Fire and Bone (Otherborn #1)(79)

And I guess it is. She accidentally killed her lover when she was young, was forced to marry Kieran’s brother because of it, and eventually, if Faelan’s right, she killed that man too. And went mad? And then birthed the Black Death.

Reading it in this dry accounting twists the knife of the revelations even deeper. There’s a deep callousness there, and it makes me sympathize with the girl that my sister was. Could this happen to me?

I never thought I’d relate to someone accused of being a killer. But after what I did to Ben and nearly did to Faelan, after everything I felt with Kieran, I barely know who or what I am anymore. Am I evil or righteous?

My attention turns back to the scroll. I need to understand as much of this as I can. I need the truth, wherever it leads.

I take a deep breath and dive back in. I read until my eyes burn and my vision blurs. I devour every word, every odd story in the scroll, until I drift off, falling into a dream.



Fionn opens his wings, taking flight from his perch on my arm. He’s small for a full-grown owl but no less fierce. I lower my gloved hand and watch him disappear into the trees, masked by the white flurry of snow.

The black steed shifts under me, his muscles flexing. I reach down and pet his regal neck, his shiny onyx coat striking in the white surroundings. “It’s all right, Spark. He’ll return to us. Hopefully he’ll catch some of those mice plaguing my greenhouse.”

The air is crisp with new snow, the bite of the cold lessened a little by the storm. I’m surprised that I can sense the slight shift in temperature at all; apparently, I’ve been here in this frozen land far too long—nearly six moons now. By my calculations it should be nearly Samhain, summer beginning to blur into autumn back home. And yet on this mountain, it’s still ice and rock, the trees bare, only the ghosts of ash and birch standing as sentinels.

My blood is crying for the vivid green of home. I’m losing my mind among all of this death.

I’ve made my decision to leave, if only for a little while. I know my king will bring me back, like an escaped prisoner, but I must see my woods again. And so tonight, when he is on his hunt, I’ll slip away.

The sound of snow crunching underfoot comes from the path behind me. A rider moves up beside me. It’s the demon himself, clad in heavy black fur, his large raven perched on his shoulder.

I rode ahead of him on the pathway, needing a second to breathe without his silver eyes on me. Since I lost the child three moons ago, he’s been watching me like a hawk. I’ve barely had a moment’s peace except when he leaves me at my bedroom door at night.

There’s an unspoken urgency in the air between us now. I haven’t been able to bring myself to do as my mother said and surrender to him. If anything, my iron will to stay out of his sheets has only grown stronger. I could never love this beast.

Lailoken believes I should obey, but he says that I’ll know when the time is right and not to rush. He’s a monk, however, so what he knows of the bed and the heart is all of nothing.

The king is silent as he watches the sky. His raven, Bran, lifts off his shoulder to settle on a high branch, and the rush of his horse’s breath curls around us. The gray steed is a beast—like its master. His speckled wolf pads past us, wandering ahead on the path, looking for hare or mice.

The only sounds around us are of crackling ice and branches creaking under the weight of the snow. Soon Fionn reappears overhead, emerging from the trees. I hold out my arm, and he lands heavily, a vole crushed in his beak. “Well done,” I whisper to him, scratching his puffed-out chest.

“You’ve trained him well,” the king finally says. “He’s very loyal.”

Fionn lifts off again, finding a branch ahead so he can consume his meal.

We nudge our rides forward at a meandering pace, side by side. I decide to speak freely since our ruse of being civil to one another will likely be broken by tonight when I take flight myself.

“Do you believe you’re training me?” I ask.

He keeps his eyes forward, responding casually. “Is that what you’d prefer? To be trained like a falcon or an owl?”

“I’d prefer to be free,” I say.

He’s silent. Then he asks, “What would you do if you were, as you say, free?” He says the last word as if it tastes bitter on his tongue.

I didn’t expect him to match my challenge. It takes me a moment to think about an answer. In the end, I simply say, “Everything.”

Laughter rumbles from his chest. “Yes, you would, I’m sure. You are a true child of fire. Adventure and risk are in the blood.”

Warmth fills my cheeks at his familiar tone. “And what is in the blood of a child of death?”

His smile turns wry. “Many dark things, if allowed.” He turns his head to look at me. “But death can also be painfully beautiful, Lily.”

I shiver at the sound of my human name coming from his lips. The last person who called me Lily, I loved. And then destroyed.

My thoughts are broken by a sudden screech of pain. My head snaps forward, recognizing the cry of my friend.

“Fionn!” I shout, kicking Spark onward, urgency filling me. We gallop a ways before I find my friend splayed out in blood-speckled snow, just off the path. An arrow pierces the owl’s chest.

I slide from my mount and scramble over to the bird. Its wing is at an off angle, perhaps broken from the fall. It’s still as death.