Page 52 of Harbinger

“Anything else?” I ask, plucking at the bits of dried leaves caught in my hair.

“There’s a lake about a hundred yards past that tree.” He jerks his thumb toward an oak on the far edge of the clearing, a foot-worn trail leading through the undergrowth past it. “Wash off and try not to drown.”

“You’re not that lucky.”

He grunts. Or maybe it’s a laugh.

“And stick close to the path to avoid the wolves,” he adds, then goes back to work.

I stare down at him. “Wolves? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I don’t joke about things that could kill me.” He doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Don’t go too deep into the woods, and they’ll probably leave you alone.”

“Probably?” I choke on the word and still don’t move. “Are you sure there’s not a village nearby? I grew up in the country. I can blend in.”

His look is long and slow. “No, you can’t.”

“What does that mean?” Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I plant my hands on my hips. “Florentia is Leontian territory. Surely they don’t want to kill me.”

“You’re a target, even here. You could hide under a cloak, charm the pants off every local villager, and I guarantee that within an hour, even in Florentia, someone would be trying to sell your location to the highest bidder.”

And the highest bidders are probably the ones who paid those assassins.

I want to argue, but the words die in my mouth. Maybe he’s right. I was in the capital city for less than a week and managed to piss off the entire power structure of Antares. I guess I’m not great at winning others over.

But right now, I’m not sure if I’d rather face the wolves or paranoid villagers.

“Interesting,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

My eyes narrow. “What?”

“I didn’t take you for a coward.” He shrugs. “If you’re too afraid …”

I’m halfway to the tree before I realize he’s won this round. I hesitate, slowly coming to a stop.

“Problem?” he calls from behind me.

I stomp along the trail without looking back.

“Lake” is an overstatement. It’s little more than a depression in the land. The glassy black water is choked with reeds, and insects buzz around the shore despite the crisp autumn air. In two months’ time, the surface will probably be frozen solid. Florentia is still northern enough to experience a true winter. I kneel at the lake’s edge and splash my face with the cool water. The late-afternoon sun is warm enough that I strip off my thick shirt and wash up, scrubbing at the dried mud caked on my palms and under my fingernails. The water ripples slightly with the movement of small white fish, but even with the distortion, the surface is dark enough to reflect my face. To reflect the mark on my chest that seems to glow red even days later.

A twig snaps behind me, and I jerk upright, nearly falling into the lake. Bishop laughs. I grab my shirt, clutching it to my chest as I turn to find him standing with folded arms at the edge of the clearing. The sun burns a halo through the trees behind him.

“Done daydreaming at your reflection?” Bishop asks.

I wrench my shirt back on. “I wasn’t daydreaming.”

“Then can I take a turn?” He nods to the lake. He’s still covered in mud from me crashing into him, his normally silver-blond hair a mess of brown clumps at the ends.

“Be my guest.” I scramble to my feet.

Bishop doesn’t move closer, and I realize he’s waiting for me to leave. Apparently, only one of us gets the privilege of modesty.

My stomach grumbles again. “Did you catch anything?”

“You can check. I set the snares about twenty paces from the edge of the clearing.” He looks back at the trees. “Sorry, I forgot that you’re too scared to go into the woods.”

My throat tightens as I picture teeth flashing in the dark. For one treacherous second, I almost say I’ll wait. Almost let him protect me. But he smirks, and pride sinks its claws deeper than fear ever could.