Page 107 of Deadly Maiden

“I have to get undressed before I shift. If that bothers any of you, look away.” They all shrug, though Wyntre cocks an eyebrow and waits, hand on hip.

*She is almost as bad as I am. No wonder we want to fuck her.*

I pull off my clothes, boots, and armor and shove them into the rucksack. I need to carry extra weight—rucksacks and people. At least, though it is sad, I’m lighter on the gold coins. Spent way too much in Langordin and everywhere else.

I shush ID. Shifting takes concentration. I block out all unwanted events—talking, ID’s thoughts, the other people around me, the shuffle of feet on grass, the whistle of wind, the musical clinks of the horse’s tack. Everything blurs as I focus.

Chapter 35

Wyntre

Peering over the hump of the hill from where Rorsyd has us concealed is tricky. Since I’m seated on him, and his dragon form is huge, the smallest wriggle of his rump might lift me too high. Alerting Kroll Krasten’s men that we are here and about to attack would risk not only getting Andacc’s men killed but also Landos.

I pray he’s alive. He has to be. Hehasto be. I’m sweating, my face is hot, every muscle seems tense, and I need to relax. I’ve never been in a real battle before. That fight in the forest after the ambush was rushed and unplanned. Having time to think is the worst.

We dropped off Andacc behind another hill, well to the north of the house, so he can join his C of U men. By now, he should be close to where they have gathered.

“Can’t see the arrow yet,” I say quietly, swallowing. Our disguise pendants are off—not that Rorsyd’s would work in this form.

“No need to whisper. We’re a mile away.” His immense rib musculature shifts, and his chest inflates. The trees to the forefront rattle their leaves when he exhales. “Wyntre, I cannot see you being of great help in this fight. Your necromancy skills are few.”

I haven’t thought that far. “I have sword, pistol, and dagger. Do not dismiss me.”

“I don’t want you harmed. I should just leave you here when I go.” He’s almost whining that—a dragon, whining.

I’m amused, which helps to defuse the moment, lets me wind down a little.

Breathe.

“No. We’ve been through this. I need to be there. My father, my rescue.” Or my revenge. I don’t want it to be that, but Andacc said some brutal things about this Kroll.

I need to see Father again, even if only for a day, an hour, a minute, before I go to war. Because I am going to war after this. With the back of my hand, I brush at my watering eyes.

Kroll is an edgemaster—a skill I’ve never heard of before—and an ironskin, which means we need something like a sledgehammer to dent him, or a very, very sharp sword.

Anathema? Guilt sneaks in. Should I ask this of him? Each time I use his darkthing matter, I worry I diminish him.

He knows my thoughts better than I. My shadowy dark-cat-thing prances up Rorsyd’s scaled hide and deposits his ass before me.

Purring in his sweet but completely fake manner, he switches his tail to show it to me, making it undulate like a snake.

“You’re sure?”

The tail is a black stripe on the golden scales of Rorsyd’s withers. It’s still early morning, and the sun paints the contrast starkly.

I unsheathe my dagger. This will be new, though that seems the very definition of necromancers, if my parents can be considered normal—to learn on the job.

As when I coated the bullet, I coax darkthing matter from the tip of Anathema’s tail and set the blob squirming toward one edge of my thin, leaf-shaped dagger.

I’m keeping watch on the horizon for flaming arrows at the same time—difficult, but I manage.

Absolute blackness coats the finest sliver of the edge of the blade and begins to bleed down it like melting tar, until the metal is coated from tip to hilt. How long will this last? How long is a piece of string? I’ve no damn clue. Doing it to the sword would take too much material from Anathema. Even if he would accept this, I will not do that to him.

Is there something wrong with me that I cannot sacrifice such an artificially created creature in a battle to save my father?

A dash of orange fire licks into the sky then begins to plunge, vanishing into the canopy of the sun-washed forest. A flock of startled birds bursts forth.

I re-sheathe my dagger with a click. “It begins.”

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