I flinched at the sound. Quinn startled, jerking back against my arms. I blinked, breath stolen, and turned in time to see Vesper slinking through the mud, soaked to the bone, his tail lashing with violent indignation. Water dripped from his ears in pitiful streams; his fur hung in heavy, matted clumps.
“Some of us,” he hissed, pausing to shake one paw as though it carried the weight of his suffering, “were not designed for this weather.”
I bit down a laugh. He looked like a bundle of cursed socks left to dry in the gutter.
“This is abuse,” the cat muttered darkly, flinging droplets with every indignant shake. “I demand to speak to the innkeeper.”
I sighed, still holding Quinn. She laughed. Or tried to. It came out breathless and uneven—unsure whether to be embarrassed or relieved. Releasing her, I folded my arms as if the motion would steady the thundering in my chest.
It didn’t.
The rain hadn’t let up. It mumbled against the roof and serenaded us with the drumming tones of thePluvo Vokas. Everything was drenched—my cloak, my boots, our supplies. I stepped up to the inn’s weatherworn door and pushed it open. It creaked like it hadn’t been opened in years, hinges shrieking in a sound strikingly similar to Vesper’s recent outburst.
Warm light spilled out, scented with spices and honey. Thesoft murmur of conversation mingled with the low crackle of logs burning in a stone hearth. Quinn paused beside me, her hood half-fallen from dripping hair, her lashes jeweled with water. I held the door for her. She hesitated, glancing up at me with a look of gratitude, then stepped through. Her fingertips grazed my chest as she passed; my skin tingled beneath her touch. I let the door fall shut behind me and followed her into the glow—chasing the warmth she’d left in my hands.
19
QUINN
My cloak hung heavy from my shoulders. Water pooled at my feet as it dribbled from clothing and hair alike. With every step inside, my boots squeaked. My mouth fell open as I marveled at the space.
The Wandering Roothad been carved into the heart of a living tree. Gnarled beams bent into archways overhead. Twisted roots served as table legs. Chairs were patched together with bark, leather, and woven moss cushions, no two alike. Amber lanterns hung from low branches in the ceiling.
“You’re dripping all over my floor,” a voice screeched.
A squat, female troll waddled forward from behind a counter, brandishing a mop. Her eyes, small and sharp, narrowed at the mud and rainwater we had tracked in.
After my first century asleep, I had seen a troll, but only from a distance. I had never been this close to one, let alone one armed with a mop and the makings of a vendetta. Before I could stammer an apology, Mav stepped forward as if approaching royalty.
He bowed low, somehow managing to look dashing despitethe water trickling off his nose. “We’re terribly sorry for the mess,” he said, voice warm and smooth. “We were hoping you might have availability. Room and board, if you’re taking guests.”
The troll woman stared at him, wiping a hand on her apron. She mumbled something under her breath, which I was certain was not complimentary. “Well, how many rooms would you need?”
“Four,” Branrir said.
“Three,” Mav said at the same time.
Thistle’s eyes slid to Mav. A slow, knowing smirk upon her lips.
“It’s...uh. The tether,” he added, brushing hair from his eyes and avoiding my gaze.
The female troll shook her head hard enough to toss her silver hair. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Magical nonsense,” Vesper grumbled from the floor, trailing puddles of his own. “Don’t ask.”
The troll huffed, “Fine. I’ve got three rooms. But—” she jabbed the mop handle into Mav’s chest “—you pay in advance. And in full. No drifters. No charmers.”
Mav opened his mouth—likely to keep charming anyway—but I interceded.
“Here,” I said, unfastening a coin purse from beneath my cloak and dropping it into her open palm. The weight of it landed with a metallicclink.
“Wait, you don’t have to—” Mav started.
“Quiet, boy,” the troll snapped, not sparing him a glance. She opened the pouch. Her expression morphed into something grotesquely sweet. A smile, or something aspiring to be one, stretched across her face. “Well,” she said, voice high and syrupy, “right this way then, dearies. I’m Shubre. At your service.” She spun around and called over her shoulder, “Kelraz! Carry their luggage!”
A younger, taller male troll poked his head out from a back doorway, grunted, and disappeared again before trudging into view. I looked sideways at Mav as we followed Shubre toward the stairs. He gave me the smallest of shrugs, but his smile was unmistakable.
Despite the chill clinging to my bones, I could still feel the warmth of his hands from earlier. Heat sparked beneath my skin, threatening to ignite a far more consuming fire. The memory of it was maddeningly vivid—the sure press of his palms at my waist, the strength in his grip as he steadied me.
