But Griff wasn’t badly hurt, Mal realized with a flood of relief as his fingers squished into something pulpy and the creature beneath him slumped forward, unseating him. His beautiful idiot was back on his feet, if a little unsteady, limping toward Alys.
The two wargs who had cornered her by the fire were both rolling in the damp grass while their pelts smoked and sizzled. She had seen Mal’s frantic gesture and she had understood, lighting them up with blows from fiery kindling instead of her sword.
Griff chopped off their heads with what seemed to be a bit of unnecessary—but certainly understandable—force while Mal dusted himself off and glanced frantically around for the last warg standing, the one who had his knife in its neck. The one who had been following him when he tackled the largest beast, whom he had more or less forgotten about in his haste to help Griff.
It was gone.
No, not gone—it was somewhere nearby, sheltering in the trees, sending up a call to more of its companions who hadn’t come with the first hunting party.
Several distant howls answered, and Mal could just imagine them splashing through muddy water as they bounded toward the camp.
“What now?” Alys asked breathlessly, bringing a few sooty fingertips to her sweaty temple like she had the beginnings of a terrible hangover already.
And although it went against everything he had ever been taught, Mal supposed there was a first time for everything as he bolted toward his friends, grabbing what supplies he could on the way and turning his back on the next fight. “Now we run.”
They didn’t so much as stop for a bathroom break all night, spurred on by the occasional call and answer somewhere at theirbacks. They didn’t dare speak, though Griff took Mal’s hand a few times and squeezed it with the reassurance that he wasn’t dead yet, that he was coming home to the old cottage with him, even if he was limping worse than ever. Even Alys wasn’t unscathed this time, her shirt tattered and bloody and a deep gouge under her eye that would need more of Griff’s stitching when they finally stopped. If they dared stop again.
From either side of the path, green-eyed ghosts blinked at Mal and held up their filmy fingers to count the remaining days. Once they needed only one hand to do so, it would be too late, because those four weeks included bringing the treasure to the shop.
When he was sure Griff was looking elsewhere, Mal flipped a single finger at them.
“Hey, Prancer’s back,” Griff said suddenly, pointing at a shape standing very still in the bracken as if hoping to avoid notice.
“Fucking finally,” Mal muttered, reluctantly accepting Leo the Head’s pike as Alys raced ahead to grab the pack beast’s dangling lead. The mule didn’t try to skitter away from her despite her overenthusiastic approach, and Mal suspected it might even be glad to see them over the roaming wargs.
Sure enough, when Alys led Prancer over, he nuzzled Mal’s pockets in search of treats. “Fresh out,” he whispered apologetically. “Griff gave them all to the wargs.”
But the mule, not understanding or perhaps hungry for a taste of whatever was on Mal’s face—reanimated warg flesh, no doubt—raised its shaggy head, still sniffing, and whuffed a hot breath against Mal’s cheek before nuzzling him right on the mouth.
“How about that,” Alys laughed groggily as Mal jerked away, cursing under his breath. “Seems like everything that’s ever been called Griff has a taste for you.”
The claw marks in Mal’s shoulders were still oozing by the time the sun was shining warmly through the trees and gnatswere whining in his ear again. At least now the busy hum of bugs was accompanied by the sweet sound of saddlebags jingling with coins that belonged to no one but the three of them, and there were no more hunting howls.
“Mal,” Alys groaned, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. “You make drinking look fun, but it really isn’t. My head …”
“Here,” Mal said, fishing a silver coin out of one of the mule’s bags as it dutifully plodded along with Griff as its rider again. He studied it for a moment before handing it to Alys; he had never seen a star just like this stamped on another coin in all his trading ventures. “This will make you feel better. Money. Always cures what ails.”
But that wasn’t entirely true, because as a mild breeze moved the trees and they ventured into the shade, Mal couldn’t stop shivering. That was odd, almost like he was coming down with a touch of something more than Alys’s terrible hangover.
Griff reached into his pack and handed something down to Mal—a shirt, black. One of his own. “I like seeing you in my clothes,” he admitted with a grin. Then he consulted the map, which was crumbling worse than ever after surviving the night. “Looks like we’re only about a day’s march or so from the lake and getting this treasure so we can get the hell out of here. My shoulder can make the journey if you’re up to it. Crossing water with undead wargs on our trail and no boat sounds like just the kind of time I was promised out here anyway.”
Mal groaned and shut his eyes briefly. Nothing about that sounded appealing in the slightest, even to him. He still had to fight not to see Griff covered in blood every time he closed his eyes, and now he was going to have to get him across a lake with his busted shoulder and leg. But they had made it this far without the shadow killing them, or them killing each other—they were so close to ending all this and walking out of here peacefully, weighed down with the means to secure their future.
Maybe Griff would even be willing to keep watch while he and Alys sailed out to the island and emptied the barrows, plucked crowns from the heads of long-dead kings, gathered swords and breastplates and mail coats from coffins. And, of course, those healing vambraces for Griff. That beautiful disaster didn’t know the first thing about dirty work—his idea of risk-taking seemed to be staying at the library past closing hours—and he didn’t need to start now.
After all, Griff came from a world of elven parties with porcelain bowls and the rules of Polite Society. He knew nothing of sheltering in cold stone and hewing muscle from bone, the feeling of his own heartbeat flickering out, and Mal would keep it that way once they got back to Mayfair too. He’d buy him a shiny horse and do all the dirty work so he could come home to that carefree laugh and those exuberant hugs just in time to watch Griff chop the wood for the evening fire. And he’d keep him well away from that locksmith who looked a little too much like him and clearly also had a taste for the finer things.
He wouldn’t have felt remorse in the slightest for fucking someone else’s boyfriend, but Griff washisnow. Griff had chosen him, and he was more than just a boyfriend to Mal. He definitely wasn’t Mayfair’s Most Eligible anymore either.
While they marched and rode on, pushing aside branches and sloshing through filthy water to blaze their trail, Griff took the broken elf sword and used its cloth wrappings to try to fashion a hilt on one end that wouldn’t cut anyone’s hands the next time one of them needed to wield it. Though, thankfully, Mal hadn’t seen the shadow since he’d charged at it with the broken blade.
“You really think that thing can cut a spirit?” he asked Griff. It was hard to even imagine what that might look like.
“Honestly … I’d rather not find out,” Griff answered grimly. “I don’t like that our best defense against something I can’t see isa blade IthinkI remember reading about, but … we’ll be out of here in no time, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Mal agreed, because it felt good to speak the truth, just before a light cough rattled in his chest.
Somewhere out of sight, a raven cawed lowly to one of its companions.
