The Dark Calling (The Arcana Chronicles #5)(33)

Maybe Hal and Stache had food, something to keep me from daydreaming about hush puppies and ice cream and mashed potatoes and cheeseburgers with extra, gooey cheese.

I turned my thoughts from food, my bleary mind wandering over the last few days. As Kentarch, Joules, and I had descended from the mountains, the temperatures rose, and snow cover grew sparser.

The rivers and ponds had been only partially iced over. I’d hailed Circe at the larger ones. No answer. Nor had I heard from Matthew. Jack, are you out here?

Though I trusted my new traveling companions to a degree, I never told them about the Fool’s last message. As time passed, Jack’s survival seemed less and less believable, even to me.

I’d also never given them all the details of Aric’s attack at the castle—even when I’d woken up screaming. My nightmares of Richter now alternated with those about Aric . . . .

We should’ve been able to pick up our pace to the coast, but so many roads had been washed out or blocked with vehicles. Whenever the Beast couldn’t winch or bulldoze its way through, Kentarch had to teleport us.

He was also using his teleportation each night to measure the spread of the Hanged Man’s influence. Kentarch’s last report: It’s unpredictable and sporadic.

Hunger and overuse had weakened the Chariot’s abilities overall. Earlier today, he’d tried to teleport the truck across a wreck-choked bridge. We’d flashed from tangible to quavery and back as he’d gritted his teeth. He hadn’t been able to move us an inch, so we’d had to backtrack and go around.

Afterward, his outline had wavered, making him look like a ghost, then a man, then a ghost.

At this point, I could have walked faster, but I never complained when I slept in the Beast’s toasty cab. I’d once asked Kentarch, “Why don’t you carry a bug-out bag?” His answer: “This truck is my bug-out bag.” Several times an hour, his gaze would stray to Issa’s picture on his visor.

His chariot was a weapon and a roving safe house rolled into one, but it was a demanding tool, requiring ever more fuel. As my own resource-suck did.

“Right on!” Stache said, waking me from my daze. “Then we’re in agreement.” He started forcing me toward their van.

“Guys, if you want to live past the next few seconds, then release me and keep moving.”

Stache tightened his grip on my arm. “Another word out of you, and I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to you.”

“Literally? Or is that just a saying? These days you have to wonder.”

Stache raised his hand to backhand me. Before I could stop him, Hal grabbed his wrist. “Don’t mark her up. I want her pretty. No reason not to enjoy her till we reach the Sick House.”

Aaaaaand, we’re done here. “Your lifetime’s over.” I gave the signal. “Come, touch,” I told these men, “but you’ll pay a price.”

A knife flew past me, end over end. The blade plugged Hal in the face. He reeled before he collapsed.

Eyes gone wide, Stache released me and fled. He didn’t get five steps before another knife sank into his back. THUNK. A kill shot.

Kentarch jogged over to retrieve his blades. The first time he’d made a throw like that, I’d gawked. His aim was so uncanny, even Joules—no slouch himself—had been impressed.

“Let’s make quick work of this.” Kentarch remained as reserved as Joules was mouthy. He mostly liked to talk about tactical things, or about mind over matter, and he never volunteered information about his life in Africa.

As Kentarch siphoned fuel, Joules investigated the men’s van, tossing me their bags to root through. They had pictures of family, probably stolen from other victims. I snagged a flashlight and two flints to put in my bug-out bag. Not exactly winning Lotto.

I raised my head, suddenly feeling as if we were being watched. “Kentarch, do you see or hear anyone else around us?”

He assessed the area. “No, Empress.”

“Probably nothing then.”

“Food!” Joules cried from the van. “They’ve got food. A container full of soup.”

I’d bet I could keep that down! I hurried over.

Joules held up a clear takeout container filled with a dark broth. He ripped off the lid and inhaled. “Take a whiff of that!”

Though the soup was cool, the delicious aroma reached me. My stomach was on board! My first real meal in days.

“Looks like we’re goin’ to vary our cat-food diet—”

A pinky finger floated to the surface. Mushy skin. With a long, dirty nail.

Joules yelled and hurled the container.

Then he puked right beside me.

_______________

Enough. The cannibal soup had marked a turning point for me. Resolve gave way under the weight of depression. My eyes watered, my bottom lip trembling.

As we continued onward, Kentarch kept glancing from the road to my face. “We had a minor setback foodwise, but we gained valuable fuel. Overall, our mission was a success.”

I gave him a watery glare. “A minor setback? Do you ever lose your cool?” The closest I’d seen him get was when Joules had nearly opened a bottle of Tusker beer he’d found somewhere in the truck. Kentarch had yelled, “Place that down slowly. As if your life depends on it.” Later, he’d admitted, “That is my wife’s favorite. I found the bottle on the day I lost her, and I’ve protected it ever since. I believe we will drink it together when we’re reunited.”