Thread of Frost

Ch. 6: I Let You Sleep in My Bed

Isaac's eyes were distant. "It's beautiful there. The stream is warm enough to bathe in, and there's a blue rose garden that blooms at midnight. And they have this old stone library, so Camille could–"

He broke off.

It was horrible, Tristan thought, to watch it hit someone all over again. The agony. The grief. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Isaac's laboured breathing. The scent of damp mould drifted between them.

"What about Tarhalla?" Tristan asked.

Isaac's voice was rough. "What about it?"

Tristan opened his eyes. "What if I told you that I knew where the Nightweaver camp was?"

A pause. "Then I would say that's the last place we should go."

"Think about it, Webb," Tristan said. "Ryne's dead. Camille's possessed. Anna's locked in a tower. For all I know, Grayson and Penny never made it to Lox." His heart was racing. "The only people left on our side — the only people that hate Lucia as much as we do — are the Nightweavers."

Isaac shook his head. "You're mad."

"It makes sense," Tristan said.

Isaac's laugh was hollow. "Do you know how many Nightweavers I've killed? We might as well wrap ourselves in bacon and walk into a dragon's den."

He resumed pacing. A white cat slipped back through the bars, settling at his feet. Tristan sat forward. His mind was turning, pulling at invisible wires and gears.

"What if it could help Camille?" he asked.

Isaac paused. "Go on."

"Let's say that she's still somewhere inside there. That Lucia hasn't fully possessed her yet. What better way to separate them than using nightmare magic?"

Isaac leaned against the bars. "They'll kill us."

"They might not."

Some of the light guttered from Isaac's eyes. "It doesn't matter." He kicked at a stray bit of hay. "We're never getting out of here."

"Ah," a male voice said. "That's where you're wrong."

Silence.

Tristan rose, scanning the darkness. There was no sign of figures. No sound of approaching footsteps. "Did you just hear...?"

"Yeah," Isaac said.

The other boy stalked toward the barred door. His hand went to his hip, as if he wanted to grab a sword. Tristan's heart thundered in his ears.

"We're going mad," he muttered.

There was a flash of light.

Tristan cried out, stumbling back. Isaac swore. A tall figure rose from the ground. He was young, Tristan observed dizzily, with a muscled body and a shock of red hair. White tattoos swirled up his arms. And there was something graceful about his movements; something almost...

Cold filled him.

Something almost feline.

"Fuck." Isaac's voice reverberated off the stone walls. "Fuck."

"Holy mother of gods," Tristan whispered. "Shambles?"

The stranger sighed. "I detest that name." He dug in his pockets. "Now, quiet. There are guards upstairs."

Tristan watched incredulously as the young man withdrew a key, reaching through the bars to slip it into the lock. His brain seemed to be short-circuiting.