BooksBarbecue
Back We Are Blood and Thunder
Chapters (32)
  1. PROLOGUE
  2. ONE
  3. TWO
  4. THREE
  5. FOUR
  6. FIVE
  7. SIX
  8. SEVEN
  9. EIGHT
  10. NINE
  11. TEN
  12. ELEVEN
  13. TWELVE
  14. THIRTEEN
  15. FOURTEEN
  16. FIFTEEN
  17. SIXTEEN
  18. SEVENTEEN
  19. EIGHTEEN
  20. NINETEEN
  21. TWENTY
  22. TWENTY-ONE
  23. TWENTY-TWO
  24. TWENTY-THREE
  25. TWENTY-FOUR
  26. TWENTY-FIVE
  27. TWENTY-SIX
  28. TWENTY-SEVEN
  29. TWENTY-EIGHT
  30. TWENTY-NINE
  31. EPILOGUE
  32. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

She hesitated, feeling awkward at the revelation, blood rushing to her face. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to be close to anyone in that way. Vigo had been married, had even had a child, but he’d been a qualified mortician. Cryptlings weren’t allowed to touch anyone, let alone marry—and it took years to qualify as a mortician, if you were lucky enough to be as clever and skilled as you had to be in order to pass the tests. Lena had never considered a relationship to be a part of her future. But we’re not talking about me, she reminded herself. “I’m sorry,” she said a little stiffly, after a silence. “It must’ve been awful when she did what she did.” Emris didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness.

He shook his head sadly. “It was awful. I always knew she was different. I think part of the reason we were drawn together was that we understood what it was to be set apart … mistrusted.” He paused, sighed. “But it turns out she was more different than I could have guessed. In fact, I didn’t know her at all.” He turned to Lena, his face a touch lighter, as if the confession had lifted a weight from his mind. “Come on. Let’s try again.”

TWELVE

Last Rites

Gong.

A low bass note thrummed in the center of Constance’s chest. She turned in her sleep, her brow twitching. Nightmares trembled under her eyelids.

Gong.

A storm cloud. A rumble of thunder and a surge of blue-hot pain. Nausea. The touch of burning metal against the skin of her arm. She tried to scream, a whimper escaping her lips.

Gong.

Her father’s broken body pooling blood. Father. The thought jerked her awake and she sat up abruptly. She was alone in the bed, the sheets beside her cold—and suddenly Constance felt cold too. Xander had gone. The whole thing felt like a strange dream.

Gong.

And then she remembered: The bell of the dead. Her father’s Descent. She was late.

She scrambled out of bed, felt a flash of anger that no one had woken her sooner—that she hadn’t woken by herself. It wasn’t like her to sleep late.

She threw on clean clothes and a fur-lined gray cloak and stared at herself in the mirror. A mess. Darkness shadowed her eyes as she pulled her hair into a severe bun and splashed yesterday’s water on her face. No mask today. It wouldn’t be respectful.

Constance took her cane and walked quickly downstairs and into the courtyard. Already a crowd spilled into the great hall. Everyone had dressed in their finest, the colors somber but the fabrics rich and strangely luxurious against their ashen faces and downcast eyes.