Page 48 of A Weave of Lies
His damned smirk. She would shatter his teeth. One by one.
In the post-rain haze, Estevan looked breathtaking. Blood smeared his lips and his cheek. His pale blue eyes sparkled against his dark tanned skin, and his collar, halfway undone in a way she didn’t remember being responsible for, revealed part of his muscled chest. Blood and ashes had once painted whorls on her skin; they now tainted his white shirt with reddish-grey. Framed by his dark burgundy cloak, he looked like a feral, triumphant beast.
Semras shuddered. He looked like a witch hunter.
The realization sobered her instantly. What had she been thinking? He was nothing like her. He could never be like her.
She held his gaze without a word. They had said all they needed already—with bites and kisses and blood. A litany of words, chanted repeatedly at the back of her mind, carved themselves into her heart: Inquisitor Velten was a cruel, manipulative, ruthless witch hunter.
And he—
He dusted the bloody ashes off his shoulder cloak. His gaze affected disinterest as she walked past him, a mask concealing—or slipping, revealing, perhaps—his true nature.
“The Inquisition finds you innocent of the crimes you have been accused of, Witch Semras of Yore,” he proclaimed in a detached, neutral tone. “May you remain so.”
Jaw clenched, Semras bristled in place, then grabbed her bag and kept walking away without glancing back.
—and he would lead her to damnation with a smirk on his lips.
Chapter 11
SirThemas’eyeswentwide when they emerged from the forest.
In retrospect, walking back to the company in their current state was bound to raise questions, and not the kind Semras felt inclined to answer. More concerned about the sword-bearers’ reaction than the bemused knight’s, she looked past him at the newly raised, makeshift camp set in the undergrowth next to the path.
The men had laid bedrolls around a few campfires scattered here and there. Waxed linen tarps hung between trunks to shield them, doing very little to fight the cold, humid evening breeze. There was only a single tent, standing in retreat next to a fire attended by a lone silhouette. The remains of a drizzle bathed the woods in a soft glimmer. Beyond the crowning branches of trees, myriads of stars had begun twinkling.
They really had been gone for far longer than she’d thought.
The sword-bearers hadn’t yet noticed their return. Busy eating their evening meals from pots hanging above the campfires, they sat huddled in small groups around the flames. The men lookedtired, resigned to sleep under the canopy of trees at the mercy of the damp forest.
Relief flooded Semras’ mind. The cover of the night would shield her from their waning attention span.
Hastily dressed, lips smeared with blood, Semras knew she looked as if she had stepped out of a fairy tale—as its devious, villainous witch. Or maybe she’d be given the role of the evil temptress, considering the bite mark clearly displayed on her neck. Velten hadn’t had the decency to give her one where her dress could cover it.
The bastard. It still throbbed, each pulse an irritating reminder of the glade’s madness.
Themas stared at her neck, his face twisted by a worried grimace.
“Don’t worry,” she said. Her lips stretched into a mirthless grin. “He bled more than me.”
Bewildered into silence, the knight shifted his gaze to her side.
Velten stopped next to her. With his smeared, ripped clothes and visible wounds, he looked far worse than her. The blood on his lips had dried in small, dark crusts, and the cuts on his cheeks had turned into thin raised lines.
“Sir Ulrech gave the order to camp for the night?” he asked, observing the encampment with critical eyes.
“Yes, my lord.” Themas watched him cautiously. “You were … gone for longer than we expected. I suggested sending people to look for you, but Sir Ulr—”
“Sir Ulrech is well aware I can handle a single witch.”
Semras scoffed. Hopefully, he didn’t ‘handle’ all witches the way he had handled her.
Beckoned by the campfires and their drying heat, she walked away. Without her enchanted shawl to keep her warm, her rain-soaked dress chilled her thoroughly.
Behind her, Themas spoke, his voice growing fainter and fainter at each step she took. “I … can see that, my lord. You … you should go speak with Sir Ulrech. He looked quite angry, and …”
Semras walked into the camp, and the knight’s words faded into the indistinct murmur of ambient conversations. Wary eyes snapped to her as she strode past groups of guards and clusters of bedrolls. Some sword-bearers averted their gaze, while others sized her up, squinting their eyes trying to see her through the shroud of darkness. None looked welcoming.
