by AK Mulford
The green witch cook stood holding open the back door and said, “Take this road straight to Bleecher Street and take a left. At the end of the street is the forest. There’s a deer path that leads into the hills—stay on it. In two hours, you will be in Westdale. Ask for Magda at the local tavern, and she’ll find you passage South.”
Remy went over her words in her head. She could do it.
“Should we tell the Bastard Prince or are you fleeing him too?” the innkeeper asked.
“You knew it was him?” Remy said.
“Of course I knew! I wasn’t born yesterday,” the innkeeper said with a shrewd grin.
“Tell him where I’m going,” Remy answered without hesitation, surprising herself. The innkeeper frowned but merely shrugged and pushed Remy toward the door.
“We’ll stall them for as long as we can,” she added.
“Moon blessings to you both,” Remy thanked them in the only way she knew how.
“Go!” The cook hurried her to the door. “But don’t run, blend in.”
“That was the best cake I’ve ever had, by the way,” Remy said over her shoulder as she vanished around the corner. She could hear the cook’s laugh following her.
Hale would catch up to her any minute now. She needed to put some distance between herself and the witch hunters until he did. If she had stayed in that tavern one more second, her head might not have stayed attached to her body.
Remy had to remind herself to slow down again as she turned left onto Bleecher Street. She kicked up dirt from the dusty road as her eyes scanned over the town. It was the same rural and cheerless village as every other in the Western backcountry. It was the kind of town for people who didn’t want to be noticed. Those without secrets would pass through to a bigger township rather than stop off in a place such as this.
She scanned for any sign of Heather, Fenrin, or her other fae companions. But the main road with all the shops was behind her, past the inn, and Remy couldn’t risk doubling back and running into the witch hunters. Hale had to be on the way. As she rushed past cobwebbed windows and paint-chipped doors, she told herself once more that she would be okay. She needed to keep walking past the thinning rows of shops and increasingly neglected houses until he found her.
The sun was hanging low in the sky and the shadows were growing longer. It would be getting dark by dinnertime as they headed into autumn.
The forest beckoned up ahead as she heard the scuffle of feet behind her. She glanced back, only to find a haggard old man shuffling back to his home for the evening. She released a heavy breath. Two more houses before she reached the woods.
When Remy turned back, two men stepped out from an alleyway and stared at her. One was tall and gaunt, and the other was a younger copy of him. Both wore tattered brown clothing. It was the father and son from the bar.
Remy flinched. They were witch hunters too, then.
It made sense now. The father had tipped Remy’s chair back on purpose to sense if her power would flare up, while the other two at the bar watched for signs of her magic.
This was not good.
“I have no money and no time,” Remy said with a bored voice, moving aside to walk past them, hoping that all her fears were not true and they would simply let her through.
“It’s such a pity, isn’t it?” the older man asked the younger.
The younger gave Remy an evil smile as he pulled a short sword from a sheath hidden down the spine of his shirt.
“I hate to cut off such a pretty head.” He pointed his sword out at her. “Grab her,” he ordered to his father next to him.
The older one reached out to Remy, and she retreated a step. She dodged the man’s hand and kicked his knee. Normally, that move would at least topple an opponent, but these were not human men, she realized.
“Don’t touch me!” Remy shouted, red glowing flames already licking up her arms.
More people popped their heads out of doorways and windows at the shouting and then quickly shut them, the sound of turning locks echoing down the street.
They weren’t going to help a witch.
She spun around but saw the two other men from the bar turning the corner. Her eyes frantically searched for an escape, a door or alley, but she was trapped between the four witch hunters now.
Her gut clenched as the four witch hunters closed in. Her hands trembled.
Where was Hale?
She needed to use her magic, but how? She had pulled down a giant pine tree before. Why couldn’t she think of what to do now? She looked to the slum houses on either side of her. People were inside them.
Think.
