She closed her eyes, and with sweet surrender, the headache dissipated. When she looked up again, the darklings were gone. Jack was gone. The sun rose on the horizon, and the last, burnt-out nub of a cigarette dangled in her hand.

  "Well, there's one more night we didn't get killed." She dropped the butt and ground it under her heel. D'aej offered sleepy accord.

  She didn't know exactly how long she'd delayed there, standing in one place passing time with her old friend's memory. Time, fever, magic, dreams...they'd all run together. She might have paused for only a few moments there at the end. Or maybe she'd stood in place for days as the world spun on without her. She doubted it, though. Her stomach would be lodging a far more noticeable protest if that had been the case.

  Her fever had broken, at least, and though her joints still ached, the worst of her complaints faded along with the last traces of night.

  The morning silence broke with the approaching sound of wheels. She spun, and there, coming along at a pleasant clip, came a small stagecoach, drawn by four lovely horses and with two men at the buckboard. They slowed as they drew near, pulling the coach to a stop.

  The driver tipped his hat as he called down to her. "You alright there, miss?"

  She quirked a smile. "Been better. Giant scorpion ate my horse."

  The man beside the driver—a trail-worn character, wearing an eye patch and carrying a shotgun in his lap—laughed. "No kidding. The desert is a dangerous place, didn't you know that?"

  "Care to offer me a ride to the next town?" she asked. "I'm sorry to say I don't have any coin to offer. Before the scorpion, it was thieves. I've had a lousy couple of days."

  The driver, a skinny man with neatly kept, sandy-brown hair, gave her a grin. His pleasant brown eyes shone behind round spectacles. Serenity liked him immediately.

  "Sure thing, little lady, and no worries about the coin. What kind of men would we be if we left a pretty thing like you out here to be eaten just because you didn't have the proper change?"

  He adjusted his specs, peering over the rims to scrutinize her. "You, uh...you look like you might need something in the way of clothing, too."

  Heat rose up in her belly. She'd forgotten the state of her clothing, and there she stood nearly bare-breasted in front of these two strangers. She gathered up the torn ends of her ravaged work shirt and fastened what few of the buttons remained, covering her chest and the scar.

  "No worries," said the brown-eyed man. "We'll have something to loan you, I'm sure."

  "Why'd we stop, John?" a woman's voice called from the cab. Serenity glanced over to see a lovely girl, younger than herself, leaning out the window of the stagecoach.

  A strange sense of recognition passed over her as their eyes met—the girl wore two feathers in her long black hair, and a medicine bag around her neck. She was of the tribal people, like Rook, or at least half-tribal. Judging by the fair quality of her skin and the lack of red in her hair, without the tribal ornaments her ethnicity could easily be missed.

  "Just stopping to see if this nice girl would like a ride, Angel," the driver—John—called back. "Seems she lost her horse to a scorpion a little ways back."

  The girl narrowed her eyes. "River scorpion or rock scorpion?"

  Serenity shrugged. "Big scorpion. Can't say I stopped to check its pedigree."

  The girl swung the door to the wagon open, gesturing for Serenity to come on in. Two other men rode inside with her. The first was a tan, tribal man, a warrior from the look of it, who sat beside the girl with his arm around her. The other, the oldest of the group, wore fine, fancy clothing—a soldier's uniform from the western cities—and kept his thick white hair neatly combed and pulled away in a long ponytail under his swanky white hat. He looked up and reached out a hand to take hers and help her into the wagon, greeting her in an accent she couldn't place.

  "Here now, welcome young lass, welcome! The name's Malcolm Bennett, of the Newstone Bennetts, and my fine friend here is James. You've already met Angel."

  The halfling girl offered her a smile as Serenity sat down and the wagon started moving again. Then her eyes dropped to Serenity's mangled shirt, as John's had, taking in the state of the damage. Serenity imagined Angel might be thinking over what she might have to lend, in terms of suitable traveling wear, but then her gaze flicked back up to meet Serenity's own. Her expression was unreadable. For one awkward second, Serenity imagined somehow, this girl saw more than Serenity sitting across from her.

