Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

Ironwood swung the astrolabe toward her temple, heavy and unyielding, and it narrowly missed crushing her skull. But she was off-balance, and Ironwood seized the advantage and dropped his head, charging her with a rough yell, throwing her down onto her back. Etta’s breath left her in a rush as she rolled to avoid his next blow, but not quickly enough. Ironwood caught her by the hair and yanked her back down, hard enough to tear a clump of it out at the roots. The knife was out of her hand and in his, the blade flashing in the moonlight.

“You want this?” he cried, holding the astrolabe in front of her face. Etta reached for it, but Ironwood drew it back so sharply, so suddenly, that it went flying from his sweat-slick fingers. With a cry, he dove for it, but Etta yanked his leg back and dragged herself forward, snatching it just long enough to throw it as hard as she could into the dark forest, out of his reach.

Etta couldn’t hear the words he screamed at her over her thundering pulse, she only felt him slam her back to the ground, flipping her over again, his spittle flying in her face. She kicked, trying to claw at his face, but the knife was back in his hand and suddenly at her cheek, dragging the blade down against it. He closed his other hand over her throat.

“You did this, all of you, you did this—”

Etta reached up, trying to drive her fingers into his eyes, her broken nails clawing at his face.

“Rose,” he howled down at her, his eyes unfocused, “Rose Linden! Are you satisfied? Are you satisfied?”

The sound the blade made as it pierced him from behind, the sickeningly wet thump and the spray of blood across her face, would never leave Etta as long as she lived. Then the blade was torn back through his body, and she was forced to watch as he choked on his own hot blood, his hand pressed to the gaping wound in his chest. His head turned as he slumped to the side, his fingers finally becoming lax enough for Etta to scramble out from underneath him.

“No,” Rose said, wiping her blade against the side of her tattered white robe. “Now I have my satisfaction.”

Etta stared up at her from the ground, willing the feeling back into her limbs. Her mother stared down at her, her skin tight over delicate bones.

“Rose!”

Henry’s voice echoed down from the top of the mountain path. Rose turned—not toward the sound, but behind her, just as the man in the golden robe slashed a clawlike blade over her throat.

NICHOLAS HEARD ONLY ETTA’S SCREAM.

It flew to him over the sounds of savage fighting and the moans and begging of the wounded.

“Oh God,” Sophia said, swinging around, searching for its source. Li Min took her hand and led them both out of the tent at a full run. Nicholas tried to dash after them, but he stumbled, his entire right side limp. He cursed his body, the weakness that threatened to dissolve him at his joints, the Belladonna—

But then there was an arm around his side, and his arm was being thrown over a shoulder, and Julian was there, sweat-soaked and grim. He glanced over at Nicholas, and at his brother’s nod of acquiescence, dragged them both forward.

The last of the travelers shoved themselves through the burning mouth of the tent, only to be pursued by the Shadows, who left the massacre inside to claim more lives. Nicholas turned to look back, taking stock—there were dozens of bodies on the floor, both travelers and Shadows alike. Nearly the whole of Ironwood’s traveling force, and an equal number of Thorns. More dead than he had ever realized were alive.

How many of our kind survive now?

Near the entrance a woman was crawling, laboring through the gore and flames to an older man, crying, “Father—Father?” Beside her, another man rocked the unmoving body of a younger one, weeping.

Julian hurried by, and then they followed the path the silvery smoke was taking, along the mountain path. But no sooner had they taken a few long strides down it than the nightmare claimed them, too.

For there was their grandfather, choking on his last gasps of life, clawing at the ground beneath him.

There was Rose Linden in Henry Hemlock’s arms, her hand pressed to the line of blood at her throat.

There was the man in gold, striding toward the dark line of the forest, searching.

There was Etta, illuminating them all with the single torch in her hands. There was Etta, throwing it as hard as she could. The fire spun end over end, striking the back of the ornate robe, right where a powerful sun had been embroidered.

The blaze took hold like a spark on brittle parchment. The sound, the whoosh of purifying, ravaging fire as it caught the ends of the man’s hair and lit him like a fuse, would never leave Nicholas, however long he lived. Nor would the look of quiet disbelief as the alchemist’s son looked back over at his shoulder at a sobbing Etta in the instant before he was fully engulfed.

Li Min and Sophia stood a few feet from them on the path, thunderstruck by the sight. He had to believe it was the stink of scorched flesh that made Julian gag. Voices shrieked from the forest, ragged and almost inhuman. Li Min staggered, clutching at her chest as if feeling something release there. Sophia caught her before she fell, but Li Min could not tear her eyes away from where the body of the man was still burning.

They approached slowly.

“—had to be her.” Rose was struggling with each word, her hand clutching Henry’s arm, her eyes locked on his stricken face. “My baby—Shadows—”

“Shhh,” Henry said, trying to stanch the flow of blood from the cut with fabric torn from his robe. “Don’t speak just yet—it will be all right—be still, darling, be still.”