Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(78)

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.

The owl screeches and hops along the parapet.

I shake my head. “Don’t come back for me again unless you’re not going to waste my time.”

I steal a glance at the walls of Dovré as I leave the silver owl behind. The glow of chazoure hangs over the city like an eerie mist. Souls are continuing to gather here. Since ferrying night, I haven’t overheard any travelers on the road mention obvious attacks from the dead, but maybe leaching Light from the living is quiet work. I pray it’s long work, too, and no one dies before I find Ailesse and the bone flute. The constant gnaw of guilt inside me sharpens to a bite.

I hurry back to the hollow where I buried the golden jackal and take even more care to be covert. So far no one in my famille has tracked me here, and I want to keep it that way. I’ve been retreating to this place when I force myself to rest and eat.

I kneel beside a trickling stream. The water weaves down moss and rocks and forms a small waterfall. I check my trap, and a silver flash of scales greets me. My stomach pangs with ravenous hunger. Since I claimed the jackal’s graces, I’ve developed an intense craving for meat, which I’m trying to satiate by eating fish. The old Sabine would shudder at that, but now my mouth waters instead.

I sit down and pull out a knife to gut the fish, but not the one I meant to. I quickly sheathe it.

Ailesse’s bone knife was made for one purpose only—to kill her amouré. I selfishly used it when I killed the nighthawk and stabbed the Chained man, but I won’t do so again.

I withdraw another knife. Just as I make a slice across the fish’s belly, I hear, “Hello, Sabine.”

I drop the fish. Whip out my knife. Point it across the stream. Spikes of adrenaline shoot through me. Odiva is standing there. My graced ears didn’t even hear her approach.

“You’ve cut yourself.” Her black eyes lower to my hand.

My stinging pain finally registers. A red gash on my palm is pooling blood.

“I will help you clean the wound,” Odiva says with a calmness I don’t trust. My heart drums as she slowly advances across a shallow part of the stream, and the hem of her sapphire-blue dress drags against the rocks in the water.

She joins me on the pebbled ground. I set down my knife with trembling fingers. I pray she won’t notice the new addition on my shoulder necklace among its shells, beads, and graceless shark teeth. But Odiva misses nothing.

“What is that pendant you are wearing?” She affects an indifferent tone, but a ragged edge of suspicion cuts through it.

“My new grace bone,” I confess. She must realize that much.

“It looks like Ailesse’s pendant,” she muses, wetting her bloodred lips as she traces the crescent moon I’ve carved from the golden jackal femur.

“I wanted it to match hers.” And I carved it into a pendant so the bone would be unrecognizable.

“I presume it’s not also from an alpine ibex.” Odiva arches a humored brow, but her eyes bore into me like the eyes of the Chained.

I force a thin smile. Why has she come here? Why isn’t she reprimanding me for running away? “No, I haven’t managed a journey to the northern mountains and back again in the last few days.”

“Of course you haven’t.” She takes my hand and dips it in the water. Her touch is gentle, but her sharp nails scrape against my wrist. “You’ve been wandering through the catacombs instead.”

My eyes fly up to meet her gaze. Cold sweat flashes across my skin.

“Your dress is covered in silt.” She answers my unspoken question.