Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1 by Dan Fish (no david read aloud TXT) 📕

Davrosh shook her head. “How is she choosing who to possess?”

“I don’t think she’s choosing at all.”

“Jace?”

“Has to be.”

“How do we stop her?”

“I’ve got a good idea of where to start. But no idea of how to finish.”

Davrosh cleaned her blade, sheathed it. A sled arrived, then another. Bravigan, not Gorsham. Two captains, two crime scenes. Bravigan went to his men, gestured to the wounded guard, gestured to a sled, pointed toward the first crime scene where the healer had been. They talked to Sorrows, talked to Davrosh, bundled the half-born body, loaded it for transport.

Sorrows and Davrosh walked back to their sled. Davrosh climbed into the basket, Sorrows leaned against the back. He pushed, the dogs mushed, the sled slid.

A third horn sounded further west.

Chapter 41

JULIA STOOD BEFORE Sorrows: same white dress, same long black hair. Same eyes like the night sky. She didn’t see him. Her eyes narrowed, her forehead wrinkled. She looked from one side to another. She walked, he watched. She craned her neck forward, tilted her head, listened.

“Julia,” he said.

He sat on the bed, leaned against the oak headboard, winced. Lifted a hand, rubbed the back of his head where the chair had hit. The memory of it lingered on his shoulders and on his back as well. He wondered why it was always the back of his head that seemed to get hurt. Decided it was better than the front of his head. Broken nose never felt good. Broken jaw was painful, as well. He sighed.

“Julia,” he said again.

She hesitated. Stopped walking. Listened.

“Julia,” he said a third time.

She turned toward him, squinted, took a step forward, then another. She ran across the room, stopped in front of him, extended her hand. He reached out to her, and their fingers passed through one another’s. She smiled. He smiled back.

“You abandoned me today,” he said.

She frowned, shook her head, flipped her hair back over her right shoulder with her right hand. He waited. Knew what was coming. Didn’t enjoy it when she was alive. Would’ve given anything now to have it back again. She stomped her left foot, folded her arms right over left, pursed her lips. Then immediately unfolded her right arm and pointed at him. Her lips moved without sound, her tongue flashing behind her teeth. A flurry of soft curves and circles and lines. She made an emphatic point and flung her arms out wide, as though the power of her fury threw them from her chest. He watched, could have watched for hours, days. She could yell at him for eternity, and he’d be a willing prisoner. But she didn’t. Not when she was alive, and not now. Her temper faded as quickly as it flared, like the bolt beneath the storm. Bright and violent and then gone in a crack of thunder.

“I love you,” he said.

Easy words to say. Easy to read on lips and in eyes. Her shoulders relaxed. She mouthed the words back to him. I love you too, Solomon. He spun on the bed, grimaced, put his feet on the floor. Cold. He rested his elbows on his knees, met her gaze. Her eyes roamed over his chest, the bandages on his shoulders and arms. She took a step forward, brought a hand to her mouth, pointed at his hand. What happened? An easy question to read. He held up his hand, wriggled three fingers and a thumb.

“Goblin got my little finger,” he said. “I was thinking of having it removed, anyway.”

She reached toward his shoulders. Her fingers passed through strips of white cloth. She looked at him, lifted an eyebrow.

“Half-born used me to break a chair,” he said. “In her defense, I’d just insulted her mother.”

Why? A simple question. Almost an accusation. One he’d heard more than I love you. One she always preceded with a sigh. He saw the sigh, imagined her breath on his face, neck. Caught the question. Leaned forward, put his hands to either side of her hips, imagined taking her dress in his fingers. Imagined pulling her to him. She imagined the same, took a step closer, brought her hand to his face.

“I need you with me,” he said. “The people I’m killing aren’t people anymore. They—”

She stepped back, could sense death in his thoughts. He held his hands out, shook his head.

“It’s not like that. They’re monsters, Julia. They kill. They need to be—”

She took another step back, shook her head again.

“Julia, you need to believe me. They need to be stopped or people will die. So many have died already.”

She shook her head, mouthed another easy word. No. He sighed, stared at her. Had known it would come to this moment. Hadn’t known what he would do or say to convince her. Knew he didn’t want to lie to her. Not Julia. Not ever. Knew he had to.

“Okay,” he said, nodding. He smiled a little. Made sure it reached his eyes. Made sure it looked sincere. Conciliatory. “Okay, Julia. No more.”

She lingered at the edge of the room, half frowned, half pouted. He held out his hand.

“No more,” he said again.

She nodded, took a deep breath, sighed, walked back to him. She said something. He couldn’t read her lips, could never read her face. He shrugged, smiled small. She rolled her eyes, knelt in front of him, studied his hand. She looked up.

“It’ll grow back,” he said.

If she knew half the injuries he’d suffered, she wouldn’t worry over a finger. Or maybe she would. Maybe it wasn’t about the finger. Maybe it was about his pain, no matter how small. She had always cared. Especially when he didn’t. Maybe that separated her from him more than the distance between planes. Whatever it meant, he knew a finger would never bother him. Nor an arm, or a leg. His life was pain. He’d lost parts of himself that could never grow back. Now he just felt the memory of them. Sharp, sudden. When something reminded him they should be