Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(94)

The footsteps grow louder. A silhouetted figure steps around the wall, twenty yards away. He’s also wearing a cloak. His hood droops over his eyes. All I can see, even with my night vision and far-reaching sight, are the vague shadows of his mouth and chin.

He steadily approaches. As soon as he sets foot on the bridge, I pocket my flute, blow out a shaky breath, and withdraw Ailesse’s bone knife. I keep it hidden beneath my cloak. I’m not going to dance with Bastien; Ailesse has already performed the danse de l’amant. I’m going to make this quick. The jackal in me thrills at the thought. I don’t suppress its thirst for blood this time. Tonight I’ll need it.

Bastien’s ten yards away now. I smooth down the folds of my cloak and keep my hood drawn up.

His jaw is clean-shaven. His cloak is fine, and his boots are polished. Is this a new disguise? I breathe in his scent with my salamander and jackal graces. He’s not wearing the same spiced fragrance as before. Now he smells clean and minty.

He pauses fifteen feet away and tilts his head. I tuck my knife closer against my body. Can he see the shape of the hilt?

His hood flutters back a little, and the pupils of his eyes glitter. He walks forward tentatively.

My pulse throbs with each step. My conscience starts to fight the jackal’s desire to kill. Bastien isn’t an animal, and I cried over all those deaths. How will I survive killing another human?

I glance over my shoulder to make sure the silver owl hasn’t abandoned me. She remains perched on the far post of the bridge.

Calm down, Sabine. This is what Elara wants you to do. This is what Ailesse needs you to do.

Bastien’s footsteps tread closer. I can’t look at him. Can I stab his heart without meeting his eyes?

He stops five feet away. “Is it you?”

I feel the blood drain from my face. His voice is spun of silk and missing an undercurrent of bitterness.

This isn’t Bastien.

My gaze flies up to him. His hood is cast back, and he’s thrown his cloak behind his shoulders.

He looks like he might be Bastien’s age, but his hair isn’t dark and tousled; it’s strawberry blond with loose curls. His eyes are blue, but a stony shade of blue, and they’re wide with wonder, not anger.

I can’t catch my breath.

I’ve lured my own amouré, not Ailesse’s.

This is my rite of passage.

I take two steps backward and clutch my stomach. This is the boy the gods chose for me, and I’ve killed him already, just by playing a song.

I set out to sacrifice Bastien tonight, but now because of me, another boy will die. The ritual is already set in motion.

“Won’t you let me see your face?” he asks. His tone is gentle, but edged with desperation. He’s caught deep in the web of my spell.

I flex my grip on my hidden knife and pull back my hood with my other hand. A few black curls spring around my cheeks. My amouré’s brows draw together. His mouth parts, but no words form. My cheeks flush. Ailesse has told me I’m beautiful, but maybe I only am in her eyes.

I’m supposed to begin the dance, I realize. I’m supposed to show why I’m perfect for him and he’s perfect for me. But all I want to do is bury myself underground.

I shoot a scathing look at the silver owl. Has everything she’s guided me to do over the past weeks been a trick to turn me into a Ferrier—and after that, the new matrone of my famille?

“Forgive me.” The boy combs nervous fingers through his hair. “I thought I heard a familiar song.”

I frown. “This isn’t the first time you’ve heard it?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I suppose I thought . . . you would be her.”

“And who is that?”

His heavy gaze drifts to the other side of the bridge. “I don’t know. I never learned her name.”

My pulse skips. “But you saw her?”

“She was only a specter in white from Beau Palais.”

Beau Palais? I rapidly assess his clothes. He’s in uniform, with medals pinned to his chest. He must be a decorated soldier.

“I left the castle as soon as I clapped eyes on her,” he confesses, “but by the time I arrived, she was already gone. I caught a glimpse of her auburn hair as she ran into the forest with her friends.”

I stare at him, my disbelief raw and biting. My ritual tonight worked. It brought me Ailesse’s amouré. But it isn’t Bastien. “They weren’t her friends,” I say coldly.

His eyes widen, and he steps closer. “You know her?”

“Ailesse is my best friend,” I reply, bringing the knife from around my back to my side. I grip it tightly beneath my cloak. And now I can save her.

Acting as Ailesse, I lured this boy here. And as Ailesse, I will kill him here.

“Ailesse,” he repeats sacredly. “I have to meet her. Now.” He grasps my arm, and I stiffen. I’ve never been touched by a boy. “I’ve barely slept this past month,” he says. “The people in Dovré are ill and becoming desperate. They’re starting to fight among themselves. Yet, I must confess, what troubles me most is this . . .” He shakes his head and splays a hand over his heart. “I don’t know how to explain, but it’s why I walk the ramparts of Beau Palais at night to keep watch on this bridge. I foolishly hope she’ll return.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “I don’t understand why I’m drawn to her. You must think me ridiculous.”