But there was no time to think as the men from the bar advanced on her. She did the first thing she thought of and threw out her magic toward the father and son now at her back. She heard them stumble. She would have laughed at the thought of two fae males tripping, but she was too focused on the other two in front of her.
Remy cast out her magic toward the larger male, unbuckling his boots and belt. He involuntarily dropped his hand to catch his falling trousers, not noticing the belt slipping free and hovering behind him.
“Seriously? That’s the best you got?” He laughed. He was the ugliest fae Remy had ever seen with putrid teeth and yellowing, bloodshot eyes. His companion was equally foul. The life of witch hunting had ruined them.
Remy’s glowing red hands still shook as she focused on the male’s belt floating in the air behind him. She was clumsy with her magic, unpracticed. She had to hold her mind in many places at once. She couldn’t forget the rest of the fae around her, but she couldn’t drop the focus on the belt either.
She flung one scarlet hand toward the male holding up his pants, and the belt wrapped around his neck. Too late did he register what she was doing. His eyes bugged as he clawed at the leather garrote, face going a deep shade of crimson. More blood vessels burst in his eyes as his companion dug furrows in his flesh, trying to get a finger under the leather’s chokehold. Remy pulled the belt tighter, tighter.
A punishing blow crashed into the back of Remy’s head, and she stumbled down to her knees. She had lost focus on the other two fae.
“Hold her down,” one male shouted.
Remy looked toward the one who had yelled, but someone slugged her in the mouth. She spat blood as the world spun. A heavy boot shoved her to the ground. The father from the duo body-slammed Remy, crushing her into the dirt with such weight she struggled to breathe.
A small thread of her magic held onto that belt even still. The choking male had fallen to the ground, unconscious, but Remy held that belt, pulling it tighter until she felt his thread of life snap.
“You bitch!” The male who had been scrambling to save his friend pulled two daggers from his belt.
“End this!” the man atop Remy snarled to his son.
The older male pinned her neck to the ground with his forearm, and another hard boot collided with Remy’s ear. She saw spots, desperately clinging to consciousness as her heart slammed into her chest. Her mind was so jumbled she didn’t even register the pain. She couldn’t hear them anymore. Her ears rang. Her eyes strained upward to the young male as he brandished his sword.
This was it. The cake in her stomach rebelled, and Remy heaved up a stomachful of acrid-smelling food, spilling it onto the dirt. The three remaining witch hunters only paused to laugh at her.
Remy braced for the impact of the blade. She heard the whoosh of metal through the air and clenched her eyes shut.
Blood rained onto her, splattering across her face. The warm liquid poured through her hair. The male on top of her spasmed, rolling off her.
Remy peeked up. Standing above her was Hale.
The warrior prince wielded a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, his eyes darting back and forth between the two remaining fae. Hair dragging through the muck, Remy glimpsed the body of the older fae. The spasms had stopped and unseeing eyes stared back at her. A gaping wound still spurted blood from the
male’s slashed neck.
Hale stole Remy a quick glance before blocking a blow from the young fae with the sword.
“Run,” he mouthed. He stood stock still, muscles taut, a coiled spring ready to unleash himself on the two fae pointing weapons at him.
Pure white-hot fury was on his face. Death was in his eyes.
Remy scrambled to her feet and ran on wobbling legs. Swords clanged behind her, but she didn’t stop to look. She raced for the forest.
As she hit the tree line, she realized she had left Hale to fight off two witch hunters by himself. She stole a quick look. The prince danced around his opponents, moving with dizzying speed. Remy wished she could stay and watch his graceful death dance.
But she plunged deeper and deeper into the forest. She needed to put as much distance between herself and those hunters in case one broke free. She willed a bit more magic into her legs, spurring her onward. But her limbs felt heavy and her lungs burned.
A scream behind her shredded her nerves, but it was not Hale. It was the sound of someone dying on Hale’s blade.
Remy fell to her knees before a stream. The trembling in her legs was too great. Reeking of vomit and blood, she heard another dying scream. Hale had killed them.
