Kinked (Elder Races #6)(56)

Skeletons lay strewn in the streets. Scavenging wildlife had made short work of the bodies left out in the open. At one point, Quentin bent to gently pry a sword from a skeleton’s grip. It was a long, lethal piece of loveliness. An Elven-made sword, she knew, was a true joy to wield, slender yet strong, perfectly balanced, and with an edge so sharp it could slice a single hair.

She watched as he wiped it off carefully and inspected the length. Then he swung it back and forth, spun around and lunged with it, testing its mettle. He looked like he was floating as he moved, a Fred Astaire of death. His prowess with fighting had been quite clear at the Sentinel Games, but the Games were unarmed combat and this was something else entirely. With a few skillful moves, he showed just what an accomplished swordsman he was, and he was mesmerizing to watch.

She dragged her gaze away from him and walked over to the skeleton. It still gripped the empty sheath. The Elf must have barely gotten the sword unsheathed before dying. She wiggled the sheath out of the bony fingers and inspected it. It was simple and elegant, the artistry wholly in the sheer beauty of how well it was made.

She wiped it off and handed it to him. “You should take it. The sword looks like it was made for your hand.”

He hesitated, then sheathed the sword and buckled it at his trim hips. “We should get one for you too,” he said. “And I want a longbow if we can find one.”

Not many people could wield an Elven longbow, which was six feet long and a powerful long-distance weapon. She stood as she admitted, “I wouldn’t mind a longer sword.”

“Keep on the lookout,” he told her. In contrast to his hoarse reaction in the nursery earlier, his voice was even, analytical. He’d clearly found a way to box his emotions. “Their owners can’t use them anymore.”

It didn’t take very long to find another sword for her. After they had cleaned it off, they continued inspecting the city. The day had begun to slide away from them, the sun starting its journey to the horizon. Shadows lengthened on the cobblestone streets.

The complete stillness in combination with the well-maintained streets and buildings was creepy, like some kind of Elder Races version of The Walking Dead. When they weren’t talking to each other, the only sounds she heard were their footsteps, the occasional cry of seabirds and the sound of the waves hitting the nearby shore. It was a completely different experience than exploring an area filled with ruins. Ruins graciously gave one a sense of the passing of time, blurring disaster and tragedy into a distant thing.

This—this gave her a sense that someone was going to walk around the corner at any moment, but they didn’t. Or that someone was watching them from the windows of nearby buildings. Which they weren’t.

Were they?

She walked in a large circle, studying shuttered windows, corners of buildings, hiding places in the shrubbery. And saw nothing.

Still, the nape of her neck prickled, as a sixth sense insisted that someone, or something, was watching them.

Quentin noticed her behavior, and his attitude sharpened. She liked that he didn’t nag her with pointless and distracting questions, but that he simply adapted his behavior to match hers. They were learning how to respond to each other like a fighting unit.

“I want to go up to the palace,” she said. She wanted to go to high ground and study the scene. If someone—or something—was in the city with them, sooner or later they would give themselves away.

He said, “Let’s go.”

They had followed a small side street that led to several houses set against the backdrop of a hillside. The hill was terraced and beautifully landscaped with a profusion of flowering trees and bushes that perfumed the air. Many of the flowers were strange to her, which made the scene seem even more otherworldly.

To reach the palace, they had to turn back to the main street. As she turned, something black flashed at the corner of her eye.

Something too black for the rest of the lengthening evening shadows. Something that moved independently of any breeze.

She spun toward it, staring. And saw nothing. She looked up at the sky and at the rooftops of buildings. Nothing moved from above. Easing her newfound sword out of its sheath, she strode over to where she had seen the shadow, at the corner of a waist-high, fieldstone wall that bordered one of the houses.

She looked both ways, along the wall. There was no quick-moving black streak. No scent. Everything about the scene appeared just as it should, except now she wasn’t buying it.

Quentin said, “I’m starting to feel like I’m color-blind or tone-deaf.” He sounded amused, yet when she glanced at him, she saw that his body was taut and his eyes never stopped moving. He had drawn his sword too, and while the point was casually lowered, he had clearly stepped up to high alert. He asked telepathically, What did you see?

Same thing as last night, she said. She stood on the balls of her feet, ready to move fast if needed. She tilted her chin back and forth, stretching her neck, and shook her arms to loosen the tension that had built up in her shoulder muscles.

Quentin strode toward the open archway in the stone fence.

Thirty feet beyond him, something black streaked between two buildings. He whirled toward it before Aryal had a chance to call out. He said, “I saw that one. But I don’t know what I saw.”

“I don’t either,” she said, walking rapidly to the area between the two buildings. The cobblestones were worn, the ground uneven. It was the opening to an alley that ran parallel to the main road, and it led to another side street. “I don’t think it’s physical. There’s no scent. There aren’t any tracks.”