Page 91 of The Dead Queen

A sense of doom crawls up my spine. “It’s much too early for twilight.”

In a rush, the air grows colder. It blows my long auburn hair around my face like a windstorm. From the darkened horizon, a thick fog seeps across the ground. It swirls around our feet, then rises steadily until it envelops us completely. In moments, visibility drops to almost nothing.

“Hunter!” I call.

Someone grabs my hand and squeezes it tight. I turn to find him at my side. He’s hazy, but visible this close. I let out a breath of relief.

“Sienna, don’t let go of my hand.” His voice is quiet and cautious.

I nod, even though I’m not sure he can tell.

Tristan emerges from the fog a few feet away. “Stay close,” he says. His eyebrows pinch together with concern.

“Is it shadow magic?” I ask.

Tristan stares into the swirling gray. “I don’t think so.”

He reaches for my free hand. Even now, in these dire circumstances, I hesitate to take it. But we’ve come this far with the Wolf. It’s time to drop the pretense of mistrust.

When I wrap my fingers around his, a warm, tingling sensation climbs up my arm. My power flares to life inside me and I flush with heat, but I ignore it. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Slowly, we inch through the fog, careful not to trip over one another or the desiccated bodies left to rot in this place. When we come upon an overturned cart, Tristan kicks over sun-weathered crates until he finds something useful.

“Here,” he says, handing me a long, worn rope. “Tie the middle around your waist. I’ll take one end.” He looks to Hunter. “You take the other. We’ll be able to move faster without getting separated.”

For once, Hunter doesn’t push back or give Tristan any grief. That’s how I know he’s as worried as I am. Once the rope is secure around us, Tristan takes a few tentative steps ahead. All too soon, his body vanishes into the gray, the rope slithering across the ground behind him.

“It’s alright, Red.” Tristan calls out, his voice muffled. “I’ll lead the way. We just have to keep moving.”

Despite the rope, Hunter grabs my hand again. “I’d feel better with you by my side.”

I nod and, together, we follow the rope in Tristan’s direction. The ground crunches beneath our boots, grit and brittle bone indistinguishable from each other.

The fog is suffocating, a heavy blanket that muffles sound and distorts shapes. Every rustle, every whisper of movement is amplified, feeding the growing unease that grips my chest. I can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes on us, watching our every move despite the impenetrable gray.

Suddenly, the rope jerks forward, catching me off guard. I stumble, letting go of Hunter’s hand. I land hard on my knees, but no worse for wear.

“I’m alright,” I say as I stand, brushing the dirt from my hands. I turn back.

Hunter is gone.

At my feet, the rope tied between us is slack, leading into the dense fog. I reach to pick it up, but it slithers forward an inch out of my grasp. I freeze, my hand outstretched.

“Hunter?”

The rope moves forward another inch.

“Hunter?” I call out again, louder this time.

Nothing.

I bend forward, reaching for the rope again, but it suddenly begins to slither away, faster this time. I try to hold on, but the rope burns my palms, forcing me to let go. It pulls taut, pinning me between the two men lost in the fog in opposite directions.

The rope pauses, suspended in the air.

“Hunter!” I shout, my voice sharp with panic. “Tristan!” I call the other way.

No answer.