Fuck.
Rocking back, Yarrow barely dodges the flowing blade. His concentration sharpens in silence. The dropped sword was a fucking glamour, a damned powerful one. This shapestealer is far more of a problem than Yarrow expected.
But Moriath doesn’t press his advantage. He pauses, head tilted. “Looks like we have company. Let’s reconvene later. Bring the boy.”
Yarrow doesn’t give a shit about the other humans approaching. He circles with his opponent, keeping between the shapestealer and the human who—for whatever stupid humanreason—hasn’t run away. Whatever Moriath wants with him can’t be good.
Then Moriath dives for the rift.
“You fucking cankershroom,” Yarrow growls, surging forward—then doubles over.
His axe thuds to the ground. The pain claws so sharply, Yarrow expects hot blood when he clutches his stomach. Like he’s been gored by a boarbear. But his leather jerkin is intact, as is the skin beneath it. The agony twists from the inside.
Behind Yarrow, the fae-eyed human cries out. His voice echoes through Yarrow’s aching skull, and Yarrow knows this is magic.
The curse. Moriath’s witchery worked, and it has something to do with the human.
Before Yarrow’s stinging eyes, the portal closes.
Fuck. He’ll have to open another one, and spirits only know where the Moriath’s fucked off to.
That’s a problem for later. First, Yarrow has a human to interrogate.
Each movement hurting, Yarrow retrieves his axe. With a thought, it disintegrates from his hand and reappears as a weight on his back. Yarrow staggers across the scrubby field, one painful step at a time. The human slumps on his knees, near a rickety wooden fence. He’s huddled in on himself, hiding his magic eye behind dark hair.
Yarrow is twenty feet from the human when the pain vanishes. Its sudden absence leaves a cold emptiness inside him.
“What the fuck is going on?” Yarrow demands.
Gasping, the human falls to his hands. Then a shudder drives him to his feet, and a knife trembles in his grasp. “Stay back!”
“I don’t intend to hurt you.” Yarrow grits his teeth. The anger in his voice and the magic axe on his back may make that hardto believe. “I just need to figure out what the shapestealer did to us.”
“Stay back!” the human warns again, his voice thin with terror.
“I’ll stay back,” Yarrow says, trying to look unthreatening. Failing, by the way the human blanches when Yarrow holds out his hands. “If you don’t run.”
The human immediately turns and runs.
He gets three long steps closer to the fence before crumpling to his knees. His wrenching cry echoes the curse clawing through Yarrow’s insides.
A fucking binding spell.
“I said not to run,” Yarrow says raggedly, and lurches closer.
The pain vanishes. The human sways on his knees, then tumbles sideways.
Yarrow waits a moment, in case it’s a trap. He needs to get out of here soon, given the distant cries of, “Call the guard!” and “Call the witch!”
But for now, this little expanse of dirt and dry grass is peaceful as a haven. The human remains motionless as Yarrow approaches. Bad for interrogation, but good for the not-running-away thing.
Yarrow crouches beside the human. “Hey, wake up.”
No response. The human’s sprawled mostly on his side, limbs tangled in his torn robe. His cheek presses into the dirt.
Yarrow turns him carefully by the shoulder, onto his back. The human is so tiny—most fae are smaller than Yarrow too, but humans are weak. Fragile. The human’s hair falls away, revealing a soft, round face, a button nose, and full lips. Dark powder smudges around his long eyelashes. Surprisingly attractive for a human, now that he’s asleep and peaceful instead of awake and petrified.
“Wake up.” Yarrow taps the human’s face. “We need to talk.”
