The Girl King (The Girl King #1)(42)

Lu stared at his face, trying to understand the horror before her. Wonin’s legs were surely broken beyond repair, but he might still live if—no. She felt the flame of hope in her heart die as a bubble of shockingly red blood emerged from between his lips.

Unthinking, she stepped toward him. He had been writhing without aim, but at her approach, he thrust out a grasping hand. She raised her bow, fitting it with an arrow in a single motion, quick and soft as a gasp.

Blood burbled up between Wonin’s graying lips as he mouthed wordlessly at her.

But then she heard it. “Please . . . ,” the boy whispered.

She lowered her bow just a hair’s breadth, uncertain.

“Do it.”

Lu whipped toward the sound, her bow instantly raised. She had nearly forgotten the Ashina boy. He was on his feet. “What did you say?”

He snarled and leaped back. “Don’t point that thing at me!”

She frowned, but quickly lowered her bow. “What did you say to me?”

“The boy—he’s going to die,” Nokhai said, softer now. “He’s already dead; he just doesn’t know it yet. He’s got a gut wound, and internal bleeding, too, most like. He could be dying for hours. I’ve seen—it’s ugly, that kind of dying.”

She looked back at Wonin. He had ceased writhing and stared at them with the frantic stare of a wounded animal.

“Do it,” the Ashina boy repeated grimly. “Straight between the eyes; he won’t feel a thing.”

Lu raised her bow instinctively, then lowered it. When she looked in Wonin’s face, all she could see was Hyacinth. She couldn’t possibly have something to do with this, could she? She had wanted to make that visit home . . . No. Lu couldn’t even allow herself to think it. Not her best friend. The one closer to her than her own sister, her own skin.

“I-I cannot,” she said aloud.

“You can,” the Ashina boy assured her. “I saw you shoot just now.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “I . . . I can’t kill this boy. Not like this.”

“Why not?” He seemed annoyed. “You killed the other one without hesitation.”

“That was different. I was—it was his life or mine. This one is . . . I know him. I know his family . . .”

The baying of hounds cut through her words. From the sound of it they were close, just over the ridge. They had the high ground; they would be riding downhill, toward where she stood.

She looked up at Nokhai. His face reflected the same terse realization.

“Kill the boy,” he whispered, and she was surprised to see something like regret in his eyes. “Do it now. If he’s still alive when they reach him, he will give away your position. Our position.”

Lu raised her bow again. But whereas before the weapon had been a natural extension of her body, now her hands shook so badly she could scarcely keep the arrow nocked. Hot tears seared at the corners of her vision. She drew back, but her arms fell, and the arrow speared the ground.

She raised the bow again, the fletchings of her arrow bristling against her cheek. She took a deep breath and felt her heart slow, as clearly as she felt the dappled sunlight on her face, or the firm earth beneath her feet. The blood moved in her, steady and calm and sure.

Wonin’s eyes widened, his indistinct gaze struggling to focus on her. He grasped at the air, still fighting what was already inevitable, what was as good as done.

There was the gasp of her bow. The fletchings of the arrow sprouted like a dark flower from between Wonin’s eyes. He stared skyward, unmoving. He looked oddly at peace.





CHAPTER 14


Prey

Death for the boy was instant, or so Nok hoped. He would never know. He and the princess were already gone—scrambling up the westward ridge on hands and feet, away from the baying of the dogs.

It was a shame, a boy that young dying alone in the forest. But he would’ve done no better by them had the situation been reversed.

The hounds were louder now. The princess had strapped her bow to her back in order to run unimpeded—a wise move, but one that left them unprotected. The uphill slope was hampering their speed, too; amid the dogs’ incessant barking Nok could now hear hooves drumming the earth.

He could save them, he realized. If only—if only he could caul. Would the wolf come to him again?

He sucked in as deep a breath as he could muster and imagined the beast in his mind’s eye: long legs, great shaggy head, fine white teeth long as a man’s finger, the deep swell of its chest, robust like the hull of a ship.

Come to me. Come to me now.

It fell upon him suddenly, like a warm wind. He stumbled at the sensation, then pitched forward violently. But before he could hit the ground a pair of lean muscular legs reached forth and cushioned the fall. His hands crumpled inward before his eyes and unfurled again as enormous paws. All at once he was enshrouded in coarse blue-gray fur, each of his senses heightened—especially smell. It was as though humans experienced smell only in the pale, washed-out grays of ink and water, and the wolf smelled in shrieking, vivid color. There was no time to be bowled over by it, though.

Too slow, he called to the princess. All that came from the wolf’s mouth was a twisted snarl. He cursed himself internally. Stupid! Wolves can’t talk!

But the girl turned to him, eyes widening, and he realized she had heard him, after all. He tried calling to her again: Get on!