Just before midnight, their group left the woods and crossed into a stretch of rolling hills. Starlight flooded the sky, an endless expanse of dancing fireflies. The horses’ hoofbeats echoed across the hills, making it difficult to tell if their pursuers were still behind them. Briar felt at one with her saddle, with the creaking leather and the smell of horse sweat. Her mount’s mane whipped at her face, and the paint jars in her saddlebag rang with each stride.
They barely paused all night, only slowing to a walk when their horses couldn’t run anymore. Archer or Jemma occasionally galloped ahead to scout their path, and Lew kept a close watch at the rear. All of them looked back often to see if the authorities were catching up.
The sky glowed pink by the time they crested another hill and found a broad, powerful river running through a shallow gorge below. The Sweetwater, which marked the boundary to Larke County, glimmered in the morning light. The land on the other side was pockmarked with rock formations, hinting at ample hiding places.
“Finally!” Nat exclaimed, slumping in his saddle, his patchwork clothes even more rumpled than usual. “I thought we’d never get here.”
“Barden’s minions would love an excuse to violate Larke’s borders,” Archer said, wiping sweat from his high forehead. “We’re not safe yet.”
“Nowhere is safe.”
Briar thought she’d spoken quietly, but Archer looked over and met her eyes with steady intensity. She was the first to drop her gaze.
“Boss, we might need a detour.” Lew trotted up the shallow gorge toward them. He had been scouting along the riverbank, which twisted out of sight to the west.
“Trouble?”
“The bridge is out downriver, and the water is too deep and swift to cross here.”
Archer muttered a curse—the vulgar sort, not a magical one—and checked the road swooping across the hills behind them. It was empty. “What are our options?”
Lew waved to the east. “There’s a crossing a few hours upstream. It’ll take us out of our way.”
“We’ve already lost too much time,” Archer said.
Jemma and Lew began discussing possibilities for fording the river. Nat fiddled with his reins, anxiously scanning the countryside behind them. Archer’s horse danced beneath him, suggesting his rider was more nervous than he looked.
Briar touched the bundle of paints attached to her saddle. She had a few tricks that could help, though she wasn’t sure revealing them would be wise. She had committed to the job. She might as well go the whole way. She cleared her throat. “I can get us across the river.”
Archer turned toward her, quirking an eyebrow. “How?”
“I know a curse that’ll lift us clear over it.”
“An ambulatory curse?” Esteban guided his scrawny mare closer on her other side. “Those are too volatile.”
“I’m very good at them,” Briar said. “Anyway, we’ve been in our saddles all night. They’ll respond well.”
“Someone want to enlighten me?” Archer asked.
“An ambulatory curse is what I used to throw you out of my cottage,” Briar said. “I can paint them right on our saddles to lift us across the river.”
“In my professional, licensed opinion,” Esteban said. “That is a moronic idea.”
“I’ve seen it work, though,” Archer said. “Why not let her try?”
“Because we could all end up with broken necks, that’s why,” Esteban said.
“You have any better ideas?” Archer asked.
Esteban stared at him for a prickly moment. “You know anything I do will draw the authorities right to us.”
“Well then, let Briar try,” Archer said. “Can’t hurt.”
Esteban’s mouth tightened into a knot, his narrow shoulders quivering, but he didn’t continue the argument. As soon as Archer turned away to address Jemma, Esteban shot Briar a look of pure venomous hatred. She understood why. He had been with the team far longer than she had, and he was a more experienced mage. Archer should trust his opinion over hers. Yet he had sided with her. Why? She felt flattered and a little nervous about it, but she didn’t have time to worry about Archer. They needed to be out of sight among the rock formations on the far side of the Sweetwater before Barden’s men reached it.
They scrambled down to the riverbank at the bottom of the gorge, which smelled of mud and summer moss. Little insects hovered above the rapids, iridescent wings flashing in the early sunlight. The river was wide and wild, the opposite bank much farther away than it had seemed from the top of the ridge. Briar felt a hint of misgiving. She’d never covered that much distance with an ambulatory curse before.
“Stay in your saddles, please,” she told the others as she prepared her paints. “The longer you’ve had contact with the item the more effective the curse will be.”
“Do mine first,” Archer said. “If someone’s going to break their neck, it might as well be me.”
Esteban snorted, folding his arms over his thin chest.
“Very well.” Briar guided her horse alongside his bay stallion and handed him her reins. “Keep the horses still.”
“Don’t worry.” He winked. “I’ve seen what happens when your work gets messed up.”
Briar grimaced, pushing away the memory of the nails pinging out of Winton’s house. She needed to concentrate.
She tucked a few small paint jars into her left hand, selected a fine-tipped brush, and leaned in close to Archer’s leg to paint the curse on the pommel of his saddle with her right hand. It was awkward to work at such close quarters, and she had to lean on his thigh to keep from falling off her own horse.
Archer went utterly still, as if afraid to breathe with her pressed against him like that.
He’s probably just praying I don’t accidentally curse off his manhood. She tried not to think about the tension in his leg muscles, the warmth of his body near hers. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her fingers tingled with magic.
A bird soaring over a river took shape on the saddle. Once, her hand slipped, but Archer didn’t flinch, holding the horses steady. She felt
