Cole read the letter again, each word rubbing him raw. Nash’s tone, all smooth admiration and compliments, set his teeth on edge. He tossed the letter into the center of the table at the Ivory Spit, where he sat with Mistel, Kurtz, and Zanna.
“They want us back,” Mistel said. “That’s good right?”
“Only if you’re up for it,” Cole said. Her well-being must come first. “And if we’re all certain we can fully shield our minds.”
“I can,” Mistel said, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been practicing every moment.”
“And you don’t mind facing Nash again?” Cole asked. “He knew Crow was a bloodvoicer.”
She lowered her gaze and fingered a groove in the table. “It’s not Nash. I can’t stop thinking about that old man. But if I don’t go back, he wins. And I’m done losing to men like that.”
Cole wanted to pull her close, tell her she didn’t have to prove anything, but her strength was part of what drew him to her.
Kurtz speared a piece of roast from the platter. “It’s a rough location, it is,” he said. “And if all we do is perform, I don’t see how we’ll ever learn anything useful. So far, all we know is that Fenris has a friend who can bloodvoice.”
“You think we should spend time there just…mingling?” Cole asked.
Kurtz shrugged. “Maybe have dinner beforehand. Gives us a chance to eavesdrop a bit, maybe catch something important, eh?”
“We wouldn’t all have to go.” Zanna leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Mistel and I could arrive just before the performance. Less risk that way.”
“I can eat dinner there too.” Mistel gave a casual wave toward the letter, which had curled into a loose scroll. “Nash seems to like me, so I may as well make use of that.”
Cole’s jaw tightened. “You can make use of his interest as a friend,” he said, “which means you never meet with him alone.”
“Yes, Father.” Mistel rolled her eyes, a teasing smirk on her lips.
Cole glanced down at his plate, stabbing his eating knife into a carrot with more force than necessary. He didn’t like the way she had called him Father. He was nothing like that. Right?
Before he could decide how to respond, Rilla approached, her apron dusted with flour and her sleeves rolled to her elbows. “More ale?” she asked, already reaching for their mugs.
The group fell silent as Rilla refilled their drinks, the clink of the pitcher and the soft hum of the tavern filling the air.
“Why don’t you tell me where you’re playing next?” Rilla said to Kurtz. “I’ll come watch.”
“Looks like the Black Boar,” Mistel said.
Kurtz cleared his throat and pinned Mistel with a glare. “We don’t yet know for sure,” he said.
“Then play here,” Rilla said. “Or better yet, come dance with me at the Jig and the Jug.”
Kurtz glanced at her, then back to his tankard. “Can’t,” he said. “We’ve got business.”
Rilla set the pitcher down harder than necessary, the liquid sloshing inside. She let out a sharp breath, then gave Kurtz a tight, bitter smile. “Right. Business,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and stalked away.
“Lands!” Mistel said. “She clearly likes you. Why not go dancing with her?”
“Because that’s not why I’m here, eh?” Kurtz said. “Can we focus?”
Now that Mistel had pointed it out, Cole realized he hadn’t seen Kurtz chase any woman since they’d left Armonguard, which, to be honest, was downright odd. He wanted to ask about it, but now was not the time. He turned his attention back to Mistel.
“I suppose you’ll need to write Nash back,” he said, carefully measuring his tone. “Accept the offer to play again.”
Mistel picked up the letter and spread it flat on the table in front of her. “I can do that.”
Cole watched her closely, his chest winding tight. He didn’t like Nash’s interest in Mistel. Didn’t like the thought of her being vulnerable in a place like the Black Boar, with its unruly crowds and rogue bloodvoicer. And he definitely didn’t like the idea of Nash Erlichman writing her romantic letters.
