by Tara Brown
Mr. D slammed something on my hand, snatching my other sword and stabbing it into my stomach.
I coughed as he leaned in, looking into my eyes fiercely. “I liked your mother far more than I like you.”
Artan charred the man I had stabbed and swallowed him as well.
Mr. D. gave me a look, perhaps uncertain of his next move.
Artan didn't wait for a move, he breathed a blast of molten fire at Mr. D, and me. I shoved Mr. D. into the flames and hid myself, receiving only minor burns as Mr. D. screamed.
I took a deep breath and dragged the sword from my stomach as soft cries fell from my bleeding lips. I placed a trembling hand over the gushing wound, but my blood seeped through my fingers. I crawled to Artan who was still raging inside the window. He seemed huge inside the small space.
I leaned against him, feeling his panic and rage vibrating through him.
When I looked back, Mr. D was dead on the floor. I lifted my sword and stuck it into his belly, just to be sure.
Voices came from the bookcase, perhaps more men on their way to kill me. I lifted my swords and waited for the men to come.
I knew this would be my last fight; I would die here if I stayed. I glanced down at the wound, noting it was seeping badly.
Artan nudged me and I nodded, knowing I didn't want to die. I sheathed my swords as he pulled back from the window so I could jump onto his back. I landed with a thud, wincing as men filled the small space with screams and daggers.
I lay there, bleeding and sore as Artan jumped into the night sky, carrying me to the back door of the inn. While I was healing, my clothes were covered in blood and ash, and I had burns that were slower to recover than the rest of my injuries. Like Artan’s egg burn he had given me when he was a baby, his fire burns always healed slowly.
It was the only injury that took me a while to heal from.
I limped through the back door as Artan shot back into the sky, and then dragged myself to my room.
Inside, I poured the wash water Luke had left me into my washbowl and hid my cloak, swords, and daggers in the floorboards I had pulled loose. When I had the piece of flooring back in, I slid the chair over it. I stripped my shirt and breeches off. My body had what looked like scars and blood everywhere.
The burns were tender. With shaking hands I dunked the washcloth and dragged it down my torso and abs and tried not to cry as the pain seared through me.
I caught my own stare in the mirror, noting the brightness of my green eyes. They matched the fiery version of Artan’s. But that wasn’t the only thing that I saw in the mirror. There was also trauma. I wished I could make the images of what had happened vanish—all of the words and the dirty things I didn't need to know about. I wished I had the necklace again. I didn’t even want to think about where my mother really was, but I had to. If she was missing and being assaulted I had to find her. If she wasn't with Roland at our castle, it meant Edward had lied to me.
And if she was here somewhere, I would burn the city to the ground finding her.
A knock at the door startled me. “Just a moment.” I winced.
“Millia.” It was Grayson.
“Just changing.” I pulled on a clean shirt and did it up, my shaking fingers making it nearly impossible. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the second half of my body as I dragged down my breeches, stepping from them. I shook as I washed the ash and blood from my legs, accidentally breaking a blister on my leg. A whimper slipped from me.
“Millia, what was that?”
I held my hand over my mouth, trying to take deep breaths. “Nothing. Just a moment.” My voice was weak.
The pants felt like they were ripping my skin off as I pulled them on. I ran my fingers through my hair and tried not to look like I was dying when I turned and opened the door.
Grayson looked worried as he glanced past me and looked around the room suspiciously. His eyes filled with concern. “You all right?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I am now.”
He tilted my face. “What's this?” He brushed his finger along the red skin on my neck where a burn had been.
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “A long story, I suppose. Is it almost fight time?”
He stared at the mark for a moment, before he leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. “It is. Now, hurry up.”
I inhaled his face and kiss, leaning into him with my eyes closed and his mouth on mine. There, in that second, I had the fleeting feeling that I was capable of making my life anything I wanted it to be.
