Page 22 of Deadly Maiden

“Here, boy. Good boy.” I let him smell me, smooth my hand over his nose and mane, traveling my palm to the saddle.Inside the saddle bag is a fine bottle of Versage Whisky, ninety years aged. I uncork it and raise it to the surroundings. I need something to wash away the stench of blood and death, the memory of agony when I ripped into dragon form then imploded back into this man-shape.

“Sproll!” I shout the toast of the bloodwielder mercenary who introduced me to this liquor then chug down half the bottle. “Ahhh.Better.”

After I wipe my mouth again, I decide I am not rescuing underwear from the corpses. I don the borrowed clothes that are now mine. The tan shirt is somewhat tight across the shoulders, in the arms, too. It will do though. The breeches are nigh on splitting, and I wriggle my butt, unhappy with the way the clothing fails to expand. I shouldn’t make any sudden moves, any kicks, or touch my toes. I need to find a tailor.

I mount up, carefully, wary of the pants doing uncalled for things, then I pause. I feel good. Better than good. I feelexcellent. And this is not simply the effects of that measure of whisky. I feel better than I have for a very long time and maybe better than I have for these past twenty years.

That unfurling and rustling whispers, deep.

I lean forward to pat Brinks’ neck. “Let’s go find that girl.” She must be alive. Brinks survived my shift, and she was beside the horse.

Gods.I smile as he breaks into a trot. I just shifted. It’s possible!

Perhaps that is why this euphoria persists? Now, which way to go? I have a hunch as to where she will aim for. My years of observation have gifted me some insight into the female’s head.

Seeing her close enough to talk to was interesting. Even prettier than I recalled, and with an ass and a bunch of curves that pleases my eye. One should be honest with oneself.

We are attracted to her.

We… I guess we are? It’s a truth that bothers me.

I was lying in that field, face-up, with zero clothes.Hmmm.

She may have seen me naked. I narrow my eyes. Considering the amazingness of my physique compared to the average fae, this is actually okay.

However, I am not chasing her for excitement.

I clench my fist on the reins.

If I see her use necromancy, my vow is to kill her, but if I simply follow her again, what will I achieve? I’ve tried this and failed. I need to get closer, and so I swing back to study the field from afar for ten, fifteen minutes. There is more to be taken from this scene than my guilt over killing those men. Yes, they were only obeying orders.

There is more to take, though it will be gruesome.

Many miles south, Kyvin the undead servant has paused to consider what direction he should head toward. Unlike the raven, he is slow. He does not feel disappointment, but he can tell that his goal is moving about more than she was previously.

And so he sighs the sigh of an undead with no air in his lungs—which is silent—and he alters his course.

Chapter 5

Wyntre

Two days later, midnight

I am exhausted.

I shouldn’t have returned to Bollingham, but some things are a compulsion, an obligation, even. I will hate myself forever if I don’t do this.

I need to know what— No, notwhathas happened. I need to know if he is alive.

It’s worth the risk, I tell myself, as I creep along the alley, listening for anyone stirring, watching for me, or laying a trap.

The enforcers might be here.

It’s midnight, and most people should be asleep.

This is further toward the bow than I wish to be, a ten-minute sneak, I figure—to bypass the town square then climb in by our window. It was challenging, and scary, to run before the town, cross to the east, and then scale that impossible side. The gap between rock and town is small but coming in from the obvious westerly direction seemed a worse option.

I made it. I’m not a squished girl smeared into a slurry of bone, red leggings, and gore, between town and mountain. I grimace at that, banish my imagination to the dungeon depths of my mind.

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