Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(9)

The word “that” speaks volumes and hangs heavy in the air. “That” is the hardest path a Leurress can choose. If she decides to live with her amouré, she’s given exactly one year from her rite of passage to do so. Regardless of what happens afterward, the man’s life is forfeit. If she doesn’t kill him by the year’s end, they’re both cursed. The magic of the unfinished ritual will cut his life short and hers. It is how Ashena died. It is how Liliane died five years before her. It’s the ultimate disgrace.

I push my shoulders back. “If I’m going to die, I’d rather do so ferrying the dead.”

“Like my mother?” Sabine’s brown eyes shine in the darkness.

I stop and squeeze her hand. “Your mother died a hero.”

Her expression falls. “I don’t find any glory in death.”

Sabine’s sadness is a dull knife sawing through me. I’m desperate to cheer her. Her mother died two years ago, but the pain is still fresh and strikes without warning. The departed soul of a wicked man—a Chained soul—killed Sabine’s mother on the land bridge leading to the Gates. The nearness to the Beyond turned his spirit tangible—a form all souls keep for the rest of eternity, where they are rejoined with their bodies, and a form they can use to fight Ferriers. Only the Chained attempt to do so, resisting their punishment in the depths of Tyrus’s Underworld, unlike the Unchained, who will live in Elara’s Paradise. “That settles it, then,” I say brightly. “We’ll never die.”

Sabine sniffs and cracks a smile. “Deal.”

We walk into the darkness, our shoulders pressed together. “Let’s pray that Tyrus and Elara send me a ghastly man,” I say. “Then even you won’t regret his death.”

Sabine’s silent laughter shakes me. “Perfect.”





3

Bastien

NINE DAYS UNTIL I KILL her.

I climb into the rafters in the blacksmith’s shop, the best place to practice when Gaspar has spent a late night in the tavern. The old man will be sleeping off his ale for at least another hour.

Nine days.

I steady my feet on a sturdy center beam and throw the hood of my cloak over my eyes. When I meet her, the moon will be full, but the night could be cloudy or rainy. Dovré and the surrounding parts of South Galle can be fickle like that.

I pull two knives from my belt. The first I stole right under Gaspar’s nose as it was cooling from the forge. The second is unremarkable. Cheap. The hilt isn’t balanced with the blade. But the knife was my father’s. I wear it for him. I’ll kill with it for him.

Half-blind, I lunge forward. Dust meets my nostrils as my feet strike the beam. I parry back and forth, my knives slashing the air as I begin my exercises. I’ve done these formations a thousand times, and I’ll do them a thousand more. Being too prepared is impossible. I can’t leave anything to chance. A Bone Crier is unpredictable. I won’t know what animals she’s stolen magic from until I meet her. Even then, I’ll only be guessing. She might have twice my strength, probably more. She could leap right over me and stab me from behind.

I pivot on the beam and adjust my grip on both knives. I throw one after the other, and hear a satisfying thunk, thunk. I race to my target—a vertical crossbeam—and grab the hilts. I don’t withdraw them yet; I use them as handholds and climb to a higher rafter.

I picture a bridge and the girl I’ll kill there. Any Bone Crier will do. They’re all murderers. I’ll take what they stole from me, my father’s life for one of their own.

Nine more days, Bastien. Then my father will be at peace. I’ll be at peace. I can’t imagine the feeling.

I drop to my hands and wrap my legs around the rafter. I swing upside down and tuck into a flip. My hood flies back as I land squarely on the lower beam.

I can surprise a Bone Crier, too.

A steady clap, clap, clap breaks my concentration. Gaspar is early. My muscles tense, but the voice I hear is throaty and female.

“Bravo.” Jules. She leans against the blacksmith’s unlit forge. Her straw-blond hair glows in a dusty beam of light from the open window. She flips a coin on her thumb.

“Is that real gold?” I wipe my wet brow on my sleeve.

“Why don’t you come down here and find out?”

“Why don’t you come up here?” I walk back to my lodged knives. “Unless you’re afraid of heights.” I yank the blades out of the crossbeam and sheathe them.

Jules snorts. “I jumped from the butcher’s roof to steal that goose last week, didn’t I?”

“Was it the dead goose who squealed?”

Jules’s eyes narrow to slits, but she rolls her tongue in her cheek to keep from grinning. “Fine, Bastien. I’ll come up there if you want to play with me.”

Not exactly what I meant.

She saunters to one of the supporting posts, grabs the hooks for Gaspar’s tools, and climbs. Her snug leggings show off the lean muscles of her body. I look away and swallow.

Fool, I chide myself. If I can’t keep my head around Jules, how will I manage being near a Bone Crier? They’re breathtaking and irresistible. Or so the legends say. My one run-in with a woman in white is proof enough. Even though I was terrified—even though I came to hate her—I can’t forget her rare, unsettling beauty.