She put her shaking hands into the cold water. Trying to take a deep breath, only shuddering bursts of air came out. The shock took over her body now. Tendrils of blood flowed down the stream. She cupped a handful of water up to her bruised face. Cool liquid pulling her more into her body, she splashed her face several more times until the water ran clear.
A twig snapped behind her, and Remy spun, eyes buzzing with red magic.
Hale stood panting, his hands held out.
“It’s me,” he said.
He looked like the God of War. Blood speckled his face, the ichor smudged across his clothes. His tangled and gore-clotted hair stuck to his forehead. Like a warrior ready to cut down a dozen more men, his chest still heaved and his muscles flexed.
That menace ebbed from his eyes as he looked at Remy.
“You okay?” he asked, his eyes darting to Remy’s ear and mouth.
Remy swallowed a lump in her throat as she hung her head. She wouldn’t let herself fall apart in front of him. A strange desire to be wrapped in his arms made her hands twitch. Somehow, she knew exactly what it would feel like.
She moved to stand on shaky feet. In the blink of an eye, Hale was over her, offering his bloodied hand. Remy took it, pride be damned, as he pulled her up with ease.
She swayed like a newborn baby deer. Hale gripped her hand.
“Take your time,” he mumbled. That soft look in his eyes was so at odds with his bloodied warrior’s clothes.
Tears welled in Remy’s eyes at that gentleness. She couldn’t handle it, that he saw her and allowed her to feel the trauma. That he would not reprimand or dismiss her. He was simply there, seeing it all without judgment. Remy bit the inside of her cheek so hard she thought she might draw blood. More blood. She already knew how horrified Heather would be. She could hear the brown witch lecturing her even now.
They stood in silence for a long time as the shaking lessened in Remy’s legs. Her head ached and her lip throbbed, her body finally feeling the injuries as her heartbeat steadied. After the long days’ walk and the tremendous amount of power used to fell that pine tree, only a wisp of magic still flowed through her. It surprised her she had any left for that belt. She thought back to that vacant male face. She had killed him. She had killed someone.
Hale seemed to sense the tension pulling back into her body and spoke.
“Why am I always chasing you into the bloody forest?” Hale laughed as he stared off into the shadowed woods.
Remy searched for a quick, smart retort, but she had none. She knew what he was doing, trying to snap her back to her senses and out of the numbing shock.
He lifted a hand and pulled a leaf out of her hair with a soft smile.
“You took on four male fae and survived, little witch.” His voice was a whisper as his gray eyes bored into hers. The way he looked at Remy now . . . it made her quiver. He looked at her like she was beautiful, but, more than that, he looked at her like she was brave.
“We should go find the others.” Remy looked away. Her voice was scratchy, like she had been screaming. Maybe she had been—she didn’t know.
“Yes, we need to find the others,” Hale said, his eyes still lingering on her face. “We can’t stay in Guilford. We need to keep moving through the night in case those males had any others working with them.”
Remy shuddered.
“Talhan’s going to kill us for depriving him of a bed another night,” Remy said, trying to break the tightness in her chest.
“Let me deal with Tal.” Hale’s voice was thunder over velvet.
That tension in Remy’s chest eased at the prince’s warm eyes and smoldering smile. She took a step on her left leg, steady. The prince released her hand as her shaking dissipated. It was a mistake. She shifted onto her right leg, which immediately gave way. Hale shot his arms out to catch her. With a gasp she fell forward onto him, pushing his foot back against a tree root. The two went down. Hale took the brunt of the fall, his brawny arms slowing Remy’s fall onto his chest.
He chuckled.
“I knew I should’ve just carried you.” He smirked up at her. Remy’s midnight curls hung down around his shoulders.
“I had a cramp in my right leg,” she shot back. “It just gave out from under me.”
“Here?” Hale asked.
