The cavern was awe-inspiring. Claustrophobic, but definitely a ten on my scale of new experiences. The water below was a lighter shade of emerald than the stone in my mother’s ring. Light from a hidden source bounced off the curved ceiling.
I thought I could make out ledges that had been cut into the walls of the space. Or maybe they were naturally occurring striations in the stone. I scooted forward in order to see more.
Narrow steps led down from this opening to a wide brim of stone below. I got a fluttery feeling in my belly and a tingling throughout my legs, just looking down.
I snorted. The cluster of threads forming a nest above the ledge assured me I could get to them by swinging one leg out of the tunnel and scooting down the rocky steps. “I didn’t know I’d be doing trust exercises today, Bas.”
“What do you mean?”
I motioned toward the water, the ledge, and the impatient threads, all the while inching one knee forward. “They’re telling me that climbing out of this tunnel, down those steps, and onto the ledge is a piece of cake. And that they’ll catch me if I slip.”
“Clementine, I don’t think—”
There. Clinging to the lip of the tunnel, I pulled my upper body forward until I was poised over the water and swore. I was mostly free of the tunnel, with one leg swinging in the air and the other bent at the knee and stuck. The necromancer was not happy with my predicament.
“What the hell are you thinking, Clementine Brodeur?”
“I’m not thinking, I’m doing,” I huffed out. “The threads will catch me.”
Alabastair scooted forward on his belly and assessed the drop to the ledge. His eyes, now a cold, steel gray, gave me pause. He was more than unhappy. He was mad.
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” I said, hoping I sounded contrite.
“Your aunt would have my ass trussed up in a sling and kept there for”—he shook his head—“for far longer than would be remotely comfortable if anything preventable caused you harm. These shenanigans were imminently preventable.”
“My sisters will tell you I can be a bit—”
“Stubborn? Headstrong? Careless?” Alabastair shuddered. “Do you think you can get a secure toehold?”
“Yes.” Confidence spread throughout my body the moment the toe of my boot found the solid stone of the first step. Bas gripped my forearm and kept his other hand free in case I needed him to grab me elsewhere. I tested the next lowest step. On my verbal okay, he allowed my arm to slide through his hand. His pointed glare alone was probably responsible for me not falling. Or feeling any more vertigo. And now I was close enough to the water that falling wouldn’t hurt.
Unless it was really, really cold. The threat of hypothermia kept me sharp.
As I descended the rest of the steps, the threads did something they’d never done before. They curled up and around my ankles and calves. One or two tried to join my legs together and were firmly snagged back into the cluster from which they originated.
“What do you see?” Bas’s booming tenor, bald head, and broad shoulders looming out of the tunnel snapped my attention back to the reality that I was standing on a narrow ledge in an underground cavern. There was water lapping at the rock less than twelve inches below and the green, glowing light that had welcomed us was beginning to dim.
11
“Let me get my bearings,” I said to Bas. “I was distracted by the story threads.”
I positioned myself so my back was to the water. Glancing down, I noticed the threads had become noticeably thicker. I was now decked out in a pair of living leg warmers. They’d soon become a second pair of pants if they kept knotting together at this dizzying pace.
“It appears the threads are making a set of greaves for you,” Bas noted. “And the ones on your forearms would be—”
“Gauntlets. I know. You think they’re trying to prep me for battle?” I glanced up at Bas and faked a laugh.
He was not amused. “Have the story threads ever acted like this before?”
I kept my grip on the wall with my left hand and admired what I could of the threads’ handiwork on my right. “Um, no.”
“Could these be something other than story threads?”
“The fact that you can see them too should have been my first clue,” I said. Swallowing, I added, “Bas, is it just me or does it seem like it’s getting darker in here?”
The necromancer might have answered but my attention was completely diverted by the sound of something breaking the surface of the water.
Ocean-going mammals make a very distinct, short chuff when they surface and blow out. The sound can carry over the water for hundreds of yards, depending on the weather conditions. Inside the cavern, there was no wind to ruffle the surface of the water, no wake from a passing boat to send waves slapping against the rock wall. Every horror-film-avoiding witch knew what was next. I cued the music in my head and called for Alabastair. My voice wobbled.
His did not. “Clementine. Do not move.”
More chuffs sounded from different locations. It took everything I had to stay in place and not scream or try to clamber up to the tunnel and wiggle my way home.
Threads snugged against my forearms and lower legs and wove in between my fingers. A battalion of them broke off from the main clusters and constructed a chest piece. I felt them expanding as hands—strong and cold—circled my ankles and pulled.
I let go of the bit of ledge I was holding. I slipped. My rib cage hit rock, bruising my solar plexus and ribs, and I whacked an elbow. I saw stars as my chin snapped forward.
I let go.
My diaphragm stuttered and froze at the shock