  "Where are you headed?" James asked, interrupting her thoughts. Handsome in his hand-stitched vest, he bore clan tattoos across his chest and arms, and when he smiled at her she couldn't help but smile back. This one was a charmer.

  "Wherever the lot of you are, I suppose," she replied.

  "Oh, honey, there's a trip you'll be sorry you signed up for," Angel said, and both Malcolm and James laughed in response. Then Serenity saw, with pleasure, the pack of cards the girl produced from up her sleeve and began shuffling expertly with one hand.

  That's all, she assured herself. She saw the scar and recognized the rune. She's a weaver! There's some good luck for me.

  These people were safe, she decided, and friendly. A cluster of good Samaritans ushered in by better fortune. Things were finally starting to look up.

  What about that, Jack? she thought to herself. What about that?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Their little group made it to a town on the desert's eastern border sometime in the late afternoon. John, the bespectacled driver, helped Serenity down from the wagon while his companions unloaded the party's things outside the saloon. The cooling breeze, heralding the coming evening, brought the sweet scent of yellow grasses and field flowers, and the lowing of cattle from a nearby farm. The desert, at last, was behind her.

  "You'll be alright, then?" John asked her. "Will you need any coin to get back on your feet?"

  "No, thank you," she replied with a smile. "I think I'll be fine."

  "I'm sure the church in town will offer sanctuary, should you need a place to stay."

  The suggestion—though hardly an arbitrary one—startled her. The mention of church brought D'aej out of his slumber, luring him back to life for the first time since they'd met the band of travelers.

  Serenity's stomach gave a twinge of discomfort. "I'm...not religious."

  Another damn bible thumper? D'aej demanded, instantly creeping with suspicious, seething dislike. You sure can pick them, Serenity.

  John quirked an eyebrow. "Is that so? The brothers of the Lord are more than happy to give shelter to those who need it. I'll send word along."

  He must not have seen her scar earlier, and the girl called Angel had loaned her a traveling cloak to cover the state of her ruined clothes. She tried to stamp down the flood of guilt bubbling to life in the pit of her gut, thoughts of Tyr Salem, and the priest D'aej had consumed, hovering at the back of her mind.

  "I'll manage," she assured him. Behind them, Angel climbed down from the wagon and scanned the street with careful, critical eyes.

  "John?" Serenity leaned in closer despite the way D'aej rumbled with disgust. "If you're a believer, how is it you travel alongside a weaver?"

  He looked over his shoulder at Angel, and his smile turned sad. "She's a good girl, our Angel. But she's come from hard times, and a rough master. Though I don't agree with it, I can understand how fear, and the need to survive, might turn a person to such dark arts."

  He dropped her a sage wink. "Though I wish she wouldn't make such a show of it in public."

  The streets around them teemed with people, and D'aej nagged at her to be on her way. Any good hotels in this town would fill up with people quickly. Serenity couldn't bring herself to go just yet, though. She searched John's expression, not sure she understood. A believer in accord with a weaver? She'd never heard of it. Weavers kept to themselves. They traveled alone outside of friendly conclaves or with other weavers, not with finely dressed society and churchmen in crowded cities.

  And believers...believers were supposed to hate weavers.

  "Don't think I haven't tried to change Angel's mind," John said. "Bring her into the fold of the Lord, who loves her. But it's a difficult journey, even for the best of us, and for those of us with great pain and guilt in our hearts, well..."

  He shook his head. "I'm running off at the mouth, I'm afraid, and dawdling while my friends do all the hard work unloading the wagon. I wish you the best, Miss Serenity."

  "Thank you," she replied. "And good luck."

  As John slipped away to help his fellows, Serenity crossed the street and passed on into the crowd. Dozens of travelers and merchants and laborers clamored about their business, oblivious to her, and the busy sounds of hawkers competed with the voices of mothers chiding along their children and teamsters bartering their services. A low, pale cloud of dust hovered over them all, kicked up by the passage of hundreds of boots across dry dirt roads, and it gave the late afternoon a hazy, exhausted color. Despite the chaos, though, when Serenity looked back over her shoulder, she could still pick out John helping Angel untie the horses. The smile he turned on the girl was friendly and open. The look she returned was grateful, and kind.

