Mal woke to the smoke of a cookfire wafting over him, carrying the scent of breakfast and the distinct sound of something sizzling away in a pan. He smelled bacon and sausages, and before he cracked open a wary eye, he half wondered if he was home and the memory of dark hair, green eyes, warm hands, and faintly muttered dares and curses had all been a strange dream.
He needed to know.
Opening his eyes, he was greeted by a Mire awash in morning sun and rich new colors, hues of green and brown having deepened in the absence of mist and rain. Sitting up at last, hair sticking out at every angle, Mal let the cloak bunched in his fist fall away, baring his tattoo and scars without a hint of shame, like this were any other morning at the cottage in Linden where he had grown up.
By the fire, Griff and Alys were preparing some sort of meal.
Her bedroll was laid out near the spot where the two men had slept, wrapped in nothing but Griff’s cloak. She must have returned sometime late in the night. Leo the Orc Head had a wilting rotrose tucked behind one of his batlike ears and waswatching over the breakfast proceedings from atop his pike with a listless expression.
His friends were busy cracking eggs, but there were no chickens out here. They needed to be packing and heading out immediately if they didn’t want another visit from a bunch of ghouls or revenants trying to speed them on their way, like what had happened back at that chest of silvers. Griff’s injured leg had already slowed their progress more than he had been accounting for, and the orc who’d had him pinned down earlier confirmed his fears as he snarled a raspy message from the queen: They needed to pick up the pace and stop being so easily distracted by shiny things—her words—or she would keep finding creative ways to motivate him. Like having her birds unearth those revenants. Maybe Rhun’s spirit had accompanied them there to try to warn them of the hidden danger, if the shadow really was him.
“What in the five hells?” Mal muttered, not bothering to pull on a single scrap of yesterday’s clothes as he ambled over to the fireside just a few feet away.
Alys, her hair freshly braided in a style reminiscent of the braid in the mule’s mane—which had to be Griff’s handiwork—looked no worse for wear after her nighttime explorations as she smiled at him and said an easy, “Morning.”
At the collar of her blouse was a tarnished silver pin. A Warden’s cloak pin. Mal knew immediately who it must have belonged to even before Alys noticed him staring at the relic and said, “I found this last night, maybe half a mile north of here. His initials are on the back, just like the dagger. It was right next to a nest of some kind of eggs. Griff’s cooking them up for us.”
That settled it, at least in Mal’s mind. The shadow was Rhun, helping them along in their task, making sure they ate and tried to stay out of trouble—perhaps because his spirit was eager to see Mal free of the dark queen’s influence. Or perhaps simply so they could live long enough to recover his body.
“I know that look,” Alys remarked lightly.
“What look?”
“The one where you look like you just got voted mayor of Mayfair. Because you were right about the shadow,” she explained, pressing her palm to the heavy pin. “Papa must have remembered how much I loved his scrambled eggs. I’m glad we have someone on our side out here, even if it means he’s … well. You know.”
“I know,” Mal said gently, giving her shoulder a squeeze. Then in his usual brusque manner, he went on, “He could be making himself a lot more useful, though, if you ask me. Figure out how to keep the ravens away or something.” He sat down between his companions and reached for the water canteen someone had left within reach. Griff was back in last night’s pants but still shirtless, flipping something in one of the two pans heating over the fire. Having the travelers’ extra pan had clearly inspired him, or else he really loved to play kitchen. Given the ball of dough he’d spotted waiting for a turn in the spare pan, Mal suspected the latter.
“Alys, I know a hot meal would be nice, especially eggs, but we need to leave. Time’s wasting,” Mal warned lowly, worried that the kindness of their guardian shadow was lulling her into a false sense of safety.
“You’re the one who’s going to waste away if you don’t eat some breakfast for a change. It’s just one morning; we can make up the time this afternoon.”
Sliding whatever he was fixing from pan to plate, Griff turned and handed it to Mal. There was a thick slice of fried toast with an egg at its center. “Egg-in-a-hole, double yolk. Still your favorite?” Griff asked with a private sort of grin.
“Yeah,” Mal said slowly, his groggy brain not having quite caught up to this turn of events, the part where last night was real. Still, he lifted the toast and attacked it with more enthusiasm than he had shown for anything but the flask. Alys had a point: They could push themselves in just a few hours, and if anymore revenants surprised them, they were at least slightly more ready now that they knew how to handle them.
“’S good, Griff,” he added thickly around a mouthful. “Thanks.”
Alys held up her doughy hands and said eagerly, “Wait till you try Griff’s cinnamon buns.”
Griff watched him demolish the toast with a touch of pride, undoubtedly the only man this side of the Teeth who ever carried small portions of flour, sugar, shortening, and cinnamon on such a dangerous expedition. At least that explained why his pack was so damn heavy—the better to exercise those beautiful shoulder muscles, at least. “From now on,” he murmured as Mal tore into another piece, “I’m going to bring you every delicacy from here to the southlands. When we get home, I’ll fix you coffee and cocoa and pasta with truffle sauce. You’ll love truffles. They’re expensive.”
Mal snorted at that. “Seems like you’re catching on to a few things here.”
“We’ll call this the Boyfriend Special,” Griff declared as he prepared another piece of double-yolk toast in the pan. When he had finished, he slid his arms around Mal’s back to pull him in for a kiss.
Mal let it happen, but as soon as Griff had drawn back, he quickly reached for a piece of bacon and shoved the whole strip in his mouth. He needed a moment tothinkabout how everything had changed. Feeling entirely out of his depth for once, more than he did around stalking shadows or shambling corpses or sharp-toothed bosses, he finally swallowed and said, “Griff—we need to talk.”
About how they were going to explore this new thing around their old friend, who seemed so lost lately. About what had happened in the Wood and his part in the attack, before he didn’t have the nerve to say it at all. He could own up to that muchwithout telling Griff where the treasure was going to end up, at least for now.
“I’ve heard that line before. Said it enough times too,” Griff told Mal, frowning. “You regret last night,” he added, softer, not a question, rising to his feet. “Well, I don’t. And I meant what I said after. Nothing that happened when I went away was fine. If missing you could have killed me, I wouldn’t even be here.”
Griff put a bracing hand on the nearest tree, the one to which the mule was tethered. Little Griff flicked his tail in a small show of sympathy, or perhaps judgment.
“Griff, slow down,” Mal pleaded, his sleep-slowed brain struggling to think of where to start or what he had said to make this go so wrong already. “Just—”
“I can’t be here right now,” Griff insisted. “I—I’m going to go find somewhere to wash up.” He started to reach out, making as if to put a hand on Mal’s shoulder, but dropped his fingers to his side at the last minute instead.
“What are you talking about? Griff!” Mal pushed against the grogginess and reached for the hand coming toward him, but found the swing of his fingers missing Griff’s as they drew away again.
