Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
As much as I want answers, I have to be careful what and how I ask Nigel. I trust him with my life, but I can’t trust all goblins. Anything I tell Nigel becomes part of the greater goblin consciousness, whether Nigel wishes it to or not. Sometimes the wrong people make payment to the right goblin and ask the right question, and information you shared when trying to help your cause suddenly works against you. “How would something like that even work if the gods weren’t behind it?”
“Sacrifice, my child.” His head snaps to the closed door on the opposite side of my chambers. “You have a visitor,” he says. Then he disappears.
After two brief knocks, the door swings open and Misha strolls in wearing riding leathers, a bandolier of knives strapped to his waist, and his sword on his back. “Good afternoon, Princess. I see you’ve returned to your old habits of wasting away the day.”
I barely refrain from springing out of my chair. Instead, I calmly unfold myself and settle my hands on my knees as I lean toward him. “Are you serious?”
He frowns at the strap of my chemise that’s fallen off my shoulder. “Are you denying you’ve been reading in your room since breakfast?” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Hurry and dress. We should leave.”
“You blow me off last night, then for training and breakfast this morning, and now you show up in my chambers and have the nerve to criticize me for how I spend my time?”
His lips twitch. “You missed me.”
“Look who’s full of himself.”
“No.” He leans against my armoire and folds his arms, studying me. “Simply observant.”
“I was led to believe we’d be training together,” I say. His gaze is too knowing, so I study my book, tracing the letters on the cover. “I was worried.”
“I needed to run an errand.” He strolls toward me and pulls a silver necklace from his pocket. The chain is thick and holds an ebony crescent moon charm. The moon is upended, like a cup set to catch rainwater. “To retrieve this from the Midnight Palace.”
My breath catches. “That belonged to Mordeus?”
“Yes.” He tucks it back into his pocket. “Now, get ready. We’re going to see Gaelynn’s witch and confirm what we already know to be true.”
I lift my gaze to his. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”
With a grimace, he narrows his eyes at the view outside my window. “In truth, I was afraid you’d want to go with me, and I thought that if you did, you might want to stay.” He clears his throat. “Since your sister seems incapable of telling you no, I didn’t want to put her in that position.”
I bite back a smile. “Oh. You did it for Brie.”
“She is my friend, Jasalyn.”
“You didn’t do it for any other reason?” I ask, setting my blanket to the side. “Like maybe you’d miss me if I were gone?”
“Look who’s full of herself now.”
“No,” I say, pushing out of my chair and standing toe to toe with him. “Just observant.”
This witch’s cottage is worse than Gaelynn’s sanctuary. While the sanctuary itself left me unsettled, it’s this witch whose presence my instincts tell me to escape as soon as possible.
After I dressed, Misha’s goblin took us to the coast, where a mountain bluff holds a tiny hut that looks like it should’ve been blown away ages ago.
“And this necklace belonged to him?” the witch asks when Misha explains why we’re there. She walks around with a cane and looks every bit as rickety as the old house. Her appearance says she could break if you breathe wrong. Her energy says she could break you if you breathe wrong.
“Indeed. His nephew said it was one of Mordeus’s favorites.”
“Do you need it back?”
“Do whatever you need to do. I just need to know if he lives.”
She spins and drops the necklace into a steaming pot, where it hisses and moans. “He lives,” she says, watching the steam rise. “He lives, but he dies.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. It takes all my courage to stand beside Misha instead of cowering behind him.
“He’s fighting for his life—floating between life and death. He has a body, but it stinks of death and rot. It cannot hold. He’s conscious but is not fully of this world. His magic is weak.” The steam dissolves in the air, and she shrugs. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s all we need to know,” Misha says. “He’s been—is being—resurrected.”
“No. Resurrection is a gift given by the gods alone.” She touches her fingers to her forehead and bows her head, murmuring something, as if saying a prayer of apology to those gods for Misha’s very suggestion.
When she looks up, she braces her hands on the counter. “Is that all?”