Page 70 of The Crowned Queen

“No,” Garrick snapped, dragging her back so hard that Araya’s head spun, bile flooding her mouth.

Kai took another step, his hand closing around Araya’s other arm. “She’s no good to anyone dead, sir. She needs a healer⁠—”

“She doesn’t leave my sight,” Garrick said, his voice cold. “Now, run along, Kai. This is no place for you.”

For a heartbeat, Araya thought Kai was going to argue. But instead he swallowed hard, his hand dropping away from Araya’s arm.

“Of course, sir. You’re right,” he said, taking a half step back. “I’m really sorry about this.”

Sorry— Araya blinked. That didn’t make sense. Kai didn’t have anything to be sorry about, not to Garrick, at least. He’d always done everything the Arcanum asked of him⁠—

Kai stepped forward again, driving the sword in his hands deep into Garrick Shaw’s stomach.

All three of them stared at it, watching bright red blood soak his shirt around the blade sticking out of his stomach. Garrick opened his mouth, blood flecking his lips⁠—

Kai yanked the blade free.

Blood soaked Garrick’s shirt, his coat, the dirt at his feet. Whatever he had been about to say dissolved into a wet, choking cough, lost forever. He staggered back a step, swaying dangerously⁠—

But the vines surged in before he could fall.

They struck from every direction. One wrapped around his ankle. Another, his wrist. Still more wound around his chest, his neck, his shoulders—until Garrick Shaw vanished entirely beneath a writhing, pulsing mass of green.

Garrick Shaw was dead.

Araya’s knees buckled, the world tilting dangerously. Garrick Shaw was dead⁠—

“Whoa—” Kai lunged forward, barely catching her before she hit the ground. “No collapsing. We still have to get out of here and, well, fuck.” He let out a thin laugh, staring at the place where Garrick’s body had been. “Please tell me you can keep it from doing that to us.”

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Loren cut across camp, passing the cook fire where Brynn sat with Caela and Naeva, practicing making small balls of fire in her hands before tossing them into the fire. Beside her, Caela worked her way through a pile of fat partridges, passing the plucked carcasses to Naeva to dress and thread onto the sharpened spit.

Serafina had claimed the main house, directing the group into transforming it into a makeshift infirmary and central meeting space. Still, Loren was surprised at the progress she’d made. The destroyed roof had been covered with young branches, woven tightly together and packed with moss and mud. The canvas she’d hung across the space where the door used to be was pulled back, revealing the original stone floor, now clear of debris and swept clean. Finn sat at a heavy wooden table that had somehow survived the elements, watching Serafina fuss over the fire blazing in the hearth.

“There you are.” Serafina straightened, a weary smile on her face. “I was just brewing your new batch of tea.”

“Is it not ready yet?” Loren asked, half-hoping it wasn’t. Not feeling her suffer didn’t mean it wasn’t happening.

“Oh—” Serafina turned away from the hearth. “No, that’s not what I meant. We still have the rest of the old batch in the flask.” She limped over to her bag, rummaging through it for the battered metal flask. “Sorry, I know you hate it.”

Loren tipped the flask back, grimacing at the bitter dregs. “It’s just until we get her back,” he said.

“Exactly.” Serafina flashed a weary smile, leaning on Finn. “And now that we’re here we can make a plan on how to do that, right?”

“I need to talk to Loren about something.” Finn said, an expression Loren couldn’t read flashing across his face. “You should sit, Sera. You’re dead on your feet.”

“I’m fine,” Serafina insisted. But she didn’t argue as he ushered her into his seat, her face pinched with pain as she straightened her bad leg.

Loren expected Finn to take him over to the cook fire. The others had gathered there, Caela’s bright laugh rising up over the crackle of the flames. But instead Finn cut across camp, carefully navigating through the gap in the perimeter runes.

Loren fell into step beside him, their boots crunching over old leaves as they moved away from the cluster of houses. They walked until the sounds of camp faded away, replaced by quiet birdsong. There had been no signs of the vines that had attacked them since their first day under the trees, but Loren couldn’t help but scan the underbrush for any sign of movement. The shadows coiled around his ankles, reflecting his own unease back on him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“She can’t do this,” Finn said. “Losing the horse changed everything. I’m sorry, we should have brought Thorne instead.”