Page 26 of Starchaser
Jack winces, holding up a finger. “Your father wishes to see you,” he says quickly. “He’s asked that you check the wards… again.”
Will blows out a terse breath, casting his eyes skyward as if in silent prayer. “Of course.” He grinds his jaw. “I’ll be right there.”
Jack retreats in a flash, leaving Will and me alone once more.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Will says, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. As he draws back, he flourishes a single purple rose—a mystik, a rare bloom cultivated by only the most talented bonewielders—offering it to me as if he pulled it from thin air.
I take the flower, but my stomach sours when I realize why Will’s father has called him away. If he’s asked Will to check the wards that protect the manor, the Castors must be on high alert since the Underlings managed to invade on Reckoning Day.
“Owen’s already been invited inside the wards,” I say.
As a Shifter, my brother spent months haunting the halls of Bludgrave Manor. He killed the Hackneys, horrifically leaving their eyes for me to find. He taunted me. Toyed with me. Ithink about his warning on the train—William Castor is lying to you. Another ploy to convince me I’d be better off joining Morana’s army, the Guild of Shadows, than staying with Will. It’s another twisted game. Only this time, I refuse to play.
Will scowls, but his eyes soften. “It’s not just Owen I’m worried about.”
I grip the stem of the flower as if it were the hilt of my dagger, attempting to mask the way my hand twitches. He’s referring to the ambush before we boarded the train. The attacker seemed to imply he wasn’t an Underling, which eliminates the assassin being Owen.
He runs a hand through his hair, sighs. “I’m not sure who’s hunting us—huntingyou,” he says, stepping out into the hall. He glances left, then right, ensuring we’re alone before he adds, “But I intend to find him, whoever he is, and when I do…”
I suppress a shudder at the memory of Will’s bloodlust on Reckoning Day—of the kind of violence he’s capable of if he was to lose control again.
“You won’t do anything,” I say, and Will quirks a brow, seemingly intrigued rather than taken aback. It’s as if the very thought of Will being the one to find my attacker—to be the one to make them bleed—sends a fresh wave of anger through me. My entire life, I’ve been forced to run and hide—to live in fear of those who sought to kill me. First, enemy pirate clans like that of theDeathwail, then Nightweavers, then Underlings, and now this assassin who thinks he can tell me where I can and cannot go. No longer. “I intend to find him first.”
Will’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “For his sake, I think it would be better if you didn’t.”
As I lie in mycot, listening to Margaret snore, I stare at the grate above, expecting to see Owen’s watchful red eyes peering down at me. It’s strange to think that only one year ago, I would have been asleep in my bunk aboard theLightbringer, with my siblings all around me and Owen only a few feet away.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Owen’s face warning me aboard the train. He seemed…differentthan he was on the night he attacked me on Reckoning Day—afraid almost. Desperate. What must it be like for him, forced to serve Morana, even at the cost of hurting the family he once loved? I wonder—is he still capable of love? Does he feelanything—guilt for Father’s death, shame for all he’s put us through?
Does he even wish to be saved?
The door to my room creaks open, and I bolt upright, the daggerMargaret gifted me already in hand. There’s a quiet squeak, and the scuffling of tiny feet, and when I squint in the darkness, I can just make out the little brown mouse scurrying across the room. I chuckle at myself and take a deep breath, attempting to calm my frayed nerves as the mouse squeezes through a thin crack in the wall.
Suddenly, a shadow passes over the floorboards, and my gaze snaps to a dark figure looming in my doorway.
I don’t wait for the figure to enter my room, and I don’t give them the chance to catch me off guard. In a few nimble movements, I slip into the hall through the crack in the door and pin the intruder against the wall, the blade of my dagger pressed to their throat.
Will’s green eyes sparkle with intrigue as he flicks a glance at the dagger.
“It’s me, my darling,” he whispers, his voice as soothing and gentle as a lullaby. “It’s just me.”
I blow out a tight breath, my heart hammering against my sternum as I remove the dagger, sheathing it in my boot. “You’re lucky I didn’t gut you where you stand,” I hiss. What I don’t tell him is that I’ve been looking for an opportunity to let off some steam, and he almost found himself on the receiving end of a few months’ worth of pent-up aggression.
But Will appears unaffected by his brush with death. Instead, he grins, his dimples on full display as he offers me his hand. “Next time, I’ll announce myself.”
I take his hand, threading my fingers through his, and together, we hurry along the route I took dozens of times on my way to a secret rendezvous with Will at the conservatory. It’s strange having Will by my side, and I only wish it could be this way all thetime—that we could always be together, never forced to hide our affections for each other.
When we reach the stables, it’s nearly midnight. Moonlight filters through the skylight, dappling Caligo’s dark coat silver. Caligo snorts in greeting, and I smile, stroking his face.
“I missed you, too,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. He snorts again, and out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of Will’s expression—a mixture of shock and delight that looks almost comical.
As I set to work saddling Caligo, I’m surprised at the way the simple task feels second nature to me now, as if I’ve been saddling horses my whole life, and again grief seizes my heart when I think of how much things have changed—howI’vechanged.
“What have we here?” comes a voice, and my heart skips a full beat before I recognize it. Titus sits atop his stallion as he guides the horse into the stables but doesn’t dismount. In the flickering lantern light, he appears starker, more battle-seasoned—like the commander of armies the legends portray. My stomach sours when I notice the blood splattering his princely garb.
“Where have you been?” I ask, and the words sound harsher than I intend.
His expression is taciturn, all but for the slight lift of his brow. “Hunting.”
