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Blood pounded in my sore hand the wizard had manipulated, as though responding, as though my own body wanted me to know this was real. I blew out a rough breath, shaking my head.
“All right,” I whispered. “Real, then.”
At least for now. Until I found a way to escape this horrid place, I’d assume it was real. In truth, that seemed to be the only way to survive.
One by one, I checked off the next steps. Constant lists were formed in my mind with a plan of what I would do at each hour, each day. All of it was meant to help me survive, to get through the days as painlessly as possible. Whether it was tricky ways to avoid foster siblings as a kid, bullies at school, or Lloyd and his goons’ wandering hands, I planned out the moves to take.
I was wandering through a forest in a pencil skirt, no shoes, and my bare feet sliced and bruised.
Shelter ought to be the first priority. I scanned the trees. Being raised inthe desert did not proffer many survival skills in a cold forest that was filled with magical bone wielders.
Water, then. Every survival show insisted the first thing to do was find fresh water. Okay, this place was clearly free of cars and any ounce of technology—I might be able to risk a drink straight from a river or creek.
Second, my damn hand. My morphed, disfigured fingers trembled. The bastard told me they could fuse this way, so I would need to find a way to stop that from happening. Maybe I could go find the woman I’d met first. She was eccentric but kind enough.
I glared at the battered flesh, recounting everything I knew about the man who’d done this. His face was square and built like he had armor on his bones. Thick and bulky and fierce. Dark hair, and deep-set eyes. But he’d had curious tattoos . . . almost like mine. Some on his fingers, then a beautiful row of runes down his throat.
Obviously, he was a prick for his little spell with my bones, but his tattoos had been fascinating.
A slow grin split over my lips, and I reached down the front of my dress. Tucked between my breasts was a slender knife. Kept in a vambrace on the bulky wizard’s forearm, when I’d knocked against him, I’d wrenched it away, planning to use it before he sicced Aelfled on me.
The handle was lovely, made of a sleek jade stone rimmed in gold. And the blade was a clash of bronze and dark iron. Unique, likely custom. Good. I hoped it was sickeningly expensive and his favorite knife.
With a spin of the blade in my uninjured hand, I tucked it into my bag.
Footprints littered the forest floor near the leather pouch. Large and made from a heavy boot. A feverish heat flooded my cheeks. The trail of steps led deeper into the trees, and if I had to guess, the size and shape of the boot matched the same sort as a horrid wizard with lovely tattoos.
Cruel as he was, the man who’d done this to me was the only one who could likely undo it. Reckless thinking, but I was lost here. Ididn’t know how long I had left to reverse it if his threat was legitimate. Nor did I know the way back to the kind old woman.
I looked to the shadows swallowing his footsteps. He couldn’t be worse than Lloyd. I had his blade and enough intuition to think it must’ve been favored if it had a custom sheath on his arm.
The knife for my hand. Seemed a fair enough trade.
Before I could dwell too long on the stupidity of my plan, I grabbed my bag, and followed the muddy steps carving through the forest.
Only once I discovered a wide dirt road did I consider the instant he had his knife returned—hand healed or not—he could kill me. If he did, I doubted I’d wake to the kindness of an old woman and her mushrooms.
Chatter filtered from up the road. One voice was deep and gravelly, another a low rasp. Once or twice a pitchy voice would follow in laughter or word—a woman had to be with them. I’d known enough brutal women, it would be foolish to think a female presence lessened the risk.
I crouched behind a thick oak and took the knife from my bag. My heart stilled when a twig snapped underfoot. There was a stutter in the voices, but not long enough to think anyone truly heard.
But when I stepped around the tree and entered the road, it was empty. My pulse thudded in my ears. No, I was certain there’d been voices—several—right here.
A small whimper drew my focus. What the hell? Down the road a few paces, a wooden cart was slumped off to the side of the road, a wheel broken off the axel. In front, seated on a stump, was a girl, no older than twelve.
She kept her head down, hugging her knees to her chest, crying into a dirty skirt. Dark ringlets draped over her face, and a few blue ribbons were tied in loose braids. On her waist was a belt with a fur-lined pouch, like an old money purse from history books.
I took a slow step toward the girl until a fierce shriek startled me back. Perched on a tall branch was a hawk, its piercing gaze burning through me. Another cry slid from its beak before it flew away into the trees.
The child eyed the bird, then realized she wasn’t alone. She drew in a sharp breath and started to scuttle backward.
I held out a hand. “Wait. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The girl looked like she’d popped out of a small feudal village, and I was still dressed in a revealing cocktail dress with a battered hand. Doubtless I was the village prostitute in her eyes.
I gestured to her cart. “Do you need some help? Believe it or not, I’m pretty handy.” I smiled and reached out my hand that hadn’t been attacked, tucking my bruised fingers under the fur wrap.
“Soturi bonds?” The girl gasped, glancing at my tattoos. “You, a battle mage?”
