But Mal wasn’t finding much humor in the situation himself, even if perhaps he ordinarily would have; narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glare, he realized there was a shadow behind Griff that wasn’t his own. A taller, darker shade that was puppeting his every movement but not quite getting them right, copying the frantic itching and the way Griff was now running off the road and into the grassy field that flanked their left.
It looked a lot like the solid shadow he had seen behind Griff last night. But why was the Shadow Queen already sending emissaries to spook him? To hound him into picking up the pace? He was already going after the treasure as fast as his two legs could possibly carry him. And why wouldn’t this thing just show its face like every other spirit he had encountered? Glare at him or something?
Of course, just then he couldn’t even be certain whether what he was seeing was real or a result of eating all those berries.
The way his tattoo was suddenly burning like the day he’d received it as he took a step toward Griff decided for him. Whatever it was, it was real enough. Dead enough, and dangerous enough.
And he was going to get it off of Griff, because the whole reason he had brought him out here was to keep him safe. He had, after all, worked several stints in Protection when the coin was good. With a growl, he raced after Griff—apparently still more possessed of his faculties than the other man, even if hisbreath was now coming in rapid gasps—catching up with him easily and colliding with him, knocking a gust of breath from Griff’s chest as he wrestled the slightly larger man to the ground in a tangle of packs and clothes and smashing foreheads.
“What the hell?” Griff spluttered as he shoved an elbow into Mal’s face. Another connected with his ribs. “Get. Off!”
No longer seeing the extra shadow, Mal growled back as he dodged a quick elbow, “Didn’t want to be here in the first place,” rolling off Griff with a few muttered curses. Then he lay on his back in the tall grass, staring up at the strange-hued sky and wondering if the loud pattering he heard was each drop of his own sweat hitting the ground.
No, he decided a few moments later as Alys’s legs came into view. It must have just been her footsteps as she wandered over. She should really learn not to walk so loud when they were out where anyone might discover them.
Griff, just a few feet farther into the grass, also managed to roll onto his back, taking some gulping mouthfuls of fresh air that reassured Mal he was still very much alive.
There was a large, flattish rock nearby breaking up the field, and Mal watched as Alys climbed onto it, riffling through her pack until she came across one of her many sketchbooks and a pack of charcoals. Settling herself cross-legged, the pad in her lap, she started to draw something—much the way she had done since they were little, to the delight and wonder of other children and adults alike.
“Did you get all the spiders off, at least, when you tackled me?” Griff asked hoarsely, drawing Mal’s attention back to him.
“There were never any spiders,” Mal said firmly, in a tone he hoped left no room to question the matter further. He was much more concerned about the shadow without a face that had now appeared twice, both times behind Griff, though there was no sense in alarming anyone about it while they were in this state.
Griff sighed. “Is Alys going to be like this the whole time we’re out here?”
Mal shrugged. “I’m not her boss. It’s called businesspartners.” He glanced back at Alys, who continued humming and drawing, her pupils blown wide, her smile relaxed. She was often like this at the cottage, too, as if there were something about being “elsewhere” she found easier. Floating just outside herself, as if she couldn’t bear to spend too long in her own skin.
This was the legacy their parents had fought so hard to protect: an artist who loved her drugs, an enterprising but often-maligned businessman, and a foreman with commitment issues. The heroes who killed the Shadow Queen’s last living dragon at the steep cost of their own lives, the ones who ended the last great war with their sacrifice, who were lauded by all the bards from here to the far south where dwarven empires dominated and coffee plants grew, had surely had greater ambitions for their children than this.
Their legacy, wrestling each other to the ground, sweating hallucinogenic berries out of their pores, and unable to follow a simple map for a full day.
Fucking fantastic.
“Wonder what the kids are doing right now,” Alys said thoughtfully after a while—Mal couldn’t guess how long it had been since he and Griff had collapsed on their backs and agreed without speaking that they weren’t going to move until the worst of this had passed. “Hope they’re staying out of the creek and minding Vic.”
Beside him, Griff started shaking with quiet laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Mal grumbled, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. He rarely did with Griff.
“Just—it makes sense that Vic’s the one watching Alys’s kids,” the foreman explained between bouts of laughter that shook his shoulders. “Wynnie thinks a dagger is a good birthday present for a six-year-old.” Scooting closer to Mal, he added with a glint inhis eyes, as if they were sharing a delightful secret, “Bet Vic still does everyone’s laundry too.”
Mal really wished the berries had made Griff quiet rather than chatty. He had already had his fill of hearing that low, musical voice for the day.
“What are you drawing, Alys?” he called over to the rock, determined to just ignore the man beside him until he sobered up.
“Little Mal, at the moment,” she answered sweetly, not taking her eyes from the paper.
At another giggle from beside him, Mal groaned and gathered some clumps of grass between his fingers so he wouldn’t be tempted to curl them into fists.
“Is that … is that what the ladies call your …?” Griff choked out, making a vague gesture between his own legs even as Mal narrowed his eyes at him in a clear indication that he should shut up before someone got seriously hurt.
Was he really that much of a joke to Griff? And why did he care anymore?
“It’s a cat. I hate that wretched thing,” Mal explained with an air of long-suffering. He had always harbored a dislike for cats in general, so much so that as children they often idly speculated that he must have orcish blood somewhere in his family line.
“No, really,” Mal insisted as Griff’s laughter died down. “This one is worse than most. It only comes inside to eat the dog’s food or attack someone—with claws, teeth, you name it. That beast has a taste for blood and a serious attitude problem. I have no idea why Alys named it after me, of all people.”
The clouds scudding past broke apart, reforming into a dozen mesmerizing shapes that soon drew Griff’s attention, much to Mal’s relief. He’d had enough of Griff picking at his personal life for one day.
