Page 31 of Deadly Maiden

Rorsyd raises an eyebrow.

“Ouch. What’s in there? Gold? You’re not exactly plain, either.”

The shifting colors in his eyes are surely as distinctive as my hair. Which begs the question—why did his fellow enforcers not know what he was?

Then Anathema scoots across behind him, and I’m trying to act as if nothing is there.

“We need to cut your hair and change the color.”

“Cut it? No!” Pouting, I gather some of my hair in my fist, as if to protect it. He’s right, but it’s still sacrilege. It took meyearsto get it this long.

“Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll get something temporary, and then we ride out of town.”

“We only just got here…” But he’s scooped up the saddlebag and is already heading to the alley entry. “Stay?” I mumble. “I’m not a trained pet.”

Alsowe ride? I’ve rarely ridden a horse for longer than an hour, and my ass muscles remember my recent escape. My butt is definitely going to fall off.

Wait. Anathema is here somewhere. I cast about and find him sitting in shadow, blue eyes unblinking. A real black cat arrives between my feet, purring like a miniature bubbling kettle. It rubs itself against me as I squat to pat it. “Friendly little thing. You however,” I admonish Anathema. “Should not be out.”

As if called, he blinks then paces over, seating himself a few feet away, squishing his rear this way and that before he stills. He seems fascinated by this real cat that I’m stroking about the ears.

This is an opportunity. Rorsyd is nowhere in sight, and the market out there is bustling and in the bright of day. No one seems curious about a lone girl, way back here, patting a cat.

Gently, I pick up one of the cat’s front paws and squash it with finger and thumb to make the claws extrude. She, or he, takes my manipulations happily, still purring, smooching their forehead at my knee. “This is what you should have.”

Anathema lifts a front leg and swivels his paw. Claws, I see claws growing. I smile.

“Yes!” I whisper. “That’s it.”

They pop in and out as Anathema experiments, tilting his head. Some of them are odd in shape, but it’s a start.

The cat makes a cuteblertsound then wanders off, and now I’m regretting my stupidity. I forgot to show Anathema the butthole. That’s not something I ever thought would be a priority, and I grin at the absurdity. Next cat, next time. I rise to my feet, groaning at the bruise on my hip, gained when I fell into a bookshelf corner a few hours ago, when the cart lurched.

Books, butts, and bruises. That sums up today, so far.

Of all the wounds to suffer, I have a book bruise.

I’m thankful, though, so fucking thankful I’m not worse off. And Rorsyd is why I’m not dead or with that troop—restrained and heading for Tensorga. After that, only the gods know what they intended to do with me.

The air acquires a sobering chill.

I check my surroundings to be certain no one is watching. What a wonderful place to be accosted, assaulted, or worse. The sword waits, sheathed and attached to the rucksack by the belt. I unfasten it and buckle it around my waist. I need to be ready to fucking stab someone if I have to. I roll my shoulders, contemplate the ground between my boots. I can do this.

I need to learn to be careful. To think ahead. He’s right. I lean my back against the wall, in the shadows with Anathema, so I can watch everything and everyone.

Though life is supposed to be fun too. Landos once said that. Happiness and fun. I’m building a plan, piece by piece. What else?

At the approaching shoe leather on stone, Anathema melts into the nearest piece of gloom as if he was never here.

Rorsyd. I’m relieved it is him. Actually relieved.

My life. Fun, occasionally lethal, and full of a fucking huge dragonshifter. Someone who makes me a bit giddy whenever I see him walking my way with that land-gulping swagger. He is nice on the eyes. I’m more than a little smitten with his looks if not the rest of him.

He reaches me. “Come a little further in, so I can use the scissors without drawing gawpers.”

His hand in possession of my wrist and his scent add to that giddiness. “Gawpers?”

“People who want to watch.” Our eyes meet.

---