THE BARN WAS EMPTY. THIA BLINKED IN THE DIMNESS,WONDERING IF, in her fatigue, she was seeing things. But no, Oskaren was gone.
Dess appeared beside her, pale brows knitted together. “She escaped.”
Thran’s footsteps sounded on the barn floor behind them. “Or someone came to let her out.”
“I doubt it,” Dess said. “But Oskaren is wily, I’ll give her that. Those knots weren’t—”
A furious cry sounded from above, and a lithe shadow hurtled from the beams. Thia screamed, lurching forward as Dess was tackled to the ground.
“Oskaren,” she yelled, recognizing the back of the girl’s ponytail. She wondered if she’d been waiting up there the entire time on the slim chance they might return.
Recovered, Thia found it slightly amusing. A laugh bubbled in her throat, only to halt when Oskaren shoved Dess hard against the floorboards. He bucked his hips, sending both of them into a roll, and thrashed about like trapped animal. Oskaren was several years older, a few inches taller, and nearly as broad, and it took only a few more moments until he was pinned.
“Oskaren,” Thia screeched, sharper this time.
Oskaren turned her head, Dess purpling as her arm pressed into his neck. There was nothing but hate in her eyes, hate and betrayal and furious, furious anger that made Thia’s blood run cold.
She thought of her earlier statement.Heartless people can’t feel angry. Betrayed. Bitter. Heartless people can’tfeel.
Dess rammed his head forward, trying to connect with Oskaren’s. It didn’t reach, but it did force the girl’s attention back on him. She released the pressure of her arms a fraction, and he gasped in a breath, only to still when she yanked a blade from her belt and pressed it to his skin. “Careful, brother,” she growled. “You took away my vengeance. I’m not in a forgiving mood.”
Useless. Thia was useless. Her gaze was pinned on the tip of the dagger, the pool of Dess’s blood gathering on the floorboards. Her mind fruitlessly informed her just how she’d bandage the cut, when what she needed was her feet to move. At the last second, she remembered the knife she’d been given, hanging from her own belt, as everything suddenly seemed to happen in slow motion. She drew the weapon from its sheath as Oskaren leaned forward, and Dess began to choke. There was a brush of wind that carried a curl against her cheek, a shape—Thran—barreling for Oskaren. The thud of body striking body, and suddenly time rushed in as Oskaren went flying back against a stack of hay. She wrestled with Thran, but Dess was on his feet again, blood dripping onto his collarbone as he scrambled over to assist.
They restrained Oskaren. It took several minutes for her to give up. She swore and thrashed and punched until she was soaked in sweat, and then, finally, still. The two men waited for a moment to see if she’d begin again, and when she didn’t, they cautiously dragged her to her feet. Someone had clipped her in the mouth; her rugged lips were swollen and split, red smeared on the corner. There was still murder in her snarl, attention flicking between them and to the blade in Thia’s hand, but she seemed to conclude that attacking all three of them together would not be wise.
Silence rang in the barn. Nobody moved.
Then Oskaren spat a glob of blood onto Dess’s face.
“Argh,” he spluttered, wiping it off, face whitening with anger. He raised his hand and probably would have thrown a punch if Thran hadn’t grabbed his fist.
“Enough,” the older man said quietly.
Dess appeared incredulous. He opened his mouth to retort, but Oskaren spoke before he could.
“I assume you didn’t see the king, since you’re all still breathing.” Her voice had regained some of its usual disinterested coolness.
“Actually,” Thia said, taking too much delight in the girl’s flinch of surprise. “We did. And he said he would help us.”
“Liar.”
Thia shrugged.
Oskaren stared her down. “Then what”—her voice dropped dangerously—“are you doing here?”
Thia exchanged a glance with Dess.
The boy cleared his throat. “We need you to tell us how to get to Xercae’s lair.”
Whatever Oskaren had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. She frowned, glancing between them. “Why?”
“Because,” Thia stalled, trying to decide if she should lie. “Callista told the king I’m a witch-slayer. He asked us to bring him Xercae’s head in exchange for his aid.”
What the girl made of that, Thia couldn’t tell. Oskaren’s face stayed neutral.
“Tell us,” Thia urged. “You still want your vengeance, right?” Dark eyes met hers. She told herself the strange skip in her chest was fear, and not intrigue at the intensity she found there.
“It is all I want,” Oskaren said.
