Page 93 of The Dead Queen

We walk in silence. The only sounds are the soft crunch of our boots on the brittle ground and the occasional flutter of wings from the carrion birds above. We press on in a desperate, blind march through the fog. Each step takes us farther north, though I have no idea how Tristan knows the way. I start to wonder if he doesn’t, if he’s just moving forward because there’s nothing else to do.

Time loses all meaning in this endless gray. We’ve been walking for minutes or hours, it’s impossible to tell. All that matters is putting one foot in front of the other. We hold onto each other’s hands and try to ignore the shadows that follow us and the sense that we’re not alone.

I glance at Tristan. His face is pale and drawn in the dim light. He meets my eyes briefly, then looks ahead again. His gaze sharpens, and I turn to see what he’s staring at.

Ghostly figures begin to appear in the fog, their forms flickering like candle flames in a breeze.

My heart pounds as one moves closer, materializing into a man. At first, I think he’s just another soldier, lost like us. But when he comes within five feet, I finally see him clearly. His arm hangs limp, dislocated at the shoulder. His ankle is twisted at an unnatural angle. He’s wearing tarnished bronze armor that’s smeared with blood. At the center of his chest plate, a copper fox snarls.

But most startling are the man’s eyes. They’re wide and black with fear.

“Did you see them?” he whispers hysterically. Spittle flies from his mouth. His eyes dart around the fog. “The wolves. They brought the wolves!” He reaches for Tristan’s shoulders, shaking him.

“Get off of me!” Tristan breaks the man’s hold.

The soldier tumbles to the ground in a rattling heap of armor. He digs his heels into the dirt, scooting backward into the blanket of gray.

“What the—” But before Hunter can finish his sentence, another figure stumbles into view. He’s just as panicked as the first man, but he’s practically a boy still. His clothes are dark with mud or blood, I can’t tell which. Maybe both.

“I want to go home,” he sobs.

There’s a gaping wound at his chest, as if something took a bite out of him and left him to die slowly. I can see his lungs moving behind cracked ribs with each ragged breath. There’s no way this boy could be standing, let alone walking through the fog.

I’m too stunned to speak.

Hunter steps closer, one arm outstretched as if to block the boy from getting any nearer.

“Where am I?” the boy asks, his voice breaking. Tears, dark with blood, ooze around his black eyes and down his sallow cheeks. “I want to go home.”

Then he turns and runs back into the fog.

“Tristan, what are they?” My voice is barely more than a whisper.

Tristan doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is grim. “Just keep your eyes on the ground ahead and don’t stop moving.”

He tugs my hand forward, Hunter taking up the rear. He quickens his pace, and I stumble to keep up. Panic shoots through my mind like flashes of lightning. What sort of nightmare place is this?

Every few seconds, a low growl reaches our ears, making me jump and look around wildly. The fog seems alive with men and creatures alike, most of them just out of sight.

“They’re ghosts,” Tristan says as we walk. “Wraiths of dead soldiers, trapped in the fog. It’s a magic only the queen can wield. Only she can manipulate the dead.”

“How?” Hunter asks, his eyes darting wildly around us.

Tristan shrugs. “She’s the Dead Queen. The living can’t possibly understand her power.”

A sudden realization shoots through me. “She was here? At the borderlands?”

He nods, his mouth a grim line. “At some point in the past. No one else could do something like this.”

“This is torture.” Anger flares to life within me. “Why punish them beyond death when winning the battle would suffice?”

“Because the Dead Queen is evil, Sienna.” Hunter says behind me. His voice has an uncharacteristic edge to it. “Haven’t you known that your whole life?” His eyes dart to Tristan with suspicion. “This whole scheme to bring the Wolf back to Annwyn was a mistake.”

Tristan doesn’t contradict him. For a man who’s gone through so much pain in the name of Annwyn—capture, torture, foxhounds, thieves—this strikes me as odd.

“What? No defense?” I ask, piqued.

Tristan’s voice is a low growl. “I’m a Wolf, Red. I serve my queen, but I don’t have to like her.”