His hand snaked around the back of Remy’s knee and up to the bottom of her right thigh. He pushed in, and Remy’s thigh seized again. Hale dug his thumb into the muscle and slid it up the back of her leg. Hissing, Remy gritted her teeth. He did it again, and the muscle relented for a moment. Hale rubbed deep strokes up and down the back of her thigh.
At last, the muscle loosened and Remy sighed in relief. Hands still cupping the back of her leg, Hale smiled up at her. Remy was aware of how close those fingers drifted to the apex of her thighs.
Hale’s eyes dropped to Remy’s lips, chest rising and falling against hers. She felt all the places their bodies met—that claiming hand on the back of her thigh. It would not be far at all for that hand to drift up . . .
In the shadowed forest light, she stared at Hale. Scattered rays of evening sunlight highlighted the red streaks of his hair. His face glowed faintly red, and Remy knew it was from her glowing red eyes again. They were not glowing out of fear now. He stared and stared into them. He did not shrink away, mesmerized by their glow. It would take nothing for her to bend down a mere inch and press her lips to his.
She heard a barking call through the trees.
“That’s Tal, they’re following our scents,” Hale said, his voice rough with a frustration that Remy was feeling all too well. What would she have done with one more minute with this prince warrior? It was easy to imagine what it would look like if she and this gorgeous male were in the same position, but with fewer clothes.
The prince cleared his throat. As Remy climbed off him, she wondered if his mind was wandering to similar places.
She shook the thoughts from her mind. It was pure adrenaline. She was in shock. She had a bashed-in face and the stink of vomit clung to her. Whatever fantasy swirled in her head was a delusion. The attraction came from relief alone: Hale had saved her. That was all it was. She would feel different in an hour.
Chapter Seven
Remy was the closest she had ever been to the ocean, yet she still could not see it. She heard the rhythmic sound of soft waves lapping on the shore. Silver Sands Harbor lay through the thicket of trees to their right. Smaller foot trails led toward the beach from the main path. She kept looking down them, hoping to glimpse the harbor, but the shadows were too dark. She had imagined so many times what the ocean looked like. She had seen it in the far distance a few times during their travels through the Western woods, but it had been a thin strip of blue in th
e far distance. But to be standing on its shores . . . she wondered what it would feel like to overlook an endless sea of blue. She had seen the Western lakes and a few large rivers before, but that was different. Remy could swim . . . sort of . . . if flailing to keep her head above water counted as swimming, but there had been no waves. She had heard stories of waves taller than houses, swallowing ships in stormy seas. It sounded unbelievable.
An ocean scent hung in the darkened forest air, taunting her. The smell was strangely familiar. It reminded her of the fae prince several paces ahead. He carried the ocean on him even when they were far away.
They walked silently. The other fae had doubled back to fetch Hale and Remy’s packs, and the group forged ahead on the trail south, skirting Newpond. They only stopped once at a river. Remy hadn’t been able to scrub the smell of blood out of her hair. It still clung to her. She let Heather tend to her wounds and give her a tonic for the pain, but Remy insisted they kept moving despite her injuries. The sounds of Heather’s shocked cries at seeing her bludgeoned face still rang in her ears. Shame still stained her skin from the looks in the brown witches’ eyes. She pressed her lips together, swallowing the hard lump tightening her throat.
She had abandoned her bloodied clothes rather than trying to carry the wet ones. They were patchy and worn thin, anyway. Carys had bought herself new clothes and gave Remy her old fighting leathers. They were a bit too long, but they were supple and comfortable. Even secondhand, they were the nicest clothes she had ever owned. Wearing the leathers changed something in Remy’s posture too. It made her feel more like a warrior. Flashbacks of the attack kept her muscles coiled and jumpy. With the leathers on, Remy pretended it was her muscles readying to fight an unseen enemy. Focusing her attention on the swaying trees and sounds of the waves, she was determined to ignore the feeling of her stomach dropping over and over again.