  Serenity shook her head, still not understanding.

  Oh, forget about them, D'aej grumbled. He sounded disgusted, and tugged at her again. It's an act, don't you see? ‘Trying to change her mind'... ‘bring her into the fold'... He's not rushing to see her on the gallows or burn her at the stake, but he's no better than the rest of them.

  "I don't know," she murmured. "I've seen men of the church at work before, D'aej. He's different. They're all different, those folks."

  Different, but not important. What do they have to do with us? Nothing. Come on, I thought you were on a hunt.

  Angel glanced up one last time at Serenity, meeting her eyes with piercing clarity before the crowd swallowed the sight of her, and Serenity thought, for just a moment, a sliver of deeper recognition kindled between them. Something unnerving. She got the distinct impression the half-tribal could read everything written over the planes and lines of Serenity's body. All her secrets put out before the other weaver as plainly as the scar on her chest.

  It made her shiver. Meeting with another weaver should have been an exciting occasion...but this one crept under Serenity's skin.

  "I think she saw you," she whispered to D'aej. The darkling didn't reply. Wary discomfort, like ice water, pooled in the pit of her stomach.

  But then, Serenity found herself jostled to the side by a group of women hustling toward the livery stables at the end of the road. When she looked again, the stagecoach and the good Samaritans who'd rescued her were gone.

  D'aej grumbled, and Serenity knew she wasn't the only one suddenly feeling cold.

  ***

  She hadn't made a habit of traveling with others. Not since her days with Rook, at least, and Rook was different. He was...well, he was Rook.

  After they left Day Fang, he began preparations for her to bind a darkling. Their battle on the peak, Serenity's sudden and incredible surge of raging power—it all must have convinced him. It was time.

  Or perhaps it was M'rath'a who made the decision. After her invasion of Serenity's mind, Serenity wondered if maybe, just maybe, the demons themselves had started to take notice of her.

  Whatever the reason, as soon as they showed the town their backs, Rook set course a second time for the borders of the Rachalör.

  "Why are we heading that way?" she asked him in a soft murmur. She avoided his eyes. She thought she already knew the answer.

  "You are nearly ready, Serenity."

  She didn't reply, keeping her gaze on her hands. Neither of them had said a word yet about their fight with the Lost One, or the spell Serenity cast to subdue him. Or, mercifully, the impulsive overload of power she'd summoned, and the faint that then drove her to a sickbed. Those were subjects she desperately wished to avoid. She needn't have worried, though; for some reason, Rook had turned distant. He ventured ahead, the line of his back stiff and straight. He didn't speak to her. Nor did he brush back his hood, as she'd grown used to him doing once they were alone. She could only conclude somehow, she'd done something wrong.

  Or...and this one was a little voice, a terrible, nasty voice whispering in the back of her mind like a naughty child...maybe he was jealous.

  Jealous his darkling had left him, even if only for a moment, to see what there was in her.

  They spent the entire day in jarring, awkward silence. She hated it; this just wasn't like him. The sun set, and Rook didn't stop. They rode on, well past midnight, until finally he found a deep cave set in the mountain, and announced they would make camp there for the night.

  Serenity dismounted and started to unpack her saddlebags, but Rook put a hand on hers to stop her.

  "Use the runes to do it."

  She stared at him. Jack had constantly warned her against using the runes for simple and petty chores, and Rook himself echoed the sentiments regularly. Why ask her to use them for such a stupid task now?

  "I can manage them myself." She turned back to the bags.

  His grip tightened. "No. Try to use magic."

  "Rook, I'm fine, really—"

  "Do it."

  With a sigh she dropped her hands. "Why? Why use the runes for this? Do you think being sent to a hospital has made me so frail I can't handle my own pack?"

  Now he pushed back his hood, and his golden eyes shone with serious, almost grave light. "Have you taken to questioning me, Serenity Walker?"

  A flush rose to her cheeks. Rook had never taken so harsh a tone with her before.

