ASTRID
Why do his pants have to be so damn tight? That’s all I can think as we make our way down the narrow staircase through Department Sloth. When I reached into his pocket to grab the key, I was immediately alarmed by how little room there was between his firm thigh and the linen my hand was plunging into. I blame his unnecessarily slim trousers for my inability to grab the right key. Not that I had much hope of getting away even if I had found the right one. It was worth a shot. At least now I have his binding promise to hear me out, for there’s no way I’ll get a chance to retrieve that key where he hid it now.
I blush at the memory of where my eyes locked when he slipped the small piece of brass behind his waistband. Even though I didn’t glimpse what hides within his underbritches, the form-fitting linen was more than enough to offer a…preview.
Damn those tight pants. Surely they make them large enough to fit a bear of a man like him. Why couldn’t he have chosen something more sensible?
The Huntsman quickens his pace as we reach the bottom floor. He’s been hellbent on following the trail of the supposed thief. A thief who took some important thing that he won’t tell me about. All I can do is follow.
He leads us out an unmarked door, and warm air greets us on the other side. I glance around, finding us behind Department Sloth near the walkway we traversed not long ago. Instead of going back the way we came, however, the Huntsman leads us down a smaller path, one flanked with shrubs and beds of cacti. Hardly a soul lingers around, as most patrons have found their vices for the rest of the night. Strains of music pour out of Lust, Greed, and Gluttony—three separate tunes that somehow manage to encapsulate the sins behind their doors—while Wrath and Envy are silent and will be for the rest of the evening. The music grows louder as we reach the end of the path. The trail lets out onto the main walkway, and the Huntsman takes a sharp left.
“We’re close,” he mutters under his breath as he guides us down the alley between Lust and Wrath.
“Close to what?” The dark alley paired with the sultry beats pounding from behind every window in Lust sends a wary chill through me. It suddenly seems foolhardy to be chained to a man preparing to confront a thief. “Shouldn’t you separate us before you go about your…unsavory business?”
He scoffs. “Not a chance.”
I try another angle as we round the back of Lust toward the garden. “What if…what if I’m injured? What if I’m killed? I take it you care a lot about fulfilling your mission, and you can’t cut out my heart if someone else gets to it first.”
That gets his attention. He pulls up short and frowns at me, mouth open as if on the verge of speaking. Then he purses his lips and tugs me forward without another word. He takes only a few steps more before he stops again, turning this way and that. “Fucking flowers,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, with a frustrated growl, he heads straight for the garden.
The entrance is a sunstone trellis draped with climbing jasmine. It opens to an array of dirt walking paths lined with opal stepping stones. Aromas of lilacs and roses fill my senses, which manages to calm my nerves—a welcome thing, considering I still haven’t managed to sneak another dose of Crimson Malus. My mood will matter greatly should we come upon the thief. I might even get them on my side if I can mirror back a positive first impression.
I breathe in deeply, allowing the lovely scents to soothe me further. “I love flowers,” I say, my whispered words carried on a sigh.
“Of course you do.” He says it like it’s a bad thing. I glance over at him. He’s grown tenser since we entered the garden and no longer seems to be following a straight path like he had inside Sloth. Instead, he takes us through turn after turn down the maze of walking paths only to change direction time and again. I also catch him covering his nose or pinching its bridge now and then, as if he can’t handle the delectably sweet aromas that surround us.
Then it occurs to me. If the Huntsman has such a keen sense of smell, then something like a garden might be a bit overpowering to him.
“Blooming hell,” he says through his teeth as he pulls up short and runs a hand over his face. “I can’t stand this place.”
Seeing him so undone makes me realizethiswould be the perfect time and place to try and escape him. I bite my lip, cursing myself for my foolish attempt at stealing the key earlier. If only I’d waited until now—
Something thuds nearby, so heavy it makes the opal stepping stone shudder beneath my feet. We whirl toward the sound but see only shrubs and trees silhouetted in the darkness.
Another thud. This time one of the trees moves.
Or…perhaps it isn’t a tree at all.
The silhouette shifts, sending the stepping stone rumbling once again. Then the shadow angles to the side.
Toward us.
The Huntsman takes a step back, pulling me with him. Just then, the towering shape emerges from the trees and steps onto the path.
My breath catches as the moon illuminates green skin, enormous meaty hands, and a mouth full of sharp pointed teeth.
An ogre.
Not just any ogre, either.
This has to be Murtis, the ogre who fought Helody in the pit. He wears the same loincloth, has the same fierce expression. If that wasn’t evidence enough, I catch sight of a missing finger on his right hand—the finger Helody bit off. I can’t fathom how he survived the duel. The griffin is known for her swift beheadings. Which means either she lost, or the ogre yielded.
Neither scenario is comforting.
Not when the vicious fae stands before us, saliva dripping from his maw, hunger burning in his yellow eyes.
Murtis glances from me to the Huntsman, as if debating which of us to devour first. Attacks like this are highly illegal, whether on humans or fae. It’s a fact that comforted me when I first went on the run, living alone for the first time in my life. But now…
