Borderlands Read online

  Lukas’s grip on my shoulder tightens. ‘My father wouldn’t let her live. Not after what happened. We blew up her chances of taking the throne.’

  ‘So she’s on the run now?’ I twist around to meet his eyes. ‘Just like us?’

  ‘Yeah. Just like us. And I know why she’s chasing us.’ Lukas takes a deep breath. ‘Danika, we ruined everything that matters to her. All her ambitions, all her hopes of inheriting the throne. She wants revenge.’

  Silence.

  Lukas’s gaze shifts away from me, back up towards the figures on the rim of the Knife. Five figures on the clifftop. Five silhouettes in the night. And a small part of my brain can’t help thinking: five members in the perfect refugee crew.

  They clearly haven’t spotted us yet – we’re shielded by a rocky outcrop, and our ledge runs tight against the cliff. But the fireball spits above Sharr’s hand, casting shine and shadows as she seeks her prey.

  If she sees us, we will die. Maisy’s own Flame proclivity might save us from a fireball, but what about the other hunters’ powers? They could be anything. No one in our crew could fight Air or Reptile or Earth. Hell, all it would take to kill us is one hunter with a Dirt proclivity. He could drag us down into the bowels of the earth, leave us to be crushed under layers of stone . . .

  I release a slow breath. ‘Teddy’s right. Up here, we’re too easy to spot. We have to go down into the Knife.’

  Clementine opens her mouth to argue, but Maisy touches her arm. There’s a moment’s pause. Clementine clutches her foxary’s fur so tightly that the poor thing is likely to be scalped if she makes a sudden movement.

  ‘All right,’ she says eventually. ‘But if I slip, Teddy Nort, I swear I’ll rise back up as a ghost and drag you down with me.’

  ‘Keen for my eternal company in the afterlife, huh? Can’t blame you, really.’ Teddy stops, as though considering it. ‘Mind you, I don’t fancy being a ghost. It’d be a pain to nick stuff when your hands keep floating through it.’

  And with that, we begin our descent. Despite Teddy’s earlier sales pitch, I doubt this is how a waterslide feels. I’ve never ridden one, but I’ve glimpsed them through mansion gates. Those slides were painted in gold and bronze. Clear water bubbled down their slopes, and the shrieks of delighted richie children filled the air.

  Here, the only shrieking comes from my nerves. If our earlier route along the ledge was tricky, then this one is diabolical. The track is thin, steep and wet and our foxaries slip with every step. They angle their bottoms skywards and their claws down, ­skittering for purchase on rain-streaked stone.

  And every minute, the rain grows stronger. It throws a tantrum all around us, beating a thousand fists upon the slope. It fills my clothes, my ears, my hair. It drizzles beneath my collar and across my skin. I want to raise my hands to shield my face, but letting go of the foxary means death. So I bend my head, hold my breath, and let my neck take the brunt of it.

  ‘See?’ Teddy shouts. ‘Waterslide!’

  It’s so ridiculous that I have to laugh – half from thrill, half from terror. My heart patters even faster than the rain, and Garrum’s fur is a messy tangle in my fists. There’s no sound of pursuit, but it could simply be muffled by wind and storm. Water roars in my ears, up my nostrils. It stings my eyes. I blink, desperate to clear my vision.

  Our path slopes at least forty-five degrees. I keep sliding forward, almost toppling over the foxary’s head. I cling to Garrum’s fur, clench my eyes shut and make myself breathe. In, out. In, out.

  I’ve ridden foxaries through forests, over mountains, even through the wastelands. This should be no different. It’s just a little steeper, that’s all. In, out. In –

  Lukas’s fingers dig into my shoulders. He clings tightly now, his body swaying with the movement of the beast. He rides more naturally than I do. I guess it comes from his pilot training, or perhaps his proclivity. After all, Lukas has watched countless flights through the eyes of birds. He must have absorbed some of their balancing skills, the way they adjust their wings to move with the wind.

  Me, on the other hand? Although I’ve improved under Teddy’s instruction, foxary riding isn’t my strong suit. When the track forks and Garrum twists to the right, I slip. My upper body thwacks across his neck and I let out a little shriek. Cold fur smothers me and I catch a horrible whiff of foxary sweat before Lukas yanks me back into a sitting position.

