I let out another huff without even thinking, and she twists around to glare at me.
I respond with a dashing smile, and she turns back around.
My thoughts return to Troi. If she can’t actually replicate whatever trick she used on Fredrick to escape—and I’m quickly beginning to believe that’s the case—he would have no reason to keep her alive. I rub my stinging eyes. How could I be so stupid? I never even considered the possibility that she tapped into something she didn’t understand, or that it could have been something else altogether and not this magical ability I’d assumed she possessed. I’ve got to work this all out. I have to have a plan for how I’m going to keep her safe when I get back to the palace.
She is bright; I do know that much, and I’m fairly certain she speaks at least a couple of languages. Maybe I can twist that to my advantage. “You never told me what that writing was in your journal?” I ask. That must have been the wrong thing to say because she goes from one moment resting her back against me, her body moving with Balor’s gait and the next, she’s gone ridged.
“Why are you asking me this now? Why does it even matter?” Her voice is calm, almost dismissive, but her body language says otherwise.
“Just curious. Maybe if you were honest with me about what you were doing, I’d be better able to help you.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“You said yourself, that it doesn’t matter? So, tell me.”
She lets out a long exhale and sags back against my chest. That’s so much better. “I’ve always had a talent for languages, and Leodin wanted me to listen around and let him know what everyone was talking about. He thought I would be unassuming enough that no one would pay any attention. So, that’s what I did—no sneakinginto quarters or listening behind doors. I just listened to what was being said around me and wrote it down to tell him later.”
Interesting. “And the writing?”
“It’s an ancient form of Cardemian. Only a few people know it, and I figured anyone who glanced at it would just think it was a bunch of scribbles.”
Holy mother. “How many languages do you speak?”
“Five, if you include Cardemian. Though, nobody can actually speak it. We only have the writing.”
Gods, I knew she was intelligent, but that’s insane. “Why languages? Aren’t you witches supposed to be spending your time learning spells and whatnot?” I meant it as a joke, but the silence that follows feels very un-funny.
“I don’t have any magic.”
The words hang in the air between us. We move on in silence for a time, questions beating around my brain just screaming to be let out, but I keep quiet. She gave me a piece of herself, and I’m only going to ruin it if I push.
“Is he dead?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“Who?”
“Leodin.”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
She just nods like that was the answer she’d expected.
By the time we reach the inn I’d planned for us to sleep in tonight, we’re both shivering from the cold, our breath misting in front of us like puffs of smoke. It’s a shitty little place, the wood rotten and moldy and chewed up by insects, loose boards dangling from the eaves and the porch, just begging for repairs. But the lady who owns it is an excellent cook and keeps the inside clean. She alsohas a kid who can run a telegraph into town for me—though I’m starting to wonder if notifying Troi of our return is a good idea.
“Are you sure this isn’t going to come crashing down on our heads while we sleep?” Katya asks, staring up at the dilapidating inn.
I lead the horses toward the stable and dismount. “Not one hundred percent, but if we die, at least we’ll die warm.”
She takes this as an acceptable answer and reaches her hands out for me to help her down. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, but I’m not about to complain. I grab her around the waist, and she hangs onto my shoulders as I lower her to the ground, her body sliding against mine the entire way. When her feet touch down, I don’t let go and neither does she. Our eyes lock, and it’s as if we’re caught in stasis, in a moment that goes on forever.
My body sings against hers, like they belong together, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to lean down and press my lips to hers, so soft and plump. I’d tease the seam of her lips with my tongue, and she’d open for it to sweep inside, tasting her. I bet she tastes like honey or sunshine. My fingers flex on her hips and the spell is broken. She takes a step back and just stares at me for a moment with an expression I can’t decipher. Then she turns and goes to untie her horse from Balor, and reins in hand, steps around me to hand the mare over to a young stable hand I hadn’t even noticed was there.
I throw a few coins at the boy, and with my hand pressed to the small of her back, I lead Katya inside. It’s a simple one room joint—white paint peeling off wood walls and filled with a mishmash of wrought-iron tables that were probably pretty nice twentyyears ago and a long glossy wood bar that doesn’t fit the general shittiness of the rest of the place.
We enter in awkward silence—the weight of which must be palpable because Jen, the owner, immediately stops her fussing behind the bar, plants her fists on her hips and gives us a sharp look like how dare we bring our personal shit into her inn. She slaps her hand towel down on the bar. “Come along, then. I’ve got one left.”
“Hello to you too, Jen,” I say, in a lame attempt to lighten the mood. “This is Katya.”
“Mmm-hmm,” is all she says, barely sparing Katya a glance. She grabs a set of keys and steps around the bar. “Grayson,” she shouts over her shoulder.
