The Arcana Chronicles 3: Dead of Winter

I sighed. Just over a year ago, I’d been in high school, making friends with such ease.

Then I caught a fragment of conversation coming from the other side of the tent—about Jack. Was that Rodrigo?

Sidling closer, I eavesdropped as he told another soldier how the hunter had single-handedly ganked dozens of Baggers last night—with nothing but a tire iron.

After Jack had promised me not to take unnecessary risks?

The. Hell.

I strode over to the pair. “Rodrigo, can I talk to you for a second?” Something in my tone made the other guy scurry off.

Rodrigo swallowed. “Sure?”

“You were exaggerating about Jack. Right?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, relaxing a touch. “Some of the older guys didn’t believe the rumors about Deveaux and Baggers, so they told him to nut up or shut up. I saw him charge into a horde with my own eyes. That guy’s fearless.”

Jack had broken his promise to me—the same night he’d given it. “Thanks. Uh, carry on, soldier.”

When he wandered off with a bemused grin, I pulled that red ribbon out of my pocket.

Why did Jack feel he could risk himself like that? Maybe he did have a death wish.

By the time Aric and Jack emerged, I’d decided not to confront him. For now. We were too close to freeing Selena; nothing could get in the way of that. Not my anger, not his disregard. “Well?”

“That man could dish out the torture, but couldn’t take it, no.” Jack scrubbed a palm over his chin, his scarred knuckles bloodied. “He told us the twins are in a blast-proof bunker.”

“It’s over a day north of here,” Aric added. “High in the mountains and accessible only by horse. A place they call the Shrine.”

Milo could be lying. “Can you trust what he says?”

“Ouais. I usually got a good sense about these things, and I think he spilled some truths—in between spitting out teeth like yellow Chiclets. Just to be sure, I can confirm.” Jack unclipped a transceiver from his belt. “Got the jammers turned off, me. You ready to ring up the twins’ bunker?” I might have been mistaken, but I thought he’d asked me and Aric.

“Let’s do this.” I held my breath as Jack hailed them.

And released it with dread when we received no answer.

34

“I can’t remember when I last beheld such a show.” In the doorway of our roadside shelter—an old clapboard church—Aric stood silhouetted by lightning. Bolts teemed across the black sky.

Inside, Jack was inspecting the explosives he’d requisitioned from the army. Milo was tied up, fettered to a rough-hewn pew. So I’d joined Aric to watch the fireworks.

After pushing for miles through a brutal squall, we’d found this isolated, still-standing church and rewarded ourselves and our horses with a few hours of rest.

In the nearby graveyard, the tombstones were all crooked and scorched, as dark and foreboding as Aric’s armor. When we’d first stopped, he’d breathed in deeply amid the crosses, headstones, and slabs, so at home that I’d raised a brow. “I like churches,” he’d said with a grin. “Graveyards especially.”

Even though he’d named his horse Thanatos and he’d discovered his armor on a corpse in a bone crypt, I’d never thought of Aric as so, well, death-y.

This wasn’t off-putting to me. In fact, I found his fascination with deathly things attractive, because it was a part of him.

A particularly fearsome bolt spanned the sky. “I could almost swear the Tower called this down upon us,” Aric mused. “In past games, he was this powerful.”

“I can barely imagine that.”

Aric’s noble face was relaxed. A hint of blond stubble had regrown over the day. Bolts reflected in his amber eyes until his irises appeared on the verge of starlit.

As I gazed up at him, I realized my feelings for him continued to deepen. I might be . . . falling for him.

Really falling.

“The Tower could throw javelins from both hands, with lightning combusting between them,” Aric continued. “The first time I encountered him, I was awestruck by the spectacle. To my detriment. I was new to the game, just sixteen.”

Right after he’d left his home. After his parents . . . I shivered.

He straightened at once. “You’re freezing. Come back to the fire.” He led me inside.

The church’s roof had a couple of burnout holes; Jack and Aric had made our fire beneath one. At times today the two had almost appeared to get along.

Without a word between them, they’d dismantled a pew for firewood and secured the horses in an adjoining alcove. Sword and bow raised, they’d cased the immediate area for Bagmen. As if by unspoken agreement, they’d disguised their animosity, presenting a unified front to Milo.

Their dynamic was changing. It had started when they’d stormed the slaver boss’s house together. It’d continued evolving with our victory at Azey North. Their mutual scorn of Milo had seemed to blunt their hatred of one another.

Were they still enemies who would murder each other?

Absolutely.

But they might not savor the kill as much as they would’ve before.

“I didn’t mean to take you from the show,” I told Aric.

“I’m keen to get to my translating.” He ushered me to the fire across from Jack.

I sat cross-legged, raising my waterlogged hands to the flames. I could feel Milo’s hateful gaze—two pale eyes surrounded by bruises. He twisted his bound hands, as if he longed to strangle me. Good luck with all those broken fingers.

“Obviously, you don’t know this, Empress”—his swollen lips and missing teeth distorted his speech—“but you ride with the very one who killed you in the last game! He’s played you false!”

“Nope, I knew. He decapitated me. Blah.” I sounded blasé. I was anything but about our history.

“Then you’re even stupider than I thought.”

Like a blur, Aric was in front of him. “Now, Milo, we talked about this. Remember? You do not speak to her unless you’d like to be castrated by horse hoof.”

“She’s about to know agony as never . . .”

Death slowly shook his head with such menace that the man swallowed. That got Milo to shut up—at least to me. The moment Aric left him, the man turned to Jack. “It doesn’t matter how many explosives you stole from me, you’ll never breach the Shrine.”

“Non? You sure sound confident for a man who spent the day hog-tied over a saddle.”