Crush the King (Crown of Shards #3)(50)

That strange lethargy swept over me again, stronger than before. Even worse, my forearm had gone numb, and I couldn’t even feel the deep, throbbing sting of the gash anymore. I had to do something to counteract the poison right now, before it spread up my arm, across my chest, and over to my heart.

So I ignored the lethargy as best I could and reached for my own magic, pulling it up just like I had when I’d been fighting the magier and the morph. Only this time, instead of coating my hands and sword with it, I forced all the cold, hard power into the cut on my forearm.

I stared at the gash and imagined my immunity like an invisible fist closing over the deep cut. More and more blood welled up out of the wound, turning into a steady stream that slid down my skin, hit my bracelet, and dripped off the silver thorns. The sight and smell of so much of my own blood made me nauseous and light-headed, but that was okay, because it meant that my power was working and pushing the poison out of my body. I gritted my teeth, reached for even more of my immunity, and forced it into the wound.

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, watching the blood leave my body. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, although it seemed like an hour, due to the lethargy still creeping through my veins.

I drew in another breath, and the stench of the poison tickled my nose again. Copper and cold, blood and frost. I frowned. I had smelled this poison before. I knew that I had. I could feel the answer in the bottom of my brain, like a fish swimming along a riverbed. Oh, yes, the answer, the memory, was down in there somewhere, but I was too tired to bring it up to the surface right now . . .

“Evie?” Paloma said again.

Sullivan must have heard the concern in her voice. He cursed and lunged forward, probably to clamp his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding, but I waved him off.

“Grab the dagger from the last assassin, the one who cut me,” I whispered to him. “Be careful. The blade is poisoned.”

The scent of anger blasted off him, along with worry, but he whirled around, hurried over, and scooped the dagger up off the ground.

Paloma stayed by my side, her amber eyes wide, as were those of the ogre on her neck. “Wormroot?” she whispered, fear rasping through her voice.

Paloma had once been poisoned with wormroot by a jealous rival gladiator, so she knew how painful and horrible it felt.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Amethyst-eye?”

That was the poison Dahlia had used to try to kill Heinrich at Glitnir a few months ago.

I shook my head again. “No.”

“Then what?” Paloma asked, more worry filling her voice.

I started to tell her that I couldn’t remember exactly what poison it was, but another wave of lethargy swept over me, much stronger than before. All the strength left my body, and the last thing I saw before I hit the cobblestones was the gold statue of Lady Fortuna looming above me.





Chapter Twelve


I was lying on my side, curled up in a little ball, still feigning sleep.

It was well after dark now, and blackness cloaked the woods around the clearing, except for where the patches of snow lightened the ground and frosted the tree branches. Behind me, the campfire had burned down low, taking its warmth along with it, and a chill had soaked into my bones, despite the blanket and the cloak covering my body. Or perhaps the chill had more to do with how much danger I was in.

Some time ago, Rocinda and Caxton had finally quit plotting to sell me to the highest bidder and had lain down next to the fire. Caxton had been steadily, loudly snoring for several minutes. Every once in a while, Rocinda would let out a soft breathy sigh, indicating that she too was asleep.

I wouldn’t get a better chance to escape. I didn’t know who they were working for or where they wanted to take me, but I wasn’t going to be anyone’s slave, toy, or whatever horrible thing they had in mind. I’d already lost my parents, my home, and everything I had ever cared about. I wasn’t losing my freedom too.

It was the only thing I had left.

So I sat up, careful not to rustle my blanket, and glanced over at my would-be kidnappers.

Caxton was lying on his back with his arm thrown up over his head. The deep, throaty snores rumbling out of his mouth matched the lumbering rise and fall of his chest. He was definitely asleep. Rocinda was on her side, turned away from me, and curled into a ball, much like I had been. Her chest also rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and she too appeared to be sleeping.

Now or never.

I pushed the blanket aside, stripped off the borrowed cloak, and got to my feet, making as little noise as possible. I also kept my hand in my dress pocket, my fingers still curled around the dagger hidden there. Despite my furtive movements, my would-be kidnappers remained asleep.

I eyed Rocinda’s and Caxton’s knapsacks a few feet away. I could use their supplies in the woods, but I didn’t dare try to steal the bags. Not when they were lying within arm’s reach of Caxton. I’d rather escape with my life than die for a wheel of cheese and some dried fruit.

I stayed where I was a moment longer, but Caxton kept snoring and Rocinda remained still. Keeping my eyes on them, I stepped back, putting my boot down on the ground—

Crunch.

My boot cracked through a patch of ice, the sound seeming as loud as a trumpet blaring. I froze, but Caxton and Rocinda didn’t move. It didn’t look like I had woken them, so I let out the breath I’d been holding and kept going.