“Well then,” she says, hands slapping the table. Standing, she crosses to a tall cabinet set against the wall and pulls out an empty flour sac. “Let’s get you some supplies, and I think I’ve got a little coin I can send you off with.”
I push to my feet. “Oh, you don’t need to—” I begin.
“I don’t do arguing,” she says, waving a half-eaten loaf of bread at me. “Now sit down and hush.”
I sit. “Yes, ma’am.”
20
After three days searching every trading post and village, I was convinced I’d never find her. Then she suddenly appears. I wasn’t even looking for her this time. I just stop by this little village to pick up supplies, and there she is, roaming the market like she belongs there. It’s a tiny market, with only a handful of stalls draped in colorful awnings lining either side of the road. The scent of cooking meat rides the breeze, making my mouth water, but I ignore my rumbling stomach. If I lose her now, who knows when I’ll find her again.
She’s way too clean for somebody who's been on the road all this time. Her face is washed, her hair tucked neatly into a tight blue bonnet that matches her freshly laundered blue dress. I, on the other hand, look like I just stepped out of a sewer and smell about as pleasant. The reek of sweat and horse is so bad, I can hardly stand to be near myself, and here she is, fresh as a daisy.
Shewalks down the street, a basket in one hand and her horse’s reins in the other. Vendors on either side call out their wares—but she just smiles and continues on her way. The market isn’t packed, but there are enough people out here buying and selling that it’s easy to blend in. Not that she’d recognize the paunchy fae with curly hair and a hawk’s beak nose that I’ve shifted into, but seeing a strange male following her is bound to make any lady nervous. So, I hang back, ducking into stalls and pretending to shop. She pauses at a fruit stall where the vendor is blatantly ogling her. There’s a twinge of something in my chest that feels suspiciously like jealousy. Which is ridiculous because I hardly know the girl and have zero claim over her. Still, when she smiles and reaches out to touch the vendor’s arm, I find myself contemplating the best way to separate it from his torso.
Her flirting is so over the top, it’s almost comedic, but the vendor is clueless. He smiles at her like a jackal about to pounce on its next meal while, right under his nose, she’s secreting apples into her basket. Talk about a master manipulator. I don’t know whether to be worried or impressed.
I mean, I’m definitely impressed. For a woman sheltered her whole life in one of the great houses, she is quite the industrious one. She thanks the oblivious male and moves on, slipping her horse a few pieces of apple as she makes her way over to another stall. This one is selling small pieces of cookware, perfect for traveling. She positions herself with her back to one of the tables, and while the vendor lectures her on the finer points of Ümbrian silver, she reaches behind herself with one hand, plucks up a small pot and drops it in the basket beside her ill-gotten fruit. Then, she’soff again. She goes on like this for at least an hour, and by the time she’s finished, she’s acquired food, matches and a bar of soap.
I could probably call her a thief, drag her off like I was a member of the town constable, and no one would be the wiser, but I’m too curious for that. Instead, when she leaves the market, I follow. She passes between a number of buildings, down the main road she probably traveled to get here and off into the woods. Thank the gods I’d already stabled Balor at the inn before I saw her. I’m hiding behind trees and boulders like an idiot and so far, she hasn’t noticed—but a giant black horse might have been a tad more conspicuous.
By the time she stops beside a soft flowing river to set up camp, it is near dark, the rapidly depleting light turning the world a hazy gray. She sets her things down on the riverbank, hobbles the horse and starts building what I’m assuming is meant to be a fire, but is really nothing more than a pile of twigs and dead leaves. It goes up with a flash and a copious amount of smoke. Then she piles on more twigs and leaves, and leaves and twigs until she has something moderately more fire-like. She removes her boots, hikes up her dress and tiptoes into the freezing cold river, only going far enough to scoop a bit of water up with her new pot before setting it on the not-so-blazing fire.
Night descends, devouring the last vestiges of daylight, and I send up a prayer of thanks to the Mother for the nearly full moon casting its silvery light upon the water and earth and Katya as she begins stripping off her clothes. In a situation like this, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to turn away. Obviously, I am no gentleman because, if anything, I move closer. She has to stretch and contort to reach the buttons running down the back of herdress, and I imagine those are my fingers deftly unlatching the tiny pearls, my knuckles brushing her soft skin as I work my way down. She peels the fabric from her body and leaves it to pool at her feet.
