Piper raises her eyebrows, bobbing her head. “And if someone probably deserves it?”
“You watched me rip the head off of Queen Abra. I think you know the answer to that question.”
When Piper breathes out through her nose, it shoots streams of fog into the air. “Good. Good. Because I think I know a way for you to get to Blaise faster, so long as you don’t mind a little blood on your hands.”
My fangs ache, pushing at my gums at the very thought.
CHAPTER 89
BLAISE
The sand of the Sahli is surprisingly pleasant against my bare feet, the heat of the day soaked into its grains.
It will only remain pleasant for the next five hours.
Five hours.
That’s how much time I have until the sun rises and scorches the ground—and me with it.
I made it across Charshon at a record pace.
Well, I assume it was a record pace. Not that I looked it up.
It took me less than a night. Of course, I had to stop in an inn during the day, but now that the sun has set and I’ve reached the edge of the desert, it’s a race against the morning.
I could help you. Together, we wouldn’t burn, whispers the voice from the box as I stare across the wide expanse, the towering dunes that block my path, cresting smoothly over the horizon as if to lie and say they’d block it for me.
“Shut up,” I tell it.
And then, I run.
My limbs cut across the frigid night air as my feet pound the sand. My muscles are lithe, stretching further and more efficiently than I ever could have imagined as a human.
That doesn’t make the sand any less problematic.
It doesn’t seem to matter how powerful my legs are, how much force I slam into the bottoms of my feet. The sand absorbs my efforts with an open mouth, like I’m pouring my energy into it with a funnel.
It’s like one of those dreams where you’re being chased, but suddenly you realize your legs can’t run nearly as well as you thought they could, and it takes all the mental energy in the world to get them to move, but the air around you might as well have turned to water for the speed you’re moving.
That’s probably a dramatic example.
I am moving, much faster than I imagine anyone ever has across this treacherous terrain.
But it’s not going to matter how fast I am.
Because time is fading, and I’m not fast enough.
You’re not going to make it in time, whispers the parasite from inside the adamant box. Accompanying the voice is the sound of sharp fingernails tapping against the metal. You’re not going to make it, and then you’ll die, and no one will even come look for your body. You’ll be food for the buzzards, child. Is that how you want your pitiful existence to end? Food for the buzzards?
Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question? I ask, not bothering to waste my breath by uttering it aloud.
Rhetorical questions are for the intelligent among you. Not those of you idiotic enough to run headfirst to their death, hisses the parasite.
You know what I think? I think you’re just concerned about what will become of you if I drop dead in the middle of the desert. How much sand do you think there is in this place? And what are the chances anyone traveling through the desert would actually come across you, do you think?
The parasite goes quiet, and I get the pleasant image of Cindy, crammed in that little box, sulking.
I find my pace accelerates at the very thought.
You know what, I say, finding torturing the parasite to be more comforting than it probably should be. That’s an excellent idea, really. I could just drop you right now. Be rid of you. Sure, someone might find you, and what a problem that would cause, but then again, a sandstorm could come ripping through here any day now. How deep do you think things get buried during sandstorms?
The parasite doesn’t answer, even after several more minutes of taunting.
Eventually, even the fact that I’ve won this verbal sparring match doesn’t keep the dread from creeping back into my chest. The sand has cooled in the chill of the desert night, but I can’t help but notice the faint line of pink that taints the edge of the horizon, cresting the waves of the dunes to the east.
I strain my eyes—as if that’s an effective tactic for someone with enhanced vision—for signs of Meranthi in the distance, but I see nothing but sand dunes for miles.
You’ll never make it, silly servant girl, says the parasite, grinding on my nerves as it references the note Clarissa left for me after she burned all of Evander’s letters. That was back when I was trapped in the attic, just after I’d lost my baby.
My baby.
My baby who has no grave, just as I won’t.
We’ll both be forgotten.
At least I can share that with my child.
Share something with my child.
