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“You wish to do it,” Wick said slowly.

“Of course, I want to do it! They said I’d be richly rewarded!” Briar beamed. “I’m never going to see any of these mountain weirdos again. Why not fuck in front of them? And save them from the… mountain’s wrath, or whatever they think will happen if they don’t make strangers fuck in front of them once a year.”

Wick grunted. “Then I will do it.”

“Great!” Briar clapped his arms, then paused. Wick was still stiff under her touch, and not in a fun way. “Are… are you sure? You don’t have to.”

Wick frowned. “I can do it. As long as the glamor holds.”

“Yeah, good point.” Briar thought about it. They would ideally need to do this sooner rather than later for the glamor to hold.

She turned back to the old woman. “When does this ritual happen?”

“When the sun is at its peak,” the old woman rasped. She pointed at the sky, where the sun was mostly blocked by the giant cliff in the way.

“Okay,” Briar said. “That works.”

Fourteen

This seems like a poor place to build a village,Wick thought as he stared out the window at the looming cliff. The sun was hidden behind it completely, casting a huge shadow that covered the entire village of Yedzeva.

Wick turned to the mortal man who had just finished smearing him with strange-smelling mud. “What happens if you do not appease the mountain each year?”

The mortal bowed his head as he cleaned mud off his hands. “The cliff over our town will fall and crush us all.”

Wick grunted. For all he had enjoyed Marigold’s house—except for the clutter he kept knocking over—this village was not making him want to spend time here.

“When can I see Briar?” he asked.

The mortal frowned. “You cannot! Not until the ritual.”

“Oh,” said Wick. “Of course.”

The mortal forced the frown off his face and dropped his muddy cloth in a bowl. “Forgive me, stranger. I forget myself. I should know that heathens such as yourself do not know of our beloved and wrathful mountain.”

“That’s alright,” Wick said, pleased. He could get used to mortals making conversation rather than running in terror. The more it happened, the more he liked it.

The mortal did something Briar had called a “bow” earlier. “I will leave you in peace. Madame Thatchbore will be with you soon to lead you to the ritual.”

He did another small bow and left. Wick watched the door close and then stood there, waiting. The mortal had warned him not to smudge the markings over his face and chest.

Wick ghosted his hand over the markings, not daring to touch. Not for the first time, he wished he had paid attention when his older brother Slate told him about magic. Since Wick had no ability for it, he had never bothered to listen. More fool he—another phrase Briar had taught him on their strange journey.

The door creaked open. Wick turned toward it, expecting the man to come back in, glaring at him for almost touching the markings.

Briar entered instead. She was wearing a hooded fur robe and not much else, her ankles pale with cold. She also had mud streaked over her in the same odd, pointy markings as he did.

“Hey,” she whispered with a grin, adjusting the hood over her head. “How are you feeling?”

Wick cocked his head. “They let you out? They did not letmeout.”

“They don’t know I’m out,” Briar said.

Wick nodded. That made sense.

He plucked at his loincloth, which she would see as pants. “How long does your witch’s glamor last?”

“For a human? A few days, usually. But on a Skullstalker? Good question.” Briar went to rub her face, then stopped just before she could smear the mud.