Ellis.
Her lethargic brain conjured up one last daydream.
Ellis was in the foothills of the Severings, surrounded by a vast and unforgiving landscape. He looked utterly spent and defeated. And somewhere in the distance, trailing behind him, caught high on currents of air, out of sight, was a Bright-Eyed.
No!
The vision startled her to action and, with the last of her strength, she kicked, launching herself at the log. She squirmed and thrashed, and hauled herself up. Her body fought Greer every step of the way, threatening to roll off the side, moving with stagnant slowness as if she were already nothing but dead weight. Finally, she centered herself on the log and collapsed in an exhausted heap.
Icy water streamed down her face, and Greer couldn’t tell if it was the river or her tears. She let out a laugh that might have been a sob. She was alive. She’d not given up.
But she needed to get moving.
She could already feel a delicate layer of frost building over her clothes, could feel her limbs wanting to remain inert.
“Move!” she growled. “You have to move!”
With a heave, she pulled her bag free and threw it over her back.
Greer shuffled inch by inch toward the next boulder, certain the tree would give way and send her to a watery grave.
When she reached the next stone, she let out an aching whimper of relief. She wanted to cheer, but there was still so much more to do, so much farther to go.
Her thighs screamed as she pushed, hefting herself onto the rock. It was too smooth, without grips, and she clawed her fingers against the stone, cracking nails as she fought to hang on. When she was finally off the log, Greer flopped onto her back, her spine curved over the bag, and stared at the sky, heaving for breath.
The cold was setting in, its claws sinking deep. But there was onlyone more section of river to cross, and then she’d be on the island. She just needed to keep moving.
Greer rolled onto her side, looking at the little spit of land.
There was a trio of birch trees, their leaves long fallen and lying in moldering piles along with spirals of papery bark, the perfect thing for kindling if her flint was still dry.
Greer would have to stop and build a fire. She could not continue with wet clothes, and, though the delay grieved her, she felt so grateful to be out of the water and alive that she didn’t care.
“One more jump,” she promised, but didn’t like the sound of her voice. It was thick and froggy, her throat scraped raw from screaming against the icy water.
Greer tried to sit up, and the world around her spun.
Too cold, too cold, it’s still too cold…
She listed forward and, for a horrible, panic-stricken moment, thought she was going to keel back into the river. But she flung her bag, blessedly tossing it high onto the shore.
Using the last of her strength, she jumped off the rock.
She knew instantly something was wrong.
She hadn’t gotten enough height.
She hadn’t gotten enough distance.
Greer found herself back in the river, being pulled downstream away from the island, away from her supplies. She tried to swim, tried to fight it, but there was no resisting the current. It pulled her, tugging her down, down, down—until, suddenly, she was up, torn from the river.
She’d been scooped from the water, scooped from certain death, by a Bright-Eyed. It carried her over the island, grabbing at her rucksack, and all the way across the river, but the cargo proved too much, and suddenly they were both falling, tumbling down from the air, and landing in a heap.
Greer grabbed at her head, certain it was bleeding, though she couldn’t remember what she’d struck it upon. She whimpered as her hand came away wet and red.
The Bright-Eyed struggled to untangle itself before collapsing witha painful groan. The last thing Greer saw it do, before unconsciousness seized her, was spread out its wings, covering her in a protective layer of heat.
When she finally woke,night had fallen, and the sky was a riot of colors, flaring brightly, fanning out in two streaks of green and purple. They moved in perfect unison with each other.
