hateful.
I drag a hand over my face when Jules leaves. It’s laughable, really, the idea of soulmates. If the Bone Crier and I really are bound by ritual magic, it’s not because we’re meant for one another. That would mean my father was meant for the woman who killed him, and I refuse to believe he was meant for anyone else besides my mother. Even if I don’t remember her.
“I know why you resist her.” The smugness in Ailesse’s voice claws under my skin.
“You know nothing about me.”
She tilts her head to study my face. She’s filthy from the chalky tunnel water, and there’s a nick at the base of her throat, along with a smear of dried blood. My blade did that. I glance away and rub a knotted muscle in my arm. “I know you have a spark of Elara’s Light,” she says. “Everyone does. It’s the whisper in your head, the thoughts behind your thoughts. It tells you your friend might prick your heart, but she doesn’t pierce your soul.”
I snort. “Your gods aren’t my gods, Bone Crier. They don’t speak to me. They sure as hell don’t dictate my life.”
Her nostrils flare. I’m still a few feet away, but she leans toward me and tucks her bent knees to the side. The movement pulls on her dress, and it falls off one of her shoulders. I try not to stare at the creamy softness of her skin. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy throwing darts with her eyes. “I wouldn’t have chosen you either, Bastien.”
My chest jolts when she says my name. It’s too personal, too familiar, coming from her. Ailesse stiffens. I realize I have a death grip on the hilt of my knife. Her hands close into fists. She’s ready to fight back, despite her bonds and lack of power. A pulse of admiration trips through my veins.
Marcel lets out a loud snore and rolls over, lugging his pack onto his chest. Even in his sleep he’s guarding his book—as well as Ailesse’s bones. Jules stuffed them inside after we entered this chamber and threatened Marcel on pain of death—which means nothing, since Jules says it so often to him—to keep the pack out of Ailesse’s reach.
The worst of my tension diffuses. I let go of my knife and walk over to Marcel. I scoot away his pack with the toe of my boot. It’s the only way to wake him up. I swear he’d sleep if his bed were burning.
He jerks upright and swipes at me with his eyes still closed. I slide his pack out of reach. “Get up, Marcel. I need your help.”
“Why?” He absently licks his lips. “It isn’t morning. I wasn’t dreaming. I start dreaming two hours before dawn.”
Leave it to Marcel to determine the time, even though he can’t see the moon or sun. “We need to sleep during the day from now on.”
His eyes slit open and he peers back at Ailesse, who watches him like a predator. “Oh, right. We’ve stolen a Bone Crier.” He blinks. “And I told Birdie I’d walk with her by the river today—and tomorrow, and the day after that.” He releases a heavy sigh.
“Get out your book.” I toss him his pack. He doesn’t catch it fast enough, and it thunks against his chest. “You want to see Birdie? Start reading.”
His brows wrinkle. “I fail to see the connection.”
I crouch beside him, my back turned to Ailesse. “The queen will track us here as soon as tomorrow night,” I whisper. “We’re not getting out of these catacombs alive unless we form a proper plan to”—I slice my finger across the base of my throat—“her. That involves you doing what you do best: reading between the lines of those Old Galle folktales.”
“Ah, I see.” He pulls into a cross-legged position and glances at Ailesse before he winks at me. Twice.
“Listen, we’ll talk more after the Bone Crier is sleeping, but for now . . .” I scoot closer and lower my voice another notch. “Do you know how strong the queen will really be down here? Will she be able to use any of her bone magic?”
“I think so . . .” Marcel unfastens his pack. “But it will cost her more energy. Eventually, she’ll run out, though I have no idea how long that will take. It isn’t mentioned in any stories here.” He pulls out his father’s book and sets it in his lap. “Unless I’ve forgotten something.” He turns