Promises to Keep - By Amelia Atwater-Rhodes Page 0,57

“Cat pee never lies. And it’s too dark to travel farther tonight. We’ll have to come up with another plan in the morning.”

Morning came far too soon.

“Brina?”

She mumbled a complaint in response to whoever was saying her name and touching her shoulder. Then her cheek, and her neck.

“Brina, can you hear me?”

She attempted to swat at the irritation, and found her wrist caught. Didn’t they understand she was tired? Couldn’t she sleep a little longer?

“Go away.” Her voice cracked. Her throat hurt. Swallowing hurt more.

“She’s sick?” Exequías asked.

She sat bolt upright, protesting, “Of course I’m not.” But moving so quickly made her head spin and her stomach twist. She gagged, and that made her cough, and once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop.

Oh, God, it hurts.

“Brina, calm down,” Jay said. “You’re hyperventilating.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t understand, no matter what his magic told him about her.

She wasn’t sick.

She couldn’t be sick.

She just needed some air.

She slapped hands away as they tried to keep her from pulling on her boots, and then she shoved her way out of the stifling tent. She fled the accusation of illness. She fled the memory of clutching Angelica’s cooling body. She fled the nights of huddling in doorways, trying to get out of the rain and wondering if the rattling in her lungs was pneumonia, or tuberculosis … or plague.…

Once outside, however, the winter cold cut straight through her. She tucked her bare hands inside her fleece sleeves as she turned back toward the tent, trying to hold her head high as if she hadn’t been panicking.

The campsite had vanished. Her footprints filled in as she watched, as if an unfelt wind were drifting the snow until there was no path to follow back.

“Hello?” she called.

Foolish, she thought. The Shantel never liked our kind.

But I’m not one of my kind anymore.

I’m talking to myself.

She tried to focus, but exhaustion coupled with fever to cloud her thoughts. Maybe if she took a nap, she would be able to think.

“No, stupid,” she said. Now I’m talking out loud to myself. But she kept doing it, because thinking silently was harder. “You can’t sleep in the snow. Humans don’t wake up when they do that. Need to get back to camp. They’ll look for me. Won’t find me, if the Shantel magic doesn’t want them to.”

She started walking. She couldn’t make a straight line. She drifted; she stumbled and occasionally bumped into trees. Her vision was blurry, and it seemed to take a monumental effort to lift each leg.

“Don’t want to die,” she said, over and over, until her throat hurt too much and she couldn’t speak or swallow anymore.

“Brina!”

She turned, awash with gratitude. “Jay!”

He caught her up in his arms. Warmth seeped off him; she snuggled close.

“I tried to tell you before you ran off that I can help you,” he said. “This isn’t like before, Brina. You’re a little sick, but it’s probably just a cold, maybe the flu, but nothing I can’t help with. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

His voice was comforting.

“Let’s get you back to the tent,” he said. “We should eat before …”

He trailed off, which made her glance up. He was looking around, obviously concerned.

“Xeke? Rikai?”

No reply.

“They were right here,” Jay said. “Damn it. I didn’t go that far. I didn’t think we could be split up when we should still be close enough to see each other.” He rested his cheek on her hair.

Brina yelped, startled, as a furry beast suddenly tumbled into sight. Lynx! He yowled, then turned about, took two steps, and glanced back at them with an impatient expression.

“He’s found something,” Jay said. “Let’s go.”

Brina was still a bit unsteady, but it was nice to walk without layers of clothes, the heavy pack weighing her down, and the sled snagging on rocks and brambles every few minutes. Jay’s hand was solid in hers, and his power wove a sphere of warmth around them. Her headache started to fade.

The feeling of unreality continued as they emerged from the forest and found a low stone wall, with deep drifting snow leading up to it but barely a dusting of powder on top or on the other side of the wall, as if the wind and trees and structures had colluded to prevent the snow from falling there. Jay placed one foot atop the wall, twisting to reach back to take her hand, and suddenly her fingers itched for a paintbrush.

A variation on Cernunnos, she decided, the stag lord of