Turning, he began to run. The sound of a horn lifted through him, and he ran faster. But this time, he was running toward something, not away. It would take time to sunder the curse that cut him off from the lines. Dali knew the how of it, if he could get to him in time.
A thud of feet hitting the earth struck him like a slap, and he instinctively dropped. He had nothing but his fists and feet, and he promised he’d never be powerless again. The moonlight spotted his haggard robe, hiding him among the fronds and decaying leaves. He held his breath, eyes darting to the staggering shape grasping for balance against a pine tree only to fall amid the prickly branches. How had they found him so fast? Had there been a second ring of hunters?
“Oh, God. That hurt . . .” A woman swore, and then there was the sound of someone vomiting.
Newt? Shocked, Gally peeked over his arm, taking in the smallest slip of air though his lungs screamed for more. A horn lifted anew, and together they turned. It was her sudden hunch of fear that struck him. It was Newt.
“Newt!” he whispered as he scrambled up, and she started, almost falling again.
“No!” she shrilled, and he sprang forward, clamping a hand over her mouth and dragging her into the shadows.
“It’s me! Be still. It’s me!” he exclaimed, voice hardly more than a breath in her ear. His mind was spinning. He’d left her. He thought she was dead! But here she was, wearing a black shift, as unadorned and plain as if in mourning. No demon wore black. And when had she had time to put it on?
An elbow hit him in the gut, and he tightened his grip. “Quiet!” he hissed. “Can you run? They’re right behind us.”
She became still, and he cautiously eased his grip. Something was wrong with her eyes, and he watched her squint, her eyes almost screwed shut though the moonlight was thin. “This way,” he whispered, never letting go of her hand as he stood and began to run. Immediately he slowed as she stumbled into motion. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered, turning to help her over a fallen tree. “You told me to run. I saw him hit you.” He hesitated, slowing to orient himself. There was a hole nearby. If they could make it, the hunters would never follow them belowground. “Newt?”
He stopped, and she came to a breathless halt, lungs heaving as if having run the length of the ever-after. Eyes on the sky, she stared at the swollen moon as if lost. Behind them, the horns blew, closer.
“I wouldn’t have left you if I thought you were alive,” he said. “It did work, didn’t it?”
Her eyes met his, and his lips parted. They were black, as black as the robe she wore.
“Where . . . ,” she rasped, then shook her head as if it were buzzing. “Do I know you? I do, don’t I?”
The horns were getting closer. Panic edged out his earlier anger. He had something to protect now. He had to get her underground. Lips pressed together, he scooped her up and began to run. “Kalla hit you hard,” he said, struggling though she didn’t weigh more than a child. The scent of linen and silk lifted to him, carried by the moist night. She smelled clean. Had they dressed her for auction and she’d slipped them again? He hadn’t been running that long! “Newt, did it work?” The stars help them if it hadn’t.
“Did what work?” she whispered, almost oblivious as she stared at the trees overhead.
“The curse! Did it fixate on Kalla? Will it spread like a plague to the rest until they’re all infected and can bear nothing but a child destined to fail?”
“I . . . I—,” she stammered, and then, “Why are we running?”
Gally frowned. “Maybe you’ll remember later,” he said, not knowing what he was going to tell Dali—if they managed to survive. That she was alive was a miracle. “You hit your head really hard. Maybe that’s why you didn’t fry your brain doing the curse.”
“Curse?”
The faintest thump of hoofbeats echoed against the insect-laden air. Instinct pulled him to a stop, his eyes darting upward as a light exploded into existence. Blinking profusely, Newt lifted her head, her black eyes glinting. It was Kalla. He was close, or he wouldn’t have given his position away.
“We’re not going to make it,” Gally said, shifting her light weight to set her feet on the ground. “We’ll have to hide and hope they pass us over. Here. Down here!”
“On the dirt?” she protested loudly, and his expression twisted.
“Just do it!” he whispered, dragging her down with him and covering her with a fold of his dirty robe.
But she wouldn’t stay still, head cocked as she fingered the moss before her nose as if never having seen it before. The scent of her clothes reminded him of a fresh winter night. She dug beneath the green, lips parting when her fingers came away red, as if she’d found the earth’s blood.
“We’re in the ever-after,” she whispered.
Will she just shut up? he wished, wondering if the clean smell of her was going to give them away. “Yes, we’re in the ever-after. And the elves are alive and hunting us. Just . . . bear with me. You hit your head. It’s bound to come back. And be quiet unless you want them to catch you and beat you.”
She became still, the moving moon finding her face and lighting it to show her sudden confusion. “I don’t remember. The Goddess is laughing. Can you hear her?”
“Will you close your mouth!”
“I remember . . . I was alone,” Newt said, shaking her head again until Gally put a thick, scarred hand on her skull and shoved her face down. “She said she could fix that. If I trusted her,” she finished, muffled and whispering.
Trust the elves’ Goddess. That’s what had started all this—belief in something that never existed. Hand still on her head, Gally listened. The insects were silent. Either she’d shut up or he’d knock her unconscious. Maybe she’d burned her brain out after all. He couldn’t believe she was alive.
“What did you do to your thumb?” she said, and he stiffened when she ran a slow finger across the missing tip.
“If you don’t be quiet, I’m going to kill you myself—” He gasped, fire lighting through him as the strength of a line jolted him. His hand ached, and he snatched it from her, only now seeing that her cracked and damaged skin was whole and unblemished.
She is communing with the lines, he thought, the impossibility pushed out by another. My hand is whole!
Shocked, he felt his hand, jerking back at the sensitivity of it. “How . . . Who taught you that?” Grabbing her wrists, he traced her clean skin. “Your burns are gone! Newt . . .”