  ‘All right?’ he shouts, barely audible in the rush.

  I nod, fighting to regain control of my limbs. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or grateful or just plain terrified. Hell, if the richie twins can handle this . . .

  The twins! I peer behind me, squinting through the rain. All is grey: water, stone, shadow.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lukas gasps into my ear.

  ‘The twins – where are the twins?’

  Lukas whips his head around and his body stiffens. If Clementine and Maisy are just behind us, there should be some sign of their presence. A scrabble of claws, a gleam of foxary eyes, a whip and whirl of blonde hair in the dark. But there’s nothing. My chest constricts with a new type of terror – a terror that far outstrips any fear from this ride.

  The path behind us is empty.

  The twins are gone.

  We reach the bottom of the Knife before I realise it’s coming. Our foxary slips across the end of the track, and for a moment we’re airborne. In that instant of unnatural calm, I breathe. Then we’re falling in a slow arc into a pond on the canyon floor.

  Liquid spews up around me. Garrum takes most of the impact, but the crash still sends a jolt of pain up my back. I’m thrown from the foxary, frantic and thrashing. For a long moment, I sink into darkness. Then, choking, I kick upwards in search of air. I breach the surface and suck down a breath.

  Teddy erupts from the water beside me, coughing and spluttering up what sounds like half the pond. ‘All right?’ he chokes.

  ‘Yeah, are you?’

  He nods, flailing. A moment later, Lukas pops up beside him – a champagne cork of dark hair and worried eyes. ‘Are they here? The twins?’

  I shake my head, feeling sick. We have two foxaries, three riders, and no sign of the rest of our crew. Clementine and Maisy are gone.

  This pond lies at the very bottom of the Knife. The moonlight is feeble, but there’s just enough to squint. Trees arch overhead, blocking our view of the sky – and, thankfully, much of the rain. Down here, the storm is simply a gentle shower of raindrops.

  ‘They took a wrong turn, I reckon,’ Teddy says, as we splash towards the shore. ‘I felt it when Perrim swerved – he was panicking in the rain, and I couldn’t keep a grip on him from so far away . . .’

  Well, so much for Perrim being the most obedient foxary.

  I haul myself out of the pond and take a few seconds to catch my breath. I can just make out the bulk of vines, rearing around us into vast formations of foliage. Some create natural turrets that glisten with rain. ‘Where are they?’

  Teddy shakes his head. ‘I reckon Perrim nicked off to the left when we were heading right . . .’

  We stare into the dark. The bottom of the Knife is narrow: a strip of stony forest between two cliffs. The opposing walls of the canyon can’t be more than twenty metres apart.

  ‘If we keep heading east,’ I say, ‘we’ll have to bump into them eventually, right?’

  ‘Guess so,’ Teddy says.

  The chills are setting in now – I can barely feel my fingers and I know I’m dangerously cold. If we can’t warm ourselves up quickly, we’ll risk hypothermia. And if that happens, we’ll be as much help to the twins as a trio of icicles.

  I make a quick assessment of my clothing, and decide the main offender is my neck-scarf. It’s heavy with liquid, dripping beneath the rest of my clothes. Even so, I’m loath to remove it. It’s taboo to reveal your proclivity tattoo b
efore you turn eighteen. To show my neck would be . . . wrong.

  I let out a frustrated little huff. I’m being stupid. We’ve fled our city, destroyed a royal biplane and blown up the king’s airbase. The taboo is hardly the most serious law we’ve broken in the past few weeks.

  I grit my teeth then peel off the scarf with a wet slap. Teddy can’t resist a rude little wolf-whistle under his breath.

  I glare at him. ‘You should take yours off too, you know.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Look, Danika, I’m flattered and all, but you’re really not my type. I’m more into –’

  ‘Freezing to death?’

  He considers this, then cracks a grin. ‘All right, all right – keep your hair on. If you were so keen to see my proclivity markings, all you had to do was ask.’

  It’s funny – a month ago, I would have slapped anyone who suggested I’d take off my scarf in front of teenage boys. It would be like stripping naked. I guess survival trumps embarrassment.

