Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(124)

Rowan was hauling her away, shouting her name, but she ­couldn’t reach him, ­couldn’t stop that pull toward the other creature.

Teeth pierced the spot between her neck and shoulder, and she jerked, latching on to the pain as if it ­were a rope yanking her out of that sea of stupor, up, up, until—

Rowan crushed her against him with one arm, sword out, her blood dripping down his chin as he backed away from the creature that lingered by the tree. Pain—­that was why the body that morning had been marred. The demi-­Fae had tried to use physical pain to break free of these things, to remind the body of what was real and not real.

The creature huffed a laugh. Oh gods. It had placed her in its thrall. That swiftly, that easily. She hadn’t stood a chance, and Rowan ­wasn’t attacking because—

Because in the dark, with limited weapons against an enemy who did not need blades to kill them, even Rowan was outmatched. A true warrior knew when to walk away from a fight. Rowan breathed, “We have to run.”

There was another low laugh from the creature, who stepped closer. Rowan pulled them farther back. “You can try,” it said in that voice that did not come from her world.

That was all Celaena needed to hear. She flung out her magic.

A wall of flame sprang up as she and Rowan sprinted away, a shield into which she poured every ounce of will and horror and shame, damning the consequences. The creature hissed, but she didn’t know if it was due to the light stinging its eyes or merely frustration.

She didn’t care. It bought them time, a ­whole minute hurtling uphill through the trees. Then crashing came from behind, that reeking stain of darkness spreading like a web.

Rowan knew the woods, knew how to hide their trail. It bought them more time and distance. The creature stalked them, even as Rowan used his wind to blow their scent away.

Mile after mile they ran, until her breath was like shards of glass in her lungs and even Rowan seemed to be tiring. They ­weren’t going to the fortress—­no, they ­wouldn’t lead this thing within ten miles of there. Rather, they headed into the Cambrian Mountains, the air growing chilled, the hills steeper. Still the creature followed.

“He won’t stop,” Celaena panted as they hauled themselves up a harrowing incline, almost on all fours. She pushed against the urge to fall to her knees and vomit. “He’s like a hound on a scent.” Her scent. Far below, the thing prowled after them.

Rowan bared his teeth, rain sluicing down his face. “Then I’ll run him down until he drops dead.”

Lightning illuminated a deer path atop the hill. “Rowan,” she panted. “Rowan, I have an idea.”

•

Celaena wondered if she still had a death wish.

Or perhaps the god of death just liked to play with her too much.

It was another uphill trek to the trees whose bark had been skinned off. And then she made herself a merry fire and burned a torch beside a forgotten road, the light shining through those skinless trees.

Far below, she prayed that Rowan was keeping the creature occupied the way she’d told him to—­leading it in circles with the scent on her tunic.

Screee went the whetting stone down her dagger as she perched atop a large rock. Despite her incessant trembling, she hummed as she sharpened, a symphony she’d gone to see performed in Rifthold every year until her enslavement. She controlled her breathing and focused on counting the minutes, wondering how long she could remain before she had to find another way. Screee.

A rotting scent stuffed itself up her nose, and the already quiet forest went still.

Screee. Not her own blade sharpening but another’s, almost in answer to her own.

She sagged in relief and ran the whetting stone down her dagger one more time before standing, willing strength to her knees. She did not allow herself to flinch when she beheld the five of them standing beyond the skinned trees, tall and lean and bearing their wicked tools.

Run, her body screamed, but she held her ground. Lifted her chin and smiled into the dark. “I’m glad you received my invitation.” Not a hint of sound or movement. “Your four friends decided to come uninvited to my last campfire—­and it didn’t end well for them. But I’m sure you know that already.”

Another one sharpened his blades, firelight shivering on the jagged metal. “Fae bitch. We’ll take our sweet time with you.”

She sketched a bow, even though her stomach was heaving at the reek of carrion, and waved her torch as if it ­were a baton at what awaited below. “Oh, I certainly hope you do,” she said.

Before they could surround her, she burst into a sprint.

•

Celaena knew they ­were near not because of the crashing brush or the whip of their blades through the air but from the stench that tore gnarled fingers through her senses. Clutching her torch in one hand, she used the other to keep herself aloft as she bounded down the steep road, dodging rocks and brambles and loose stones.

It was a mile down to where she’d told Rowan to lead the creature, a mad flight through the dark. Ankles and knees barking in protest, she leapt and ran, the skinwalkers closing in around her like wolves on a deer.

The key was not to panic—­panic made you stupid. Panic got you killed. There was a piercing cry—­a hawk’s screech. Rowan was exactly where they’d planned, the king’s creature perhaps a minute behind and slinking through the brush. Right by the creek, where she dumped her torch. Right where the road curved around a boulder.