If there was a babe. She had to face the thought that she might be chasing a wild rabbit. But if that was the case, why not just try to kill her and be done? She’d been careful to watch her back trail for fear that the vore would circle round and take her from behind. But there’d been no sign of that.
The marcus, the vore, they’d tried everything in the book to lose her, but she’d found the trail each time. Not much, admittedly. A buried nappy at a cold camp, a babe’s wail on the wind. The rare print in snow and ice.
Oh, they were good, she’d grant them that. She was better, and if the weather hadn’t stopped her, she might have caught them this night.
She rubbed her wrist where the bond pulsed, driving her forward with an urgency that beat with her heart. But she and the others had learned long ago of the danger that the bond would push them past exhaustion and hunger until they staggered with fatigue or just collapsed.
The urge was softened now, muted. No doubt the Bonded slept.
She’d left Satia’s side carrying the barest of food, thinking this chase would be an easy one, and had stretched those few provisions as far as she dared. Obedience stopped short of wasting herself. She needed food and rest. If the weather was forcing her down, it was a safe bet that it would force her targets down as well, especially with a babe. The trail was there, and clear, and the risk that she would lose it small.
She’d skirted farm fields a while back. She’d backtrack and see what she could find. Still, Iris hesitated. Her belly ached with hunger, but another pain bothered her more.
Her hands were cold. She stripped off her gloves, undid a few buckles, and thrust her left hand under her right breast to warm it. Her fingers rubbed against the puckered scar there, the skin rippled and rough under her fingertips. An old habit, an old comfort, to rub the old burn, long healed. She had no memory of the fire that had burned her as a child. The scar had always been there.
Even the Bonded could not break her of the habit, and had given up trying long ago.
She focused on the feel, the touch, and knew the source of her unease. She’d never been this far from the others before this, and it felt…odd. Wrong. Like she was incomplete. She missed Avice’s assurance, Mira’s gentle worry, Caris’s warm smile, and Nora’s quick fierceness. Her longing for their presence was an ache.
Rain dripped off the edges of her hood.
There was another source of discomfort. She’d never been this far from the Bonded before, or for this long. Never operated without instructions or supervision for so long.
Even as that thought rose, the strands of the Bond tightened and she focused on her task. Farm fields meant a farmhouse. She’d steal what she needed. If an alarm was raised, she’d kill any unfortunate who crossed her and sleep in their bed.
The morning would bring a pulse of the drive to hunt again and she’d be off on the trail.
Iris shivered as some cold rain got under her hood. She distracted herself from her misery with the idea of the end of her task.
She’d finish this. Stalk them, kill the marcus, gut the vore, and wrap the dead baby in its hide.
Her grip on her knife tightened at the picture that formed in her head.
The Bond within Iris coiled in pleasure.
Chapter Fifteen
Halithe glared at the nappy in her hand as if her will alone would straighten the hem. The lace of her dress scratched her skin; the sleeves were too short and it smelled of mothbane. She shifted in her chair, trying hard not to make it squeak.
The solar was over-warm, the women around her quiet and subdued. All heads were bent over baby clothes, swaddling cloths, blankets, tiny booties the babe wouldn’t wear more than twice. Normally, there’d be the titter of talk, but lately the only sound was the quiet clack of knitting needles.
Well, that and the noise of Queen Satia heaving in the other room. Halithe was glad the inner door was closed. It sounded like the woman was trying to rid herself of her lungs.
With a sigh, Halithe turned her attention back to the offending fabric and twisted it, thinking that might even out the hem. She plunged the needle in and the thread promptly twisted and snarled.
“It’s not an enemy, you know.” Long, cool, pale fingers came into view and covered her own.
Halithe stilled, suddenly surrounded by the faint scent of fruit and spice. It was Caris, the Queen’s lovely Bondmaiden, of the rich, red-brown hair and brown eyes flecked with amber. She was everything Halithe wanted to be and wasn’t.
“It might as well be,” Halithe grumbled to cover her flustered confusion. A quick glance showed that the other Bondmaidens were not in the room and the women around them were focused on their sewing.
Caris knelt beside her and took the wretched nappy from her hands. “You are glaring at it like a hawk after prey,” she chided softly.
Halithe snorted under her breath. “A bat, maybe,” she muttered. “Never a hawk.”
To her joy, Caris chuckled. “Here, let me help.”
Halithe risked a breath then, taking in that wonderful scent, and rested her hands in her lap. She watched as those long, lovely fingers worked magic. Threads untangled and the hem straightened before her eyes. Halithe looked at the result with both admiration and dismay. “You have a gift,” she said grudgingly, knowing it was one she’d never learn.