He pulled back and held my face. “Boots. Fast.” I opened one eye and looked at the grin across his lips. I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him once more before turning slowly and grabbing my boots. They smelled of fire, flesh and blood, and bad thoughts. I pushed them back and grabbed the flat shoes I had bought at the same time as the dress I'd ruined. I slipped them on.
He raised an eyebrow at them and tilted his head. “What are those?”
“Shoes.” I glanced at them and wiggled my toes. They were black and silky and comfortable, just not practical for a girl in the middle of a war. “I got them in the market. It's what most women wear. They will suit the night out. I have no intentions of getting into a fight.”
“Clearly.” He laughed and grabbed my hand. “You're not most women.” I closed the door and tried to hurry after him, but all of me was still burning in so many ways.
We walked fast to the dance hall, and I noticed then that he was energized, excited. I had been so lost in my own nonsense I hadn’t noticed him or his.
We entered through a different door than last time. I furrowed my brow. “What's this?”
“Fighter's entrance.” He took a deep breath, like he was relaxing himself before he pulled the door open. Sound immediately washed over us, with heat and smells that were similar to the last time.
He led me through what looked like a back room and stood in a dimly lit area. His eyes scanned the crowd for a moment before he leaned in and kissed my cheek. He hovered there for a second, smelling me. When he opened his eyes, he lifted his hands to my cheeks and held them firmly with a stern look on his face. “No matter what you see, stay back here!”
I nodded and then shook my head. “Wait, why? What am I going to see?”
He pressed his lips into mine, making me smile into the kiss as he muttered, “You will see me fight. Win or lose, you stay here.”
I sighed, taking it all in. “You are my favorite form of denial, Grayson.”
He laughed. “I don’t know what that means, but I'll take you any way I can get you.” He motioned to someone in the crowd and a man walked over with a tray. He had two mugs of ale and two small glasses of something golden in color.
“What's that?” I asked.
Grayson's eyes lit up. “Whiskey.” He drank both shots and grabbed a mug of ale off the tray.
“What’s whiskey?” I frowned and took my ale.
“The greatest liquor ever created by the gods.” The man with the tray gave me a look.
“Greatest way to numb yourself off. Don't try it.” Grayson laughed and chugged the mug of ale until there was nothing but a bit of froth. He slammed the mug down on the tray. The man slapped him in the arm. “Good luck, Grayse.” He turned and left us.
“Do you need luck, Grayse?” I asked, a bit worried.
He smiled wide. “You called me Grayse.”
I frowned, realizing I had never called him that before. Not aloud. “Do you need luck, Grayson?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Nope. You called me Grayse; that was luck all on its own.” Grayson was about to walk away but he froze. I noticed Tom, the big guy in charge, was walking over to us. He scowled at me and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I folded my arms but Grayson stepped in front of me. “She stays.”
Tom looked at him and threw his arms into the air. I had a hard time seeing him as a killer. I wondered if he was truly the person respon
sible for Grayson's dad's death.
Grayson turned and faced me. I could see the energy of the place on his face. He looked excited, like a kid. “Soon as this is done, I was thinking maybe we could go for a walk, just you and me. I have something I have to show you. It's really important.” His eyes were burning.
I bit my lip and fought the silly grin that was trying to force its way across my face as I imagined all the really important things he might show me.
Instead of waiting for my answer, he dragged his shirt over his head and passed it to me. My breath stopped. I had never seen anything like him before.
There were thick black drawings on his chest and upper arms. Some were words I didn't know scrawled in a way that made them hard to read. I gripped the shirt and stared at his rippling, lean muscles.
He blushed at my stare and glanced down at the black flower on his chest, over his heart. “Lily. My mom was named Lily.”
“You put a flower on your chest for your mom?” I asked softly. “What magic is this?”
“No magic, just art. It’s called a tattoo. It’s drawn using quill ink and a small knife of sorts.” He nodded and pointed to a black triangle on his oblique with an exploding star inside it. “This is my own drawing.” It was beautiful.
