Page 164 of The Poison Daughter
“Bullshit.”
She had to have found it. Maybe in the library archives. We have never needed to hide such things, so it’s possible that I missed tucking a map away.
She drags the toe of her boot across the dirt in an arc and licks her lips. “Gaven may have talked to one of your huntsmen when he was a bit in the bottle.”
“Divine deliver me,” I grumble under my breath.
“What’s in there?” she asks.
“Farms grown by sunstone. Small rooms for families. We spent a year fully underground and then slowly took back the fort level by level.”
She doesn’t tease me about that. For all of her terrible qualities, a lack of compassion isn’t one of them. It’s possible she just feels guilty that it’s her family’s fault we have to rebuild in the first place.
Still, I saw it when we first rode into the fort and she stared at the scar in the wall. I see it again now as she peers into the dim tunnel and listens. She respects our grief.
I feel exposed. Being here reminds me of the literal and figurative darkest moments of my life—of too much time spent in bed, my bodystrange and sick and restless at the same time. I can’t think about that time without feeling the same stomach-plunging sadness I felt when I first woke up and found out that Holly was gone.
There are many things I’ve elected to share with Harlow for the sake of building trust, but this wasn’t one of them.
She steps out of the doorway, brushing her finger over my chest as she strides back into the sunlight and swings the door closed.
“Don’t look so grumpy, Henry. It’s a bodyguard’s job to know the ways in and out and any evacuation possibilities. If he couldn’t get the information on his own, he would have already made it your problem.” She nods to the trail. “Come on, let’s go. Gaven will worry if I don’t check in when he’s expecting.”
“Does Gaven normally keep up with you?”
She grins as she starts down the trail, again at an all-out sprint. “Yes, and he hates every moment of it, but he must be the healthiest fifty-something man in Lunameade. We’ve been doing this since I was young.”
I’d assumed her constant whining about running was just to get under my skin or to see as much of the fort as possible. And while I do think those are added benefits to her, she really does seem happy now that she’s moving. This is a part of her routine that I can grant her here—probably the only part.
We cut down the narrow trail, keeping the fort wall to our right and the houses and businesses to our left as we descend to the next level through the perimeter gate.
“Are there gates like this on both walls of the fort?” Harlow hardly even sounds winded.
“Yes,” I gasp. “These smaller gates stay open during the day, but they’re locked up at night to funnel everyone through the central path.”
“So you don’t need as much guard coverage,” she says.
“Yes. But these doors can be opened during a breach, depending on where and how many people we need to move, and the final fallback is the caves. There’s a heavy, reinforced door on the inside that gets locked in place once everyone is safely inside,” I explain.
I’m grateful she doesn’t say anything else, not just because I don’t want to think about my time in the caves, but also because I’m embarrassingly winded.
We pass several off-duty guards jogging in the opposite direction. They ignore Harlow and nod at me. That’s not a good sign, but Harlow continues on, unbothered.
“Interesting that you let the trees grow within the perimeter of the fort. Don’t you worry it will provide cover if the Drained get in?” she asks as she leaps over a large rock.
“It’s not always practical to go beyond the fort walls for wood, and people miss nature. We tried to keep it as present inside the walls as it is outside. Everyone who lives here deserves to enjoy the wild without the fear of being attacked.”
She bounds through the narrow gate to the next level, seemingly satisfied with my explanation.
We run through the next two levels in silence, nothing to distract me from my panting but the sight of her fine ass in those tight pants and the desire to beat her in this race for no reason other than pride.
Harlow casts a glance over her shoulder at me. “Have I ever told you your aura is different?”
The question is so out of the blue and so unnerving that I stop breathing for a second. “Different how?”
“Well, all auras are unique, but yours is—” She stops and glances at me again.
The longer it takes her to describe me, the more afraid I am of what she’ll say. I knew she could see magic, but I didn’t realize the level of detail and the way it could ruin all of my well-laid plans.
