Page 143 of Fires of the Forsaken
“A mere coincidence.”
“No. It wasn’t. The Púca was here before. Last night. It killed the Wraiths,savedus—”
“Impossible!”
“—and led you here. These horses are fugly bastards, no denying that. And they’re venomous and…” I inhaled as I thought of Moira. “I get it. But this onesaved my life. He’s off limits.” I glanced over my shoulder.
The Púca stared back at me, ears pricked.
Everyone else, Braxton included, looked at me like I’d sprouted five heads.
Well, Cheriour didn’t. “She’s right,” he croaked. “About the Púca.”
“That’s—” Braxton’s gaze shifted between me and the horse. “Addie, Púcas aren’ animals.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. They’re more like hybrids. Right?” Hadn’t Belanna told me that?
“They’re blood-thirsty monsters,” Braxton said. “They can’ be controlled. Not fully. Look at the equipment they wear. The Wraiths use pain to…” He trailed off, eyes widening.
The Púca had stepped forward. Its warm breath wafted across my back. A chill ran up my spine, but I forced the shudder back. “This one’s different,” I said.
The Púca draped its head over my shoulder, licking its lips, but showing zero sign of aggression.
“They’re all the same.” Braxton gripped his sword, his eyes locked on the Púca.
“Well, I dunno. Maybe this one’s got an abby normal brain.” I reached up and touched a hand to the horse’s cheek. It felt like snakeskin. Freaky.
There were a dozen sets of eyes on me now, watching my every move.
And because I was me, I had to rub it in that this snake-scaled venomous horse had, for some odd reason, chosen to be my protector. So I reached up again and unbuckled the bridle. The Púca stood stock-still, moving only to spit the bit out when I pulled the headpiece over its ears.
The knife-wielding woman gaped at me. “How?” she asked.
“No idea.” I ran a hand down the horse’s scaly neck. “But it’s kinda cool, right?”
“The horse stays,” Cheriour grunted. “Addie,” he tilted his head back to look at me. “It’s your responsibility to restrain that animal. If it harms any member of this army, it will be killed. Understood?”
The Púca’s eyes closed as I rubbed an apparently itchy spot at the base of its wiry mane. “Understood,” I said. “He attacks someone, he’s out.”
“She,”Braxton corrected.
“What?”
“Ifsheattacks someone. That Púca is a mare.”
I ran a hand down the Púca’s muzzle. “Well, ain’t that perfect? Miss Abby Normal. Abby and Addie, that shouldn’t confuse anyone, huh?”
The mare sighed, resting her head more fully against my shoulder.
* * *
By the endof the day, Cheriour looked like a corpse.
He’d managed to get on a horse. And he was able to ride unassisted once he got the initial weeble-wobbles out and had his kankle (aka, his broken ankle) secured to the stirrup. For a few minutes, he’d almost seemed like himself again.
But an hour into our trek through the woods, Cheriour’s face had gone from pale to chalk white. Sweat saturated his clothes. He shook, swaying more and more in the saddle—and we’d only been walking. The forest was too dense for a canter. Or so Braxton said. He was probably using the cluttered woods as an excuse to keep the pace slow for Cheriour’s sake.
And mine, considering I was leading my Púca on foot.
