Page 22 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Jarek adjusted the rolled sleeves of his cuffed shirts, where tattoos of skulls and unrecognizable monsters marked his flesh.
“I can do you one better. I can introduce you to the owner.” Again, he scraped his teeth along his bottom lip, but she forced herself not to look. “She’s a friend of mine.”
“Is that so?” Everinne swallowed the bubble of hope, toying with the tiny amethyst daggers dangling from her ears. She couldn’t show her excitement or her gratitude. Not yet. “If you’re certain you think you can help me, I’d appreciate?—”
Jarek raised his hand, silencing her. “On one condition.”
Her breath caught and Zoryana sidled closer to her. Of course there would be a price. Nothing was ever free.
Wary, she eyed him coolly. “And what’s that?”
“You let me take you out tonight.”
Zoryana snorted, her laughter caught between a giggle and the inability to breathe. She waved a hand in front of her face, fanning herself. “A date. He only wants a date as payment.”
But Jarek’s piercing gaze was latched onto Everinne, holding her captive. “Let me take you to dinner tonight, then we’ll go to the Mystic Obscura to meet Reine.”
Reine.
Everinne filed the owner’s name away in the back of her mind, then she stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
Jarek caught her wrist, slowly letting his cool fingers slide over hers like icy silk. He raised her hand to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I’ll pick you up at sunset.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
“You don’t even know where I live!” Everinne called after him.
He stilled, tossed a glance at her from over his shoulder, and winked again.
Then he gradually vanished into the sea of merchants, vendors, and patrons, disappearing from sight completely.
Once he was gone, Zoryana grabbed both of Everinne’s shoulders, spinning her so they were face to face. “When did you meethim? I want to know everything.”
“There’s not much to tell, at least not yet.” Everinne shrugged out of Zoryana’s hold. “Though I imagine I’ll have a story or two tomorrow.”
“Oh, you better.” But then the amusement faded and her eyes darkened, her pupils nearly devouring the pools of brilliant green. “Be careful there, Everinne. His intentions seem genuine enough, but there’s something about his aura, about his vibe, that doesn’t quite sit right with me.”
“Don’t worry,” Everinne assured her, looping their arms together and continuing their stroll through the market square. “I’ll be careful.”
The lie tasted slightly bitter on her tongue.
Everinne might not always be cautious, but no male, demon summoner or otherwise, would dare fuck with her. Not if they knew what was good for them.
Eight
Atlas showered, scrubbing away the salt from his sweat, hissing as the warm spray hit the nick on his shoulder. The tip of Caedian’s sword had stung slightly, but already the wound was healing. He ran his hands through his damp, dark blond hair, shuffling them around until he was happy with the wavy pieces he could never quite tame. He stalked from his bathing suite, fully nude, into the adjoining bedroom.
Maxim, his valet, had laid his clothing out across the imposing four-poster bed—Atlas had long ago told Maxim that he was perfectly capable of dressing himself. But that didn’t stop him from at least trying to make decisions easier for Atlas. While the ash-colored pants and shiny boots would work well enough, the black shirt and gold-stitched vest would have to go. If there was one thing Atlas refused to do, it was to wear his father’s colors. Gold and black dripped from every crevice of the palace, making Atlas’s skin crawl.
His chambers were a sanctuary, a haven from the excess and glittering politics of the court. The walls were painted a deep grayish-blue, reminiscent of the surrounding mountains, when winter blanketed all of Starysa. A navy blue silk comforter wasdraped over his bed, but once the first frost arrived, it would be replaced with silver fur. The only symbol of his birthright was the large painting on the far wall by his wardrobe. Enchanted by magic, it depicted the black wolf running through the mist-laden Deszvila Forest, darting between trees, its slate gaze locked on whatever it chased in the distance.
The Desvila Forest was a daunting expanse of woods that stretched across most of Prava. Dark and cumbersome, the forest started just beyond Starysa’s walls and the only thing stopping it was the chain of mountains curving along the Ladova Bay and winding along the frozen north where the mining camps were situated, where the imprisoned and enslaved were sent to mine, and eventually die, for fire rubies. At one time, it was said the forest devoured entire villages, creeping in slowly over time. Trees with thick canopies would sprout up in the middle of homes and buildings, overgrown roots would destroy paths and trails leaving the townspeople to wander lost and alone, and unruly vines would shatter windows and crumble hearths, until the forest swallowed away every last remnant of life. A few villages remained, most of them located on the outskirts of the woods, warded by witchcraft or archaic magic, and reachable only by those who knew where to find them. The tale of the Deszvila Forest was a folktale, but even the seeds of lore grew from truth.
Atlas’s own mother had told him that story more times than he could count.
Atlas tugged on the pants and boots, then fastened a leather belt around his waist. He plucked the black shirt off the bed, then yanked open his wardrobe, shoving it to the back in the hopes that months would pass before Maxim found it again. Opting for a trim shirt in an evergreen shade, he pulled it on, leaving the top two buttons undone. If he were going out for thenight, he might grab a tie or coat to look the part of a prince, but he had no plans to head into the city this evening.
Nor did he desire to be overwhelmed by lackluster company.