  Of course, Lukas has seen my tattoo before. He’s the only person who has, apart from Sharr Morrigan. The marking only developed recently, during our trek across Taladia. It depicts the moon, stars and swirling shadow, revealing that my proclivity is Night.

  Part of me yearns to hide it forever. Dusk, Night, Shadow . . . they’re all shameful proclivities. Signs of a dishonest person, of a sneak, of a liar. I haven’t even told my crewmates about it yet. When Teddy asked how I escaped from the tower, I made it sound like a simple climb through the skylight. No Night. No magic.

  No shame.

  I know it’s stupid – that my proclivity is the only reason we’re alive right now – but I can’t help jerking back a little when Teddy goes to examine my tattoo.

  ‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Blimey, you would’ve been worth your weight in gold to me back in Rourton. Well, in silver at least.’ He grins. ‘Preferably someone else’s.’

  Relief spills into my stomach. There is no judge­ment in Teddy’s voice. He doesn’t shy away from me. I let out a slow breath, then hide my relief with a scowl. ‘Hey, my proclivity doesn’t make me a thief.’

  ‘Never said it did,’ Teddy says. ‘But an illusionist and a Night proclivity? Well, if you ever fancy a change in career . . .’

  ‘I think the point’s moot right now,’ Lukas says, a wry little smile on his lips. ‘Shouldn’t we be looking for the twins?’

  I wring out my scarf, pouring a good slop of the pond into the undergrowth. ‘Yeah, you’re right. A walk might help us heat up a bit, too.’

  ‘Can’t you just sort of shadow your way ahead?’ Teddy says. ‘You know, melt into the darkness or whatever people with Night proclivities do? I bet you could find them a lot faster . . .’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t control my proclivity yet. Last time I tried to use it, I almost lost myself.’

  Teddy’s eyes widen a little. ‘Right. Well . . . Don’t try again until you know you can handle it. We’ll find them on foot.’

  I’ve rarely heard Teddy sound so serious.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continues, a little more light-hearted, ‘we could do with the exercise, right? Wouldn’t want to pork up from all this five-star catering.’

  The tension dissipates, and I give a snort. We’re half-starving, and Teddy knows it. Wild herbs and mushrooms are all very well, but we haven’t found much of either on the upper ledges of the Knife. Just rocks, weeds and rain. We’re down to the last few rations in our packs now, and it’s getting hard to make the food last.

  We traipse off into the trees. The foxaries trail after us, so I suppose Teddy is giving them silent commands. He finds it easier to keep them quiet when they’re not being forced to carry riders. Now that I’m behind him, I spot his Beast proclivity tattoo. Paws, claws, tails, teeth.

  Of course, foxaries aren’t the only beasts to be twisted by magic. In the darkest alleys of Rourton, illegal breeders sell tomcats with venom in their claws. They’re popular with gangs and gamblers – or anyone else with debts to settle.

  And according to Lukas, the royals are working on birds of prey: colossal beasts called hawkaries. But the skeletons of birds are hollow and brittle – and, luckily for us, the magic of alchemical beasts flows through their bones. Since hawkaries’ bones are too fragile for alchemy, their magic dissipates as soon as it forms. As yet, no one has devised a way to keep these monsters airborne. If the hunters were riding such brutes, we’d likely have been caught in days.

  As we walk, I squeeze out the rest of my clothes. My stolen richie coat dries quicker than the rest, so I wriggle out of my shirt underneath it and wring out as much water as I can. I’ve just slipped back into it when Lukas grabs my arm. ‘Up there.’

  I follow his gaze. My muscles stiffen. A moment later my own arm is around Teddy’s bicep, and we’re dragging each other back into the undergrowth. It was only a quick glimpse before it vanished around a bend in the rock, but there’s no mistaking it. Flame. And it no longer shines from the top of the Knife. It’s halfway down the slope, halfway to us.

  ‘Did she spot us coming down?’ I say. ‘Or just make a lucky guess?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Lukas sounds grim. ‘We’ve got to move. If she finds us . . .’

  He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Would Sharr kill us straight away or drag us south to barter for a royal pardon? I’m a wanted fugitive, and Lukas is a traitor to his family. After what we did to his airbase, King Morrigan would probably pardon a murderous sea monster if it brought him our heads on a platter.

