Obsidian Island by Arden Powell

Author:Arden Powell [Powell, Arden]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE ROOT TRAP

Deaton jolted out of his reverie when two bodies were shoved into his tomb alongside him. The three of them lay on a bed of clay in a narrow coffin-shaped opening under the earth, not quite close enough to touch each other. A latticework of tree roots formed the roof and walls and scant spots of light filtered through them, offering him just enough illumination to see, like the dim flickering of a lonely candle.

"Hello?" he rasped.

There had been someone above him; he had reached for them through the roots. It had happened as if in a dream, nightmare flashes of a red canopy high above, his hand wrapping around warm skin before it had been wrenched away. Had that been real? Had he been so close to rescue, only for the tree to steal that hope away? Because there was no question that if there had been someone above him in the open air, they were one of the bodies now with him in the grave.

"Who's there?" one of the bodies asked.

Deaton hesitated, not trusting his senses. "Rawlings?"

"Deaton!"

Rawlings crawled to Deaton's side and there he was, not drowned or lost at sea as Deaton had been so sure he must be, having seen him go over. Soft red pollen clung to Rawlings' hair and the shoulders of his shirt where it had floated down on top of him. Deaton reached for his hand and the relief of human contact could have moved him to tears if he weren't so tired and dehydrated.

"What happened?" Rawlings asked. "How did you get here?"

"How did you?" Deaton asked in return. "I saw you jump into the water after Lapwing fell."

"He's here too," Rawlings told him.

Another knot in Deaton's chest loosened. They had both survived. For all he knew, The Achillean hadn't lost any of her crew. Not for sure.

Behind Rawlings, Lapwing stirred, recollecting himself and returning to consciousness. Rawlings turned and helped him sit up, both of them crouching on hands and knees to avoid knocking into the roots above.

"You're not hurt?" Lapwing asked, patting Rawlings down to check for injuries in the dark.

"No worse than before," Rawlings assured him. "But Emery, listen—"

Lapwing clenched his hands in Rawlings' shirt. "When you were in the branches, I thought I saw Deaton through the roots."

So, that had been real. "I'm here," Deaton said from the shadows, his voice strained but steady. "I've been here for days. Maybe longer. It's got my legs; you have to dig me out."

"You can't have been here that long," Rawlings said. "That storm only hit us yesterday morning."

"What time is it now?"

"Just past noon. We lost the ship approximately twenty-eight or twenty-nine hours ago."

"It feels longer, then," Deaton said, disconcerted by his faulty timekeeping but not overly surprised. "Something's wrong with this place. There's something in the air. It gets worse the longer I'm down here."

Lapwing shuffled closer to peer at Deaton through the dark. Deaton knew he must look halfway to becoming one of the

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