Page 95 of A Cursed Son

“Your nonexistent wounds, husband. It’s not like you want to be loved.”

“Oh, no. I want to be hated.” He chuckles and gets up. “I’ll get our stuff, you fussy little thing.”

I’m not a thing is at the tip of my tongue, but I suspect he’s baiting me, so I smile. “Great.”

He nods, glides above the water to the river bank, then walks into the forest—and leaves me here alone.

So it turns out that, unlike me, he can walk away. And I’m the one who’s trapped and abandoned, unsure where I am, at the mercy of a dart from the river banks, or a kidnapping fae, not to mention those flying cockroaches.

I take a deep breath. Trust the Almighty Mother. The Priestess’s words come to my mind, clear as if she was standing right beside me, and I can feel the comforting presence of the powerful goddess. I’ll be safe. I still wish Marlak was here.

And hate myself for wishing that.

17

Idon’t even have time to dwell in my loneliness, as soon Marlak is back, suitcase in hand, gliding gracefully over the river to our little island. His magic is impressive, when we’re not jumping from a window above a cliff.

I point to the suitcase. “I suppose it was lying in the woods, coincidentally near where we ended up.”

“Exactly.” He gives me a smug smirk.

And then again, how did he get the suitcase? Cherry Cake? Ferer? Nelsin? Can Marlak communicate with one of them? Can he summon objects?

Hang on. I was just spitting random ideas, but this last one has a lot of merit.

Summoning.

It’s the only thing that can explain the suitcase in his hand. It can also explain how he stole the relics, and there goes my mental image of a 12-year-old running away with a huge sack on his back. It’s a sad image regardless.

There are no signs of sadness in the grown man in front of me as he sets the eccentric suitcase on the sand and opens it. He takes out a rough, huge burlap bag, and a silk package, which he opens, revealing bread, cheese, and two canteens.

His eyes have a playful glint. “Happy now?”

I’m still thinking of the young kid running from his home, the young kid who might or might not have murdered his family, the young kid with part of his body burned.

He stares at me and his hands, the glint in his eyes gone. “I guess cheese isn’t your favorite food.”

I smile and take a piece of bread. “I like it. And I was starving. I get grumpy when I’m starving.” I wink. “Thankfully your super discreet suitcase was close by.”

I grab some cheese, put it on the bread, and take a bite, realizing too late that I should have washed my hands, but I suppose the sand from the river bank is clean. At least it’s crunchy.

Marlak sets the food over a rock, then opens the burlap bag and reveals a huge stretch of leather. I remember the history book with the description of camping tents, and realize that’s what it’s for.

First, he places some dented stakes on the ground, then he extends a thin piece of leather that has hooks in it. The hooks get nested in a dent in the stakes, so that the leather is slightly suspended.

I suppose it can become a decent bed. Marlak then sets up some thin branches and places the cover. Other than that, there’s only a thin blanket, and no pillows. And it’s small. Horrifically small.

I can’t imagine what’s going to happen when we fall asleep and start dreaming. Actually, I can imagine it—in vivid details.

His voice disrupts my dread. Dread? Or yearning? No, no. I refuse to consider that possibility.

“What?” I ask, realizing my stupor made me deaf for a moment.

“I have a sleeping bag. The tent is for you only.” He wiggles his fingers in the air. “No need to get all pale imagining the horror of having me near.”

“Why would I imagine that?”

“If you didn’t know I had a bag, where else would I sleep?”