I’m frozen to the spot. The moonlight dances across her milky-white skin and along the dips and curves of her figure, accentuating the long column of her throat, the sweep of her shoulders and dip of her waist. Her breasts are full, perfect handfuls, and the tight buds of her nipples are firm and begging to be worshiped with my mouth. Finally, she removes her drawers, and she’s standing stark naked next to the water, reminding me of the first time I saw her, those violet eyes calling to me like a siren’s song. Now here she is, the mythical siren come to life, and I am thunderstruck.
She squeezes her arms around her chest as she steps into the river, then pushes off with a splash, swimming all the way out until she’s treading water. My cock is rock hard and throbbing. I fist it through my pants, trying to ease the pressure. She dips her head back to wet her hair, then begins scrubbing it with a bar of soap I hadn’t noticed she was holding before. For her, this is just a bath, and I feel slimy and perverted for watching her like this when she doesn’t know I’m here, but gods, I don’t know if I can look away.
I have half a mind to grab her clothes and force her to let me cuff her to give them back, but knowing Katya, she’d just run off into the woods naked and end up getting eaten alive by insects, or worse. Not to mention, that would be hardly effective if the woman can control my mind. Until I figure out how her magic works, I should handle her with kid gloves. Best for me to wait until she’s asleep and slip the spelled manacle on her wrist then. Hopefully, the magic in the stones will dampen her powers or this may be the shortest arrest in Solstyr history.
A branch falls somewhere in the woods behind her and Katya spins, the water splashing around her like a whirlpool. She turns in place, scanning the woods. Her gaze passes right over where I’m standing shrouded in darkness, watching her. There’s no way she’d be able to see me, but still, she’s been spooked and starts wading back across the water. This time, when she approaches the shore, I do turn around. Don’t ask me why. I’ve already seen everything, but it makes me feel slightly less sleazy.
Enough of this stalking her like an obsessed fool. I need to run back to the hotel and get my things together. I’m in for a long night.
21
Iwake up to the sound of leaves rustling in the trees above me, sun warming my skin and something hard and pointed jabbing me in the back.
“Good morning, witchling. It’s time to go home.”
The words take a moment to filter through my sleepy haze. That voice? I know that—
I bolt to my feet and run. There is no thought or logic, only the overwhelming need to get away. I race through the brush, limbs scraping and snagging at my face, hair and clothes. Aemon calls after me, but his words are lost to my panting breaths and the racket I’m creating as I crash through the woods. My half-frozen foot lands on a pinecone, and I let out a shout. The barbs are like tiny knives stabbing into my flesh. I crash to my knees, the uneven ground sending a shock wave of pain up my leg.
“Katya,” Aemon calls, and that just spurs me on. I push back to my feet and take one unsteady step.
Something strikes my wrist.
It’s a small pain at first, like the burn of an ember just popped from a fire. Then it streaks a fiery path up my arm and splits apart like tiny bolts of lightning. One bolt tears through my chest, up my neck and into my skull. My vision goes white. The other scorches through my midsection and into my extremities. The muscles in my legs seize up, and I crash into a heap on the ground, my skull cracking against a sharp stone.
As suddenly as it came, the pain releases me, leaving behind only tiny aftershocks that crackle across my nerve endings, and a knot the size of my fist on my temple. Blood runs in rivulets from the gash in my head, and I press a palm to it in a vain effort to stem the flow. There’s a gods awful ringing in my ears, and it feels as though my heart is hammering the inside of my skull. Hands grapple with the fabric of my dress and roll me onto my back. My vision’s cloudy, and I have to blink my eyes a few times before it clears. Aemon’s leaning over me, his mouth moving, but I can’t understand what he’s saying.
“What?” I ask. Even in my own head, my voice sounds like someone took a bristle brush to it.
The ringing dissolves with a whoosh, and Aemon’s words hit me with perfect clarity. “I told you not to run.”
22
