Page 71 of The Storm
“And that they werereshon. Like us.”
A slow smile spread over Leo’s face, and he slid his arms around her bottom. He opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the soft flesh of her thigh. He reached down to her ankles and tickled the skin there before he lifted her long skirt, shoving it up to reveal her legs. “You’re wearing too many clothes, mate of mine.”
She whispered, “Artis is downstairs.”
“Is he sleeping?”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t be shy.” Leo stood and went to latch the hook on the door. Then he walked back to the bed and lifted her, tossing her higher on the pillows. “Didn’t you say I needed to eat something?”
She felt her face heat up. Would she ever become accustomed to his teasing? “This wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“No, but you have to admit”—he stripped off his shirt and reached for her skirt—“my idea is much, much better.”
Chapter Four
They’d been in Dunte for three days when Max felt it pressing closer. There was a presence in the woods. An energy. He walked toward the path, only to hear Artis call his name.
“Maxim!” The old man was sitting in the garden near the wood-fired oven where Kyra had set bread to rise. “What are you doing?”
Trying to figure out what is stalking us.
No, better not to bother Artis with it. The old man had softened, that Renata had been right about, but not by much. Max usually saw his grandfather staring into the distance, sometimes leaning toward something, as if there was music in another room he couldn’t quite hear.
“Just taking a walk,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Fine.” The old man brought a steaming mug to his mouth. “Just fine.”
Max had never been in the presence of an Irin scribe or singer who was peacefully passing into the heavens. He didn’t know if it was normal for them to look so healthy. Artis was as formidable as Max remembered, if slightly more distractible. Throughout Max’s childhood, it had been Artis who had corralled them and made them practice their letters and books. It had been Artis who had taught them their music lessons. Artis had made them pick up their first sword.
Never turn your back on an enemy.
Plan your path through a room as soon as you enter.
Always have a way out.
Don’t watch an opponent’s feet, watch their eyes.
With Grigori, you must always fight to kill, for they will kill you.
They will kill you. They will kill your cousin. They will kill us.
A thousand lessons of war but none about family or friendship. Max didn’t know how to relate to his grandfather in any familiar way. He strolled over to Artis. “What did you do with your ax?”
“Do you want it?” Artis asked. “It’s in the armory.”
The armory was a reinforced section of the barn, unassuming unless you were looking for it. It looked like a storage room unless you knew what lever to pull.
“I don’t want it,” Max said. “There is little use for war-axes these days. They’re a bit conspicuous in urban environments.”
Artis shrugged. “Well, now you know why I’m ready to die.”
A rebellious shout tried to work its way out of Max’s throat. “Why don’t you care?”
“If you lost your Renata, you wouldn’t be asking me that question.”
Max knew he was right. He was just angry about it. “Then tell me why you called us here.”