  "No. It's just...you've told me to reserve magic for better tasks, not simple things I can easily do for myself."

  "I want to see you call the runes." He crossed his arms, stepping away from her. When she only watched him blankly, he nodded toward the bags without a word.

  Unease wriggled in her gut. Then a sudden, bright pain flowered in her head.

  DO it, fleshling, if you're worth anything at all!

  She cried out and clapped her hands to her ears. Then, quickly, the lancing sensation disappeared

  "M'rath'a?" she asked in a quavering voice.

  Rook narrowed his eyes and turned away. "Forget it."

  "No...no, I'll do it, Rook..." She reached a hand toward their bags, but M'rath'a's unexpected outburst brought on an instant and incredible headache. Her vision blurred, and her nose began to bleed as she tried to concentrate on the contents within the sacks.

  "Raidho..."

  The pain slithered between her eyes, making her flinch. Her bedroll and knapsack flipped halfheartedly out of the saddlebags, landing neatly on the ground before her.

  She sat down hard in the snow, head in her hands. Rook knelt quickly at her side.

  "Why did you make me do that?" she snapped, wiping blood from her face and squinting against the pounding migraine M'rath'a left behind.

  "I had to see if you still could," he said, tone soft. "You brought down a mountain on a man, Serenity. You shouldn't have been able to do any more casting for weeks."

  She peered at him through the pain. "Weeks? Are you kidding me?"

  He brushed more blood from her face, holding out his hand for her to see the evidence.

  "Does it look like I'm kidding? You've used an incredible amount of energy, more than an unbound weaver should, and there's a cost to it. You're still young, underdeveloped, and a single weaver with no otherworld counterpart, whereas the man you killed was paired with and possessed by a demon. You blood-kindled your spell, Serenity, and I haven't even thought of teaching you such magic yet!"

  She narrowed her eyes, befuddled. "Blood-kindled?"

  "You cut open your palms and quickened the magic with your blood. I've only ever known bound weavers to do it."

  She blinked. "I cut open my hands?"

  "Yes."

  "That's why there was blood on them?"

  "Yes, the blood was yours, not mine. And that's also why you lost consciousness. It's called fallout."

  She glanced down at her palms. No wounds there; if they'd even been deep enough to think about, there was no evidence of them now. If this blood-kindling was a technique only bound weavers used, how had she known to do it? And would it always have such spectacular results? Her thoughts raced on, jumping ahead to what she could do with this newfound power. Once she had her darkling, and they set out together, to finish the work Jack had started...

  But then...fallout?

  "Why have I never seen you get a bloody nose?" she asked.

  He brushed her hair out of her eyes, a surprising, tender gesture. "Because you've never seen me channel so much energy. Not enough to bring down mountains."

  "Well, I had to stop him," she grumbled, climbing to her feet and picking up her bedroll. "I did what I had to do."

  Rook watched her. The coldness, the stiffness slipped out of his posture, and in their place came something new. His brow creased and he didn't stand, looking up at her from his crouch. His feral eyes seemed to search her as she moved. He looked...concerned.

  And why in hell should he be? This stupid display was his fault, his decision. He'd pushed her. And why shouldn't he? piped up a voice inside her, that part of her which had wanted so desperately to come along with him and learn the ways of the guild. You can handle some pushing, Serenity. It's what you asked for when you signed up.

  Still angry though, and still smarting from the useless trickery he'd made her do, she spun away from him and slunk into the cave to make her camp.

  She spread out her bedroll and lay down right away, more exhausted than she'd been in weeks. She didn't fall asleep, though. She heard Rook follow her and begin arranging a fire. Presently, she felt the heat of it on her back, and his hand closed gently on her shoulder.

  Like Jack, she thought, the old gesture bringing the dullest ache with it.

  "Serenity," Rook said. "Do you feel any better?"

  "No."

  "We need to talk."

  She sighed and sat up. The headache still beat within her ears, but she kept her silence. Her anger had already started dissipating, and she'd remembered she was the student, Rook the teacher. Regardless how much he seemed daunted by what she'd done, she must show him respect, and she must listen.

 

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