The clergyman’s eyes dart nervously to the door. “A Spiriter is rare. One or two are born to a generation. It’s dark magic,” his voice warns. “That’s all I know.”
The clergyman, face pale and with rigid shoulders, stands and ushers me toward the door.
“Can you at least tell me why Cohen is searching for Enat?” Before he pushes me out, a need for answers burns through me. “What does he want from a Spiriter?” I sound desperate now. I don’t care.
“I don’t know. But there aren’t many reasons a man would go looking for a Spiriter.”
Before I can ask him to explain, he swings the entry open and shoves me out. The sun is low in the sky, painting the stones of the church a weak shade of ocher. Another day on the way out, and we’ve not found Cohen. I twist around and breathe a sigh of relief when I find the captain interrogating a stranger on the road.
The moment I reach his side, he turns to me and arches a stern sable brow. “Did you learn anything of value?”
I contemplate keeping the information a secret, but something tells me the captain will see through my lie. “He thought Enat might be a Channeler.”
The captain considers my answer, though he doesn’t respond. Perhaps he’s as confused as me about why Cohen would be after a woman from Shaerdan.
We follow Cohen’s trail to the stonecutter, to the healer, and to an oiler, who tells us that Cohen is at a local inn. Lightning fast, we’re on the captain’s horse and galloping through Fennit.
When the thatched-roof two-story building comes into view, an awareness of something tugs inside. The back of my neck tingles.
Cohen’s here.
The captain’s gaze whips around, and I realize I’ve spoken aloud again. I want to smack myself. Cohen may not even be inside, and the captain will think me a fool.
Captain Omar growls out, “Mackay,” as he drops to the ground with fierce determination in his eyes.
Cohen isn’t in sight, though. Disappointment floods me. I want to see him again. To have one more moment with my old friend before . . . and yet I shouldn’t want such things. I’m a traitor to myself. No matter what we were in the past, we are nothing now.
I slip off the horse to follow when the captain spins back. I slump against the mare’s leg, putting on a show of feeling faint. He frowns, eyes flicking to the inn door. This may be a chance to escape. Never before has he left me with a horse and no guards around—an ideal situation.
“You stay here.” A threat laces Captain Omar’s words as he rushes inside.
Eager for an arrest, the man has left me completely unguarded. As I turn to mount the horse, an arm wraps around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides. I yelp and struggle against the strong hold.
“You didn’t think I’d let them catch me, did you?”
The familiar husky voice floods my senses. Cohen. It takes a beat to realize I’m sinking into his warm embrace instead of combating it. To remember the reason I’m here.
I shove an elbow into his gut. Heel to his foot.
His grunt breathes warmth over my cheek. “Stop moving or I’ll knock you out,” he growls against my ear. “I swear it.”
He loses his grip, freeing my elbow, which I throw back into his face. Hot blood spreads against my skin. I spin to find those hazel eyes that I haven’t seen in fifteen months flash, angry and wild. He shifts and manages to get one arm around mine, clamping my swinging limbs against my torso, while one hand smothers my mouth.
He removes his hand, and I suck in a quick breath and cry, “CAP—”
Cohen smacks a cloth over half my face, forcing me to inhale a sickly sweet scent that scorches my nostrils. Poison! I squirm, twist, buck. My lungs burn with the desperate need to take a breath.
“Shh, shh,” he’s saying as spots dance across my vision.
I gasp for air and the world tilts on its axis.
“Sorry, Dove. I didn’t want . . .” A fog hides his words.
Everything fades.
CHAPTER 9
I HEAR THE CRACKLE AND HISS, THOUGH I CANNOT seem to push off the weighty darkness. It’s been years since I’ve woken like this, half-asleep and conscious at the same time. Somehow I rally enough energy to pry my lids open. A blaze dances in a stone hearth. I try to look around the otherwise dark room, except my vision is spoiled with white splotches of light as dull pain hammers behind my eyes. I blink, making out a straw mattress beneath me. A table by the fireplace. One chair. Curtains over a window.
The last thing I remember was the captain . . . tracking in Fennit . . . the captain told me to stay . . . and then . . .
Cohen attacked me.
I push up against the bedding, needing to stand, and my scars smart from sleeping on my back again. The remaining scabs create the worst kind of itch that’s nearly impossible to reach on my own. Once I’ve managed to sit upright, the vertical position puts a bright burst of pain behind my eyes. An awful sound like a braying of a donkey slips from my mouth, and my fingers clutch my head. Boil me.
“The sleeping concoction leaves a nasty headache.” Cohen stands just inside the doorway.
The sight of him knocks the wind from me like the time I fell out of Papa’s walnut tree. It was ages before my lungs could fill with air—that same aching breathlessness catches up with me now despite my horrid headache. The firelight glances off Cohen’s hair, making his messy brown strands appear sun kissed. His eyes are warm molasses sprinkled with gold dust. His pursed lips . . . The sight unhinges me. What am I doing?