Page 27 of Blood of the Fairest

"I very much doubt that. Though human, he has lingered in this world longer than even some faeries can recall," Malivant mutters from within his cage.

The ghost in the puddle goes on, giving very specific instructions about the streets to turn down, which alley to enter, and the door to knock on once I reach Hamelnmark.

"The White Mask ignores most requests for healing. It's unlikely he'll choose to help Verena, since she's in the body of the evil queen," the ghost adds. "He's also sure to charge a fortune."

I care not. All the coin I have earned as a monster hunter is now dedicated to the welfare of this wronged woman, just as I am.

I will pay whatever it takes and more.

With nothing else to say to either the ghost or the faerie, I quickly carry Verena out of that dark, vengeful dungeon.

Silent as an owl winging, I walk alongside one of Hamelnmark's many canals with Verena still unconscious in my arms. The sun has begun to set, the murky sky darkening as I search for the next turn the puddle ghost described to me.

The crooked houses of this canal city lean over the black waters as though trying to hear what people are whispering in the narrow, candle-lit boats gliding along below. The sloshing sounds of their oars in the water do not drown out the soft skittering of rats in the cobbled streets. The air is thick with the smell of fish and lamp oil.

Of all the six kingdoms, I dislike Hamelnmark the most.

I dislike the endless merchants, the tall shops filled with needless things, the mistrustful stares, and the pickpockets who thrive in this labyrinthine port.

In this kingdom, taking what you covet of others is less a crime than a given. Their patron faerie is Invidia—Envy herself. She is said to bless those clever enough to get what they desire and curse those foolish enough to be satisfied with it.

Turning from the briny canal, I at last move into the narrow road the ghost described. All around, shutters latch shut from within, locking for the night. A figure scurries past me, coughing into their cloak so that their oil lantern swings about wildly. Its halo of light looks sickly in this mist.

My gaze snags on a wooden door nearby, and I stop in my tracks.

It's marked with a large white X. So is the next door, and the next.

Plague.

I heard rumors of such a thing in this kingdom of late. It must be true.

Four men carrying half-empty bottles of mead wander into this narrow road from an alley. One man sees me standing here, but his attention quickly drops to the unconscious woman in my arms.

Whatever the faerie did to her, she still slumbers deeply.

Queen Reinhilde's face is known only to a few. Even I, with all my murderous intent, was momentarily struck with awe when I first saw her without her veil. Though I wished her the greatest degree of suffering, no one can pretend she is not a rare beauty.

That same beauty lures the drunk man now. He staggers while leading the others toward me, all of them smelling strongly of drink.

"Oi! Who've you got here?"

"Looking to share?" another one of them chortles.

I level a silent glare at the first man, making him halt and take a few steps back.

He does not leave, though. Nor do the other men. Instead, they eye me, weighing their chances.

"Northerner," one of them says, spitting to the side of the road. "Heard they're peace-lovers, not fighters. Makes it easy for us."

"This one sure looks like a fighter," another man points out warily, swaying from drink.

"Bah, we can take him on." This man licks his lips, attention dropping back to Rein—no, Verena. "Then she'll take us on, eh?"

He elbows one of the others, and they all laugh.

Weak fools like these lechers always talk far bigger than they can swing.

If any of them dares take a step closer, they will quickly learn that while my people are pacifists in our homeland, we are no such thing when we are parted from Nordhjem. I doubt they've yet managed to mop up all the blood of the last prick who dared to lay his hands on a frightened tavern maiden in front of me.