“No, thanks,” Shae replies immediately. “Go do your talking-to-people thing. Charm a discount out of them. I’ll stay out with the horses.”
Arthur laughs and leans over the saddle in Shae’s arms to kiss him. Evain turns away as Shae’s eyes flutter closed, feeling strangely—envious.
Until he catches a glimpse of the man walking past him down the aisle, and the sight stuns him so badly, he can’t feel anything else.
Evain has spent two hundred and fifty years wandering the human realm. He spent an entire year once luxuriating on Etenian pleasure boats, and he’s watched a thousand Ellaran veil dances. Men, women, people who are both or neither. Evain has tasted the full gamut of humanity, but somehow nobody has ever fascinated him quite like the drenched and bedraggled Leth ka Tariel.
All of them are soaked by the rain, and Leth worst of all. His hood is down around his shoulders, and his hair plasters dark to his skull, outlining the elegant silhouette of his neck. A few strands stick against his cheek. Water beads along his skin, reflecting lamplight. He looks ethereal, inhuman, against the dusty stable backdrop.
Evain’s arms itch with the urge to wrap around Leth’s thin shoulders. He craves the chance to lick the raindrops from Leth’s jaw, and exhale heat between his lips. To warm him up, from the inside out.
As if he feels the pressure of Evain’s gaze, Leth glances up. His delicate brow furrows in a glare, which Evain meets with a lazy salute. Leth’s frown only deepens.
Sighing, Evain returns to scraping the water off Daziroth’s coat. It must have been too long since he last fucked anyone, if he’s having wild, unwelcome thoughts about Leth. He needs a good flirt, or something more, to take the edge off.
Luckily, there’s a busy tavern just waiting for him across the stableyard. Plenty of tipsy strangers to help him forget about tedious sword-witches for the night.
?
CHAPTER SEVEN
LETH
Leth has never been so grateful to squeeze his way into a crowded tavern. The shock of warmth and laughter is welcome after the cold rain. He’d be more grateful if he could fall straight into bed, but he needs a key and a room number from whoever has them. And he could probably do with a bite to eat first.
He flags down a serving boy and orders whatever they have that’s hot. Then he stands at the edge of the room and searches for a familiar face.
The Dancing Hog’s tavern is a wide, spacious hall, with a bar on either side of the room. A truly magnificent fireplace crackles away on the back wall. On each side of the ornate brick chimney, a painted hog cavorts in dancer’s ribbons. They have little wings. Plush chairs and round tables circle around the fireplace, while the rest of the hall hosts rows of trestle tables.
Crowds of locals and travelers converge, some sitting on the benches, some sitting on the tables themselves. Mingled voices fill the space up to the rafters. Far too many people for Leth’s comfort, but he doesn’t need to be comfortable. He just needs a place to sit.
Evain is nowhere in sight. Not that Leth cares where Evain is.
Movement catches his eye—Sir Arthur waving at him from a trestle table. His hair is wet and his shoulders dark with rain, but otherwise he appears surprisingly unaffected by the downpour. Shae sits beside him, his pale face reddened from the cold outside or the heat within. They already have food, and there’s a space clear on the bench across from them.
“Thanks for saving me a seat.” Leth dumps his waterproof bag under the bench and peels off his wet coat. He drapes the drenched garment over the bench next to him, letting it drip onto the floor.
“Of course,” Arthur says. “I grabbed us the last few rooms in the inn too. Did you order already?”
Leth nods.
Shae looks up from his dinner, his gray eyes startlingly clear. “Haldis and Marta went upstairs already. Freya and Evain are still down here somewhere.”
“Thanks,” Leth says again, unsure why Shae felt the need to tell him that. Just because he looked around for Evain earlier, doesn’t mean he actually needs to know where he is.
By all rights, Shae should bother Leth more than he does. He’s demon-bound, and he traffics in death. Necromancy is legal in Charain—with many restrictions—but Leth was always taught that law and morality were separate, overlapping concepts. Just because something is legal doesn’t make it right, and associating with demons pollutes the soul.
But Shae is quiet, not overbearing. Leth appreciates that. He’s not inherently, constantly infuriating, like—
“Oh, Evain’s over there.” Arthur points. Then a frown crosses his golden brow. “Huh.”
Leth twists around. A group of patrons has cleared out from their end of the table, and past the empty tankards and mostly-empty trays of food, he sees Evain.
The man’s red coat is gone, uncovering a white silk shirt that makes his skin seem to glow. Everything makes his skin seem to glow. He lounges in one of the plush chairs by the fireplace, his knee hooked over the arm of it and the tail of his hair draped over his shoulder. The damp strands give him a lazy, seductive look. One hand props up his chin, and the other holds a tankard of something.
And he’s giving his signature smirk to the handsome farmer in the chair next to him. Like a moth drawn to a flame, the farmer leans forward. He sits so close to the edge of his seat, Leth thinks he might fall off it.
Evain lifts his tankard to his lips, baring the long line of his throat to the firelight. Leth turns around in disgust as the farmer leans in closer.