I lifted a finger—a trembling and nervous finger—to touch it, but he stepped back. “Don’t.” He said it with a smile, but the word “don't” only made me want to touch it more. He turned and walked into the huge ring of men. They started cheering and screaming, and then I couldn’t see him anymore. The crowd ate him up.
Worry and panic filled me when I couldn't see him at all. I needed to see him. My stomach was a ball of tension as my foot took a step forward, but I stopped. He had asked me to stay there.
My brain argued everything as I nearly gnawed my lip off. My hands were sweating into his shirt as I stood there alone.
The ringmaster shouted, “EVERYONE READY FOR A GOOD FIGHT?”
The crowd erupted into screams and shouts. It was deafening. It made my heartbeat pick up. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot.
Anxiety was almost killing me.
“BEGINNNNNNNN!” he screamed.
Alarms went off in my body. The tension was physically hurting me. I tried jumping, but the frothing sea of electric men blocked me out completely.
I could tell the fight was exciting. The crowd was losing their minds.
The noise rose and fell as the men fought.
When I couldn’t take it any longer I looked at the tables against the wall just outside of the dark room, realizing they were close to the area he had told me to stay in. I hurried over, climbing atop one of them and smiling when I looked into the ring, well over the heads of the crowd.
A gasp fell from my lips as I saw a huge, burly man had a crimson-faced Grayson in a choke hold.
Grayse brought his arm back and blasted the guy in the belly. The man heaved forward but maintained the grip on his throat.
Leaning forward with the heaving man, Grayse wrapped his arms through the guy's big legs and lifted him by his groin. He brought him down hard. The man screamed and flailed back. His hands flew to his groin.
Grayson rocked his head back and forth as the color faded a little. He hopped up and down like he was trying to get loose again. His chest flexed and the lily moved with his steps. His shoulders rolled as he shook his face like he was shaking the choke hold off. Sweat dripped from them both, but in the torchlight Grayson looked fierce. He looked savage. It made my heart race.
The burly man charged him. I almost rolled my eyes. Big guys all fought the same. As the man got close, Grayse let him have it. His fists flew at the man's face and ribs. He moved at a speed I'd never seen before, using precise hits and combinations. I was cheering with the crowd before I realized it. The man had taken a beating; there was no doubt. Grayson hit him one last time, and the huge man fell like a tree in the forest—no agility at all.
Ensuring the man was staying down, Grayson turned and faced the crowd as they blasted him with cheers. He wiped sweat and a bit of blood from his face, smearing it with the backs of his hands. Tom grabbed his hand and lifted it in the air as he leaned in, saying something to Grayson that took the pleased look from his face.
I was jumping on the table, screaming when Grayson’s eyes met mine. The fierceness didn’t leave his face. Whatever Tom had said to him made him annoyed with me. I stopped jumping and climbed off the table, slinking back to the dark room he had asked me to stay in.
His disappointed stare made its way through the crowd. I looked up through my lashes and tried to appear ashamed for climbing onto the table, but it was hard. Grayson looked like a wild warrior, and for some reason that look was a good one for me.
He snatched his shirt from me and slipped it on. Even with it on, I could smell his sweat. I opened my mouth to say something, but he shook his head, not wanting to hear me talk apparently, and grabbed my hand, dragging me to the doors we had come in. I jerked him back to stop him, but there was no point. He was determined we were going outside in a hurry.
“Grayson!” I said, trying to find out why he was so angry, but he kept moving.
The possibility that my identity was what Tom had whispered hadn’t snuck into my brain until he grabbed my hand. The force of his gruffness was unusual for him. He was always a gentle giant. But his being so strange made we wonder if Tom had somehow managed to tell him who I was before I could.
In concern, I yanked back on his hand, making him wince and look at it. He lifted it, releasing my hand and squeezed his fingers. I reached up and wrapped my hands around it. “Did you break it?”
