Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(28)

Despite the calm of the forest just before dawn, the running river, and the steady beat of his heart, Dez’s sleep is fitful. He moans again, turning away from me and onto his back. His features are softened by the pale early morning light, but when I press my palm to his chest, I feel the thrum of his heart, the way his muscles jerk as if he’s trapped in a nightmare.

Back in ángeles, the nights are often filled with recruits’ sobs as they relive memories of sorrow and death in their dreams. The cloisters we use as a stronghold are drafty, and the sounds carry through their long halls. Sometimes, I’d listen to those sounds all night, and in the morning I’d know to expect poor souls asking me to take away the moment that haunts them. Often, I’d do it out of a sense of duty or a desire to be liked. Perhaps if I steal the memories I helped create, I’ll be absolved of my past. Perhaps if I crowd my thoughts with so many strangers, I’ll forget my own damage. But it doesn’t help, so I’ve started to say no, and they leave cursing my name.

I give Dez a shake to wake him from whatever has him so fitful, but he chokes on air. He mutters words I can’t make out and then whimpers. I know that terrible feeling of being trapped in your own mind, as if you’re being suffocated from within.

I know you, Dez told me. I trust you.

I brush my fingers along his face, so familiar that I don’t need the sun to break over us to see where I’m going. I want to soothe him the way being around him makes me feel more at ease. I press my fingertips to his temple.

The connection is instant, the way it always is when a person is unconscious. A rush of emotion hits my chest that comes with being in a different mind, the blinding light and sting that spreads from my fingertips to my skull.

But what I find isn’t a single memory, but a cluster of them. A sequence of thoughts that replay over and over:



Dez, five years old, plays with a great black hound that licks his face. He collapses into the grass, and they both howl like wild things.



Dez in the kitchens of San Cristóbal steals an orange behind Cook Helena’s back. The sweet, tangy juice drips down his chin.



An older Dez watches the port city of Riomar, his eyes focus on the purple-and-gold flag of Puerto Leones that waves above a ship’s sail.



Dez strides toward a girl polishing her daggers in a clearing. She holds one up to the light, then sees his reflection in it. She turns around, and his heart quickens as she smiles. Her brown eyes alight with something warm and familiar.



Gently, I break the connection between us, and I lie back on the scratchy blanket beside him, giving my magics a rest, and my mind a moment to catch up with all the memories as they are absorbed into it. Giving myself a second to realize—Dez is dreaming of me.

I am the girl with the warm brown eyes. The girl smiling when she looks back at him. I brush a lock away from his shut eyes. He’s dreaming of me. In a clearing somewhere, my hair short from when I cut it two years ago. I search for the memory of polishing my blades, but I can’t find it. Why would he choose that one out of all our time together? My own memories are always the hardest, and most painful, to uncover.

Who am I supposed to be if I can easily recall the past life of a stranger but not my own?

Feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beside me, I allow myself to drift off to sleep. My eyes flutter shut for a blissful moment, until a shrill scream pierces the dawn.

Dez rockets awake, and we are both up. He takes in his surroundings, as if he’s forgotten where he was. I throw his clothes at him and fumble with the laces of my boots. The shouting is coming from our campsite. I make to speak, but he presses a finger to his lips.

My hand goes to my hip. My dagger. Dez shakes his head because I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing. All of our weapons are around the fire.

Then we’re running, my blood pumping in my veins like the roar of the river. We weave through the forest until we’re near our camp, dodging between the thick trees, though it’s hard to remain quiet when the ground is littered with branches. We come to a stop behind a mossy mound where the thick, fallen trunk next to our campsite provides a barrier.

A young man is slumped against the dirt, nursing a bloodied foot. Dez’s metal trap is beside him. He must’ve been left behind. He looks up at us with narrow eyes and opens up his mouth to scream, but Dez knocks him out with a punch to the face. The boy slumps to the side, unconscious.

Dez signals to me to stay hidden with a squeeze of my forearm. We keep low and listen. The voices are unfamiliar, barking orders I can’t quite make out. Was it Sayida who screamed? I don’t hear them fighting back. If they’re screaming, they’re still alive. If they’re not—

I raise myself just over the tree trunk, digging my fingers into the soft earth for support.

We should’ve been alert.

We should’ve been there.

From my vantage point, I make out three royal soldiers who have Margo, Sayida, and Esteban on their knees, their wrists bound behind them. Sayida’s eyes are closed. Esteban’s lips move as if in prayer. Margo spits on the set of leather boots in front of her.

A ripple of anticipation circles the guards as a fourth man walks into camp. With all the stolen memories in my head, strangers’ faces often blur and bleed into my thoughts, as if everyone I meet is somehow familiar.

But I immediately know this man.