Turn around. It’s a trap.
A door magically appears.Whoosh!His wind magic flares behind me.Splash!My feet stumble through the puddle as I barrel into the small room.
He rolls his eyes at my sword as if it were a loaf of stale bread and not a weapon.
“Do you even know which end is the pointy one?” he ridicules.
“Would you like me to show you?” My shadows purr around my feet, eager to be set free again.
“Perhaps,” he rolls with my punches. “Talking to you is rather painful. If I were wise, I would just have you end it before nightfall does.” His choice of words feels like a sketch an artist makes before they commit to the design.
Does he think he’s dying tonight? The grin spreading on his lips tells me he wants death.
He closes the door, and then a silencing spell snaps into place. “What is the meaning of this?” I demand. My palms grow sweaty as I clutch my blade.
“I could ask you the same.” He tilts his head and then shakes it.
I look around. Is this a room or a closet? The space contains only a bed, a dresser, a chair, and a trunk. “Is this your bedroom?” Surely not. There is nothing personal. Where are all his knick-knacks? This guy looks like a hoarder.
“Not good enough for you, boy?”
This asshole! “This bed is better than the one I received when my brother and I became wards of the kingdom.”
His lip twitches. “Good. You’re not scared of losing everything because you have before.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He rubs his jaw. “Didn’t Titus order you to pretend to bed the librarians?” He lifts a snarky eyebrow. “There is a bed. And if our conversation has been you seducing me,” he laughs, “I fear for the future of our young men.”
Seduce! Wait… what did he say?
My mouth fills with a sour taste. “Wait a minute!” Driving my elbow back, I prepare to strike. “How did you know what Titus and I discussed?”
He grabs the only chair in the room and sinks confidently into it, taking his time to cross his weary old legs before he smirks. “Because Everett told me.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Tristen
Everett! That prick is like sunlight; he seeps into the smallest of cracks, bending and refracting, sneaking his way into all layers of life, both past, present, and future.
Chills cover my skin.
I want to shave them off. Wipe the slate clean.
The old librarian leans over and drops his head into his hands. “You pompous prick, you fool,” he mutters through his dry, cracked lips.
“Stop calling me that!” I aim my sword at his liver.
In the end, we’re all the same. If we bleed too much or can’t heal fast enough, we’re dead. It makes fighting simple. Whether you have fae magic, vampire, shifter, mage, or human, we’re just thin flesh wrapped around bone. It cuts open easily; if you can’t heal in time, then you’re done.
Humans have proven that point time and time again. We’ve killed so many of them, but they survive. Heck, they even manage to defeat us in battle with their machines and tactics.
“That’s what you are!” the old man snaps. His fists raise as they shake with small tremors.
I can’t help but feel bad for him. I lower my sword and let him grab me by the collar. My eyes zero in on his inflamed white knuckles, which he can’t fully curl closed.
