Sebastian

just far enough to try to lure her into making an error. It had arrowed in on her own reluctance to abandon those people, sending them back to the mean existence they'd known when only the wizards' influence had touched that part of the city. If she'd taken the brick back to her garden, the Eater might have found a way to use that small landscape to attack Sanctuary.
    Weary to the bone and half-blinded by tears, she sat up and focused her will on guiding the boat, allowing no other thoughts until the boat was safely moored in the horseshoe of calm water.
    As she stumbled her way to her house, she kept wondering if she'd truly done the right thing by letting that landscape go—or if this was her first failure in the battle to save the Light.
     

 

     
     

Chapter Thirteen

 

     
     

     
    The moment he opened the back door and stepped into his kitchen, Sebastian felt uneasy. He put a hand back to stop Lynnea, then stood still, listening. A rhythmic plink… plink coming from somewhere inside the cottage, but that was an ordinary sound. It was the feral muskiness that troubled him. Not a bad smell. Alluring in its own way. Seductive, even. But not familiar. Not something that belonged in his home.
    Moving warily, he went to the small table, found the box of matches, and lit the oil lamp.
    Nothing in the kitchen looked out of place, but he couldn't shake the feeling that things had been lifted and put back almost where he'd left them.
    He put a finger to his lips, then crooked that finger to tell Lynnea to come in. When she reached him, he cupped a hand around the back of her head and brought his mouth close to her ear.
    "I think someone's been in the cottage. I have to look around. If I tell you to run, you get out of here, go back up the path. Focus on reaching Nadia. Nothing but Nadia. Understand me?" He waited until she nodded before he stepped back, his lips brushing against her cheek as he moved away from her.
    After taking the biggest kitchen knife from the wood block, he moved into the living area.
    Plink… plink.
    The lamp in the kitchen didn't offer much light, but it was enough for him to make out the shapes of the furniture. Pausing at the table in front of the couch, he lit another lamp.
    Nothing there that shouldn't be there.
    With the lamp in one hand and the knife in the other, he approached the bedroom, not sure he'd be able to hear anything over the pounding of his heart.
    Nothing looked out of place there, either, except…
    The bed was neatly made—exactly as Lynnea had left it before they'd headed out to the Landscapers'
    School. But the bedroom reeked of that muskiness, and there was an indentation in the middle of the bed, like someone had lain there.
    Staring at it, he had the oddest sensation, as if something inside him recognized the intruder. Something that came from instinct, from blood and bone, not the intellect.
    One thing he knew with absolute certainty: He didn't want Lynnea anywhere near that bed.
    Plink… plink.
    He followed the sound into the bathroom, watched the water drops fall into the sink. After a long moment, he set the lamp down and turned the faucet to stop the drip.
    The little stove that heated the water tank was cold, as it should be, and nothing was out of place. And yet…
    We can't stay here . The cottage was less than a mile from the streets that made up the Den. Distant enough to give him the separation he'd needed but still an easy walk. Now the isolation weighed on him.
    They were alone out here, too far away from help of any kind.
    Maybe he would have risked himself and stayed here, but he wouldn't risk Lynnea.
    Coming out of the bedroom, he saw Lynnea standing in the doorway between the living area and the kitchen. She was trembling, but she held a knife in one hand.

    "What is it?" she whispered.
    He shook his head and checked the other downstairs room, then climbed the stairs to check the empty rooms on the second floor. Bedrooms, but he hadn't needed the space, so he'd done nothing with the rooms except sweep the floors and wash the windows twice a year.
    Hurrying back down the stairs, he said. "Whatever it was, it's gone now." He paused. "But we can't stay here."
    "Do you have a carry basket? I can put the food Nadia gave us in that, and you can use the travel bag she loaned us for your clothes."
    "There's a basket in one of the bottom cupboards. I'll—" As he looked at the wall, the pain in his chest was so fierce he struggled to breathe.
    His