He jerked it from me, shaking his head. “No. It's nothing. It'll heal.” His eyes made me worry again about what Tom had said. He reached around with his other hand and snatched my hand, again leading me from the room.
The air on the streets was cold compared to the heat of the fighting area.
“We gotta hurry,” he said, breaking into a slight jog. I picked up the pace, letting him pull me as I tried desperately to ignore my aching feet, thanks to the ridiculous shoes.
“Why?” I asked, glancing back at the pub.
“Tom told me some men came looking for you.”
I picked up my pace. I hadn’t gotten the chance to tell him the truth, and I would be damned if Herrick was going to do it for me. He had ruined everything else—he wasn't having this. Fear drove me to grip his hand harder and sprint until I was dragging him. I weaved up an alley I knew and down another.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
I dragged him and whispered, constantly looking back. “I have something to show you too.” But I feared mine wasn't going to be as fun or romantic as his. Mine involved treachery, dragons, and those bizarre witches. Mine meant he would likely run away, screaming and cursing my name. Or he might just call me a liar.
All of it ate away at me as we hurried along the back alley to the inn. I crept up to the back door. “I'll be right back.” I ran inside, changed into my boots, and strapped on my daggers.
When I came back, he was giving me a strange look. “Tired of those shoes already or you just needed your daggers for this conversation?”
“Yes.” I sighed, not telling him which I was saying yes to because it truly was both. “I haven’t been honest.”
He laughed. “I know.”
I swallowed and stepped down onto the road next to him. “You do?”
He took my hand in his. I noticed it was healed. I looked up at him. He shook his head as the blue of his eyes turned to slits like a cat's in the dim light. “I haven’t been honest either.”
Chapter Nineteen
I gasped and stepped back.
He blinked and his eyes looked normal again.
I waited a moment, wondering if it had been the light. When I wasn't sure what I saw, I leaned in and stared deeply into his eyes, resting a trembling hand upon his cheek. “They were—what was that?”
His lips twitc
hed as he contemplated everything. “I cannot continue to be who I am and let you think otherwise.” He rubbed his eyes and turned, walking away. I followed him into the shadows, confused. “What does that mean?” I asked, but before he could answer, we both turned our heads sharply to the street where we heard voices.
He broke into a run, with me on his heels.
We raced through the alleys until we reached the docks. The tension and confusion were dimmed by the sound of our boots on the wood, echoing over the calm waves. There was no other sound. It was just us. Completely alone.
He turned and took my hand, holding it like if he let go he would lose me forever.
I looked down. I had my own reasons for secrecy so I understood his silence.
“I am not a man, Millia. I am not a hum—normal man.” He spoke so softly the wind almost carried his words away.
“What are you?” I whispered, suddenly scared of his secret far more than my own.
“Vulkodlak,” he whispered back.
I looked up. “You become a wolf?”
He frowned. “No.” Confusion covered his face.
“What then?” I wasn’t certain I wanted the answer but I needed it.
“How do you know about the wolves?” He stepped farther away from me. The cold air rushing between us made me shiver.
“My brothers, they're the vulkod—things that turn into wolves.”
He spoke with shock in his tone. “Vulkodlak. So that means you are also—”
“No. It is on their father’s side.”
“You have half brothers?”
I nodded and sat on the wood, pulling my knees into my chest. “My friend Maddox is as well.”
“That I knew.” He crossed his arms. “You should stay away from them. They aren’t very stable. I realize they’re family and all, but they are not in control of themselves. The beast can come quickly.”
I looked at him, wondering if he knew of the irony in his sentence. “Says the man whose eyes turned to blue slits like a lizard only a moment ago.”
He paused and then chuckled. “I'm not a lizard. I don’t know how to explain what I am to you. I'm more than a man. I know that. My family has Vulkodlak roots. Well, my mother was a princess, but she was a regular girl. It's complicated.”