator, by the way.” The best graces he gave me are more strength, greater endurance, and excellent hearing. Good, but not remarkable. A common wolf has more. So much for my last grace bone.