Celeste's Arc

Chapter 18 of 23

The white eyes swelled behind the glass. Celeste stumbled back from the window. Inside, a pale shape rose from the dark, tall and thin, a pirate's hat crooked on its head. Cold rolled off the tavern like a wave. This was the spirit Slate had warned her about, the thing that guarded the horn and its buried gold. It fixed on her and did not look away. "Move," Slate hissed. "Now." Celeste ran. Slate had told her about a den of mangrove roots near the shore, twisted low to the ground with a narrow arch to crawl through. She dove for it and squeezed into the muddy hollow. Roots closed over her like ribs. She pressed flat and held her breath. The tavern door banged open. The wraith drifted out onto the sand, its glowing blade trailing mist. It turned its head slow, hunting. Celeste watched through a gap in the roots. The white eyes swept the shore and passed over her hiding place. They stopped one breath too long. Her heart slammed. Then the spirit moved on, gliding toward the tree line. "He does not see you," Slate whispered from somewhere close. "Good. Stay down." Celeste bit back a question. Slate was not beside her. She caught a flash of dark blue fur slipping through a crack in the tavern wall. He had gone inside. Inside, Slate climbed the cold stone hearth. His claws found the rough blocks and the iron hooks. He reached the high shelf and pushed his shoulder against the purple shell. It rolled, tipped, and dropped. It struck the floor with a hollow clack and rolled once. Not a crack in it. Slate leapt down, took the shell in his mouth, and ran for the crack in the wall. Outside, the wraith spun. Its head snapped toward the tavern. It rushed back through the open door. Slate burst from the wall crack and shot across the sand. He dove into the root den and dropped the horn at Celeste's knees. It shimmered pale purple in the dark, carved with swirls and marks she could not read. From inside the tavern came a scream. It tore through the wood and made Celeste's teeth ache. The wraith had found the empty shelf. Furniture crashed. Something splintered. The white light flared through every broken window as the spirit tore its own tavern apart. "He knows it is gone," Slate panted. "He does not know where. Stay still until he tires." Celeste wrapped both hands around the horn. She had it at last. The tide song could open the tunnel and buy Nyrimia's secret. But the screaming did not stop. It rose and circled the shore, searching. The spirit had guarded this horn for longer than she had been alive, and now it would not rest until it found the thief. She had the key she needed, and a wraith that would hunt her for it.