She knew, then, why Rowan had moved her into the trees, far from the beach. Not for safety, but because—because there was a demi-Fae in there right now.
“I tried to cut off her air—to make it easier for her,” Rowan said. “But they have her in too much iron, and . . . she won’t make it through the night, even if we go in there now. She is already a husk, barely able to breathe. There is no coming back from what they’ve done. They’ve fed on the very life of her, trapping her in her mind, making her relive whatever horrors and miseries she’s already encountered.”
Even the fire in her blood froze. “It truly fed on me that day in the barrows,” she whispered. “If I hadn’t managed to escape, it would have drained me like that.” A low, confirming growl rippled out of Rowan.
Nauseated, Celaena scrubbed at her face—tipped her head back to the rain trickling in from the canopy above, then finally took a long breath and faced Rowan. “We cannot kill them with our magic while they are encamped. Wendlyn’s forces are too far away, and Narrok is going after the demi-Fae with three of those monsters plus two hundred soldiers.” She was thinking aloud, but Rowan nodded anyway. “How many of the sentries at Mistward have actually seen battle?”
“Thirty or less. And some, like Malakai, are too old, but will fight anyway—and die.”
Rowan walked deeper into the woods. She followed him, if only because she knew if she took one step closer to the beach, she would go after that female. From the tension in Rowan’s shoulders, she knew he felt the same.
The rain ceased, and Celaena pulled back her hood to let the misty air soak into her too-hot face. This area was full of shepherds and farmers and fishermen. Aside from the demi-Fae, there was no one else to fight the creatures. They had no advantage, save for knowing their territory better than their enemy. They would send word to Wendlyn, of course, and maybe, maybe help would arrive in the next week.
Rowan held up a fist, and she halted as he scanned the trees ahead and behind. With expert quietness, he unsheathed one of the blades in his vambraces. The smell hit her a second later—the stench of whatever those creatures were beneath the mortal meat.
“Only one.” He was so quiet she could hardly hear even with her Fae ears.
“That’s not reassuring,” she said with equal softness, drawing her own dagger.
Rowan pointed. “He’s coming dead at us. You head to the right for twenty yards, I’ll go left. When he’s between us, wait for my signal, then strike. No magic—it might attract too much attention if others are nearby. Keep it quick and quiet and fast.”
“Rowan, this thing—”
“Quick and quiet and fast.”
His green eyes flashed, but she held his stare. It fed on me and would have turned me into a husk, she silently said. We could easily meet that fate right now.
You were unprepared, he seemed to say. And I was not with you.
This is insane. I faced one of the defective ones, too, and it almost killed me.
Scared, Princess?
Yes, and wisely so.
But he was right. These were their woods, and they were warriors. This time, it would be different. So she nodded, a soldier accepting orders, and did not bother with farewells before she slipped into the trees. She made her footfalls light, counting the distance, listening to the forest around them, keeping her breathing steady.
She ducked behind a mossy tree and drew her other blade. The smell deepened into a steady reek that made her head pound. As the clouds overhead cleared further, the starlight faintly illuminated the low-lying mist on the loamy earth. Nothing.