Page 131 of Fires of the Forsaken
“I’m not…ouch!” I slapped his hand away when he brushed his fingers against the knife slash above my hip. “Okay, Iambleeding, but not as bad as you. This is…purugh. I have no idea what noise I just made, but that about sums it up.Bandages!I need bandages.” I wrung out his blood-soaked shirt. “Well, I won’t be able to use this. Where thehellare my clothes?” I sprang to my feet, surveying the clearing.
The Púca watched me, tail swishing as it greedily guzzled Wraith blood.
Unfortunately, the Wraiths wore armor. Couldn’t make bandages out of metal. And I hadzerodesire to see if the creepy mofos wore boxers or briefs underneath.
“Seriously, where are my clothes?” I saw my poleaxe, propped against a tree a few feet away from the bonfire. But no clothes.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…” I stomped away, throwing a frazzled,“Don’t move!”over my shoulder at Cheriour. He grunted, his eyes already closing.
With a wet snort, the Púca abandoned its buffet and fell into step beside me. I tried not to shiver when its hot breath fanned across my shoulder. It smelled like a rotten meat medley.
Disgusting freaking animal.
But it had saved my life. More than once. So I gritted my teeth against the odor and kept walking.
Around the clearing I went, stumbling over Wraith corpses and discarded weapons, and staying far, far away from Cheriour’s dead horse.
My clothes were still MIA.
“They better not have chucked them into the fire,” I snapped.
The Púca snorted again, spraying my arm with bits of mucus and blood. “Yo! C’mon, I don’t even have anything to wipe…” I trailed off when the Púca stopped and pawed at the ground. A verymuddysection of ground.
And guess what was speckled through the muck?
“Oh no,” I groaned.
My clothes were covered,covered, in sludge. So they’d be perfectly sterile and okay to use for wound treatment.
Not.
“My luck freakingsucks,” I grumbled as I squeegeed the worst of the mud off my shirt.
Behind me, the Púca grunted, as though agreeing.
I whipped the shirt against my knee, beating the remaining sludge off. Each wetslaaaapwas punctuated with a pissyfuck.
Angry didn’t evenbeginto describe my state of mind.
My bra was ruined…not much of a shock there. Those Neanderthals probably hadn’t seen anything like the modern bra before. So they’d sliced between the cups to get it off me.Bastards!Thankfully, my pants and boots were still intact, if filthy. And…
The heck was that?
A sliver of pink—no, blue—no, bluish/pink—fabric poked out from under the mud. I frowned, dug my hands into the soil, and pulled out a gorgeous…
Shirt? Or dress? Hmmm. It looked more like a shirt. But it would’ve made a cute short-skirted dress too. And it wasstunning.The shimmery material pooled over my fingers—more like liquid than fabric. The long sleeves had gold cuffs. And gold laces crisscrossed over the V-neck front. This legit looked like a tunic a disgustingly rich and vain medieval king would tout.
It was so fancy, even the mud didn’t want to soil it. After four hard shakes, the shirt looked brand-spanking new. Not a spec of grime to be found.
And the color…holy moly. Not only did it pop like a neon glow stick at a nightclub but it keptchanging.From one angle, the shirt looked rogue pink. From another, it turned deep violet, almost blue. If I held it close to the sunlight, it morphed into a soft purple.
How in the hell did these rudimentary Viking people make a shirt like this?
And what tastelessidiotdumped it in thefucking mud?
A muffled curse yanked me out of my trance. I whirled around.
“Oh—fuck—no!” I sprang to my feet.
