But there’s no room for fear beside this overflow ofregret.
Shay didn’t have a pack. He was always on his own, except for when he was with me.
... Me.
I was his pack.
The realization chokes me, even more so when I recall the way he spoke to me right before I left. One soul-shattering word that echoed a million more …
No.
The nervous energy popping off almost every man in our party is palpable, tightening the air around us—a feeling that’s only amplified since the thread of light falling upon the wiggly path has withered with the setting sun.
Sparked lanterns now provide a plump, protective shield that does nothing to alleviate the sense of being caged.
Watched.
Like the jungle itself is taking note of every crunching footfall. Every nervous glance into shadowed gulfs between trees. Every tightening fist clutching spears.
I’ve spent the otherwise silent journey scanning the jungle, hunting for signs of life and finding nothing.
Not a bird or a moth, or even one of the snakes that apparently likes to nest in pockets of dappled sunlight. But I canfeelsomething out there just as surely as I can the thud in my chest, the peeling flesh on the backs of my heels, and the beads of sweat trailing down my spine.
Once we left the charred footprint of the desolated cliffside town, the jungle thickened, and the air became hot, sticky, and still. Even with the setting sun draining some of the heat, the humidity’s still trapped below the tropical canopy.
My gaze hungers over big, waxy leaves that could double as shade sails, indigo flowers larger than a dinner plate, and vines strangling weepy, downtrodden trees. So used to ancient oaks clothed in lichen and roots that twist up from the soil, every step feels like I’m walking through the pages of a picture book.
The foliage is the color of the sea on an angry, weather-bent day—steel-blue with only the odd pop of green to lighten the mood. Remind me of home.
“You know what I’m looking forward to the most?” Zane asks, trudging along with a spring in his step, a lantern swinging from his lax hand. He seems to be the only one completely oblivious to this tense, suffocating feeling that won’t seem to shake.
Flipping the piece of coal Gage gave me between my sooty fingers, I look down at the back of Zane’s head boasting a rebellious dash of caramel hair he hasn’t bothered to smooth all day. “What’s that?”
“Momma’s fish pie,” he says, and I can hear the smile skating his voice. “It’s the best.”
“Kid’s not lying,” Captain rumbles from behind, his steady footsteps chasing mine. “It’s his grandma’s recipe. His mother and I grew up on that pie. Poor man’s food that somehow made us feel like nobles.”
A scorching trail blazes across my cheek, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck and making me gasp.
I snap my stare to the left.
Nothing.
Just the moody guts of the jungle, lifeless as ever, without even the chirp of an evening cricket to set the scene apart from a complex oil painting.
Even so, my steps slow, hand threading forward, fingers tangling with the back of Zane’s shirt.
He stops, head tipping up to look back at me. “What is it?”
“Not sure,” I murmur, searching every darkened gulley between the trees. “Something …”
“Best we keep it moving,” Captain rumbles from behind me, setting his hand between my shoulder blades and giving me a gentle boost. “All the lanterns are low on oil after the extra week at sea, and the sun’s setting fast.”
I nod slowly, loosening my hold on Zane. “Yes, Captain.”
“Just Gun,” he grunts out. “My ship’s at the bottom of The Andler.”
There’s a restless rustle in the trees, followed by a heavy thud that ratchets through my chest and flames my blood.
