CHAPTER THREE — The Debt Collector (1)

Leon searched the shrine for eleven minutes.

Kellen knew because he counted them. One thousand one, one thousand two — pressed against the cold stone of the alcove, with the Chief Guardian of a tribe that wanted him dead pressed against him in ways that would have made his sponsors very uncomfortable, listening to her childhood friend circle the room like a shark with a family membership.

She smelled like pine and old blood and something cold. Her hand was still over his mouth. Her heart was beating so hard he could feel it through three layers of clothing and a century of bad decisions.

This is insane, he thought. This is the greatest content of my life and I can't even film it.

"Isola." Leon's voice, from two feet away, casual and fond and sharp as a scalpel. "You never miss a patrol. The Circle said the eastern pass was clean. What are you doing up here?"

Her voice came out smooth as glass. "Hunting."

"Hunting what?"

"A scent." A pause, perfectly timed. "A human crossed the Veil tonight. I was tracking him when the wraithwolves found him first."

"And?"

"And the wolves were thorough." Another pause, and Kellen could almost hear her shrug. "I was checking the shrine for signs of denning."

The silence stretched. In the dark, Kellen felt her fingers tighten on his mouth, and he realized with a strange, sharp clarity that she was lying for him. The perfect blade, the woman who made the rules cry, was lying to her oldest friend to protect a stranger she'd known for six hours.

Interesting, he thought. Very, very interesting.

"You're bleeding," Leon said. "That's more than a scent."

"A wolf got lucky. I got it back." Her voice was iron. "You should go. If the Circle hears you've left your post to chase my patrol, they'll make you write lines."

Leon laughed — a warm, easy sound. "They can make me write lines, but they can't make me not worry. You've been strange since — " He stopped. Kellen heard the shift, the weight of a word unspoken. "Since the festival. You never come to the festival anymore."

The alcove went very still.

"I like the dark," Isola said. "It's honest."

"Your sister liked the dark too." Leon's voice was gentle, and Kellen felt the woman against him go rigid as a blade. "She used to say it was the only place that didn't lie. I used to think that was beautiful."

"It was stupid," Isola said. "The dark lies too. It's just better at it."

The horn sounded again — far off now, moving away down the pass.

Leon sighed. "The hunt's moving. The Circle will want a report on the human. If there's a body, bring it in. If there isn't — " A pause. "If there isn't, they'll assume the wolves took him, and that will be that. A shame. I'd have liked to see what a human looked like up close."

He left.

The boots faded. The mountain's song settled back into its low, wet hum. And in the dark, Kellen counted to thirty, and then he let out the breath he'd been holding for eleven minutes.

"You're welcome," he whispered, when her hand finally dropped from his mouth. "I know a threat when I hear one. Your friend definitely wants to see a human up close. Like, really up close. Anthropologically speaking."

"Shut up."

"Also — " he couldn't help it, " — 'the dark is honest'? That's the best you had? I've read worse poetry on bathroom stalls, and I've read a lot of bathroom stall poetry."

She climbed out of the alcove. He followed, because the alternative was staying in a tiny dark space with the scent of her, and he had a feeling that was how men got lost.

She was already at the fire pit, her back to him, her shoulders a line of pure tension. In the thin light, he saw the truth he'd suspected all along: she was younger than she played. Younger than the sword, younger than the law. There was something raw under the armor, and it was the same something that had made her spare him.

"You're not going to kill me," he said.

She didn't turn. "I haven't decided."

"You have." He came closer, slow, the way you approach a wounded animal. "You're a woman who follows rules, and you just broke the biggest one your tribe has. You're not going to kill me, because then you'd have to explain why you didn't do it six hours ago."

The fire caught. Her face, in the flame, was unreadable.

"You should go," she said. "Before dawn. Take the west trail. The Veil won't hold you if you walk the ridge."

"I'm not leaving."

She turned, and there it was — the blade was gone, and it was just her, cold and furious and terrified, in a way she probably didn't know she was showing him. "Then you'll die."

"I've died twice tonight already. It's getting boring." He pulled the pack off his back — the one she'd confiscated and, apparently, forgotten to return — and took out the thing he'd been carrying across three states and a decade of silence.

A photograph.

Old, creased, the edges soft with handling. A man with a strong jaw and a crooked grin, standing in front of a storefront that read BLAKE & SON — RELICS, REPAIRS, NO QUESTIONS.

The Chief Guardian looked at it. Then at him.

"Your name," she said slowly, "is Blake."

"Kellen Blake." He held the photograph out to her. "Great-grandson of Elias Blake. Relic dealer. Grave thief, if you prefer the local terminology. Your people did business with him — eighty years ago, give or take."

She didn't take the photograph. Her eyes had gone flat and watchful, the way they got around the wolves.

"That's not possible," she said. "The Circle's records are sealed. No human has traded with the Umbra in — "

"Three generations." He smiled, and he let her see the teeth this time. "That's what the records say. Funny thing about records, Chief. They lie."

He reached into the pack again and laid the ledger on the stone between them. Leather-bound, water-stained, held together by a rubber band and spite.

"Elias Blake sold your elders a stone," he said. "A corestone. The price was a promise — safe passage, a fortune, and a signed deal that he'd never come back to the mountain. He kept his side. Your elders kept the stone. And then, six months later, my great-grandfather disappeared. No body. No trail. Just a locked shop and a ledger full of one last, unpaid entry."

He opened the ledger to the final page.

The entry was dated. It was itemized. And at the bottom, in a hand that trembled even on paper, it said:

Item: Heartstone of the Umbra. Buyer: The Circle, c/o V. Paid in full. Witness: E. Vane.

For a long, terrible moment, the shrine was silent.

Then Isola said, very quietly, "That's my sister's handwriting."

"Yes." Kellen closed the ledger. "I know."