  We bury ourselves in a mass of undergrowth. Dripping foliage spikes my skin, but it’s better than a bullet. A lone dribble of moonlight allows me to just make out the others’ faces, awash in grey and shifting shadow. I squirm to tuck my knees up to my stomach, and fight to keep my breathing steady. We’ve got no hope of outrunning Sharr’s hunters – our only chance is to lie low until they pass. I hope Clementine and Maisy have a hiding place of their own.

  ‘Well, this is cosy.’ Teddy leans back against one of the foxaries. ‘If we get out of this alive, I’m starting a new business: foxary pillows. I’ll rent Perrim out for a night at a time, and tell him not to eat the customers until they’ve paid.’

  ‘Do you think the twins are all right?’ I say.

  Teddy flashes me a casual grin, but it’s a smidge too wide to be completely genuine. ‘They’ll be fine, I reckon. If the hunters find her, Clementine can just shout in her snootiest voice until they run off in terror.’

  We settle in to wait. The rain is muffled by leaves and branches, as well as the slope of rocks above. The others breathe in hushed little huffs. Shadows crawl across my body. If I crane my neck I see glimpses of night sky through the leaves, but it’s so far away that it’s hardly worth noticing. There’s just the foliage around us, the walls of the Knife, and that distant smattering of stars.

  I suddenly feel very small. The Knife’s stone walls have probably stood for thousands of years. These trees would’ve sprouted before I was born, and they’ll keep on growing after I die. They couldn’t care less if the hunters kill us tonight – they’d probably appreciate the extra fertiliser. It’s a morbid thought, and I know it’s not healthy to dwell on it, but once it’s entered my skull it’s impossible to shoo away.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Lukas whispers.

  Sharr’s flame ebbs back into view. It’s at ground level now. I’m guessing she strode confidently down from the path to the forest floor, rather than crash-landing into a pond. I can picture it: the sleek dark bob of hair, the flicker of fire, long limbs descending into the undergrowth. All the grace of a leopard on the prowl. But I’m pretty sure leopards hunt for food – not to deliberately torture their prey. Only humans are capable of Sharr’s sort of cruelty.

  Within five minutes, I no longer have to imagine Sharr. I can see her. Her flame draws closer and closer through the dark, then flickers
out of sight as she moves between the trees. Trunks block my view, branches part, leaves rustle . . . and there she is, face lit starkly by the fire in her hand.

  ‘Anything?’ Sharr says.

  One of her companions shakes his head. ‘Might not’ve come down here, Your Highness.’

  A female hunter also accompanies Sharr. Both she and the man are thick with muscle. It’s too dark to see their faces clearly, but they’re both adults: probably in their thirties or forties. They’ll have full control over their proclivities . . . and they won’t be afraid to use them.

  I can’t see the other two hunters. Have they chased after Clementine and Maisy? The thought makes my throat constrict.

  ‘True,’ Sharr says. ‘But where else would they go? I thought my flame would flush them out, make them run into sight.’ Her voice sounds tight. ‘We don’t have time to waste. We must find these brats before . . .’

  The other hunters remain silent. I know they’re itching to ask ‘Before what?’ since the same question burns on my own lips. But unless they’re suicidal, they won’t speak out of turn. Not with Sharr Morrigan. I once watched her blast a hunter’s face with flame for stumbling into a word trap she’d laid for him.

  Sure enough, the one to fill the silence is Sharr herself. ‘You know my uncle. You know what he’s capable of. Do you really think he doesn’t have a Plan B?’ She lets out a derisive laugh. ‘My wonderful cousin might have blown up the king’s primary plan but there’s more than one way to skin a rabbit. And there’s more than one way to launch an invasion. The king always has a backup plan.’

  Sharr leans towards them, her face so close to the flames that I wouldn’t be surprised if her hair caught fire. But the fire seems to love her, to caress her – more like an old friend than a deadly force. The other hunters are another matter. They shrink back from the fireball, as though Sharr might fling it on a whim.

  ‘In less than a week,’ Sharr says, ‘this whole region of Taladia will be overflowing with the king’s troops. The same king who doubtless hopes to string us up in the palace square for having failed him so miserably. Do you want to be here when they arrive?’