Page 36 of A Song of Air (Fae Elementals #4)

B ryson nearly tripped several times going up the slope towards the old crone’s house. The ground was blanketed completely by crumbling rock or brick, and several protruding hard twigs. She rammed her shins into them several times, and it was only that hard, firm grip that kept her upright.

The crone didn’t speak again for a few minutes Bryson took a moment to make sense of her surroundings. There was a looming shadow before her, what she assumed was the woman’s house. Yet the closer they got to it, the more her senses sharpened, and so did the foul smell.

It’s the mud , she told herself. Just the mud.

“We’re here,” the old crone said. There was a rattling as a wooden door was shoved open.

Then there was a rush of warm air against Bryson’s body along with a horrid stench. She fought back the urge to gag as the crone ushered her within the door. Somehow, the rancid fetor inside was even more powerful. The air was hot and musty. It was like an extra layer of grime in the air that coated her body like a blanket, invading her nostrils in every which way.

She tried to hold her breath and only take slow sips of air in through her mouth.

“Come, come, sit, sit.” The old crone guided her around the house. Bryson’s body bumped into things, furniture she assumed, that caused what sounded like jars to rattle. She was shoved down hard into a creaky, wooden chair that trembled beneath her weight.

She looked around, blinking the iron flecks from her eyes. They watered, but her vision unfortunately didn’t clear.

“You’ll catch your death, child,” the crone said. “Look at you, all skin and bones. That won’t do, no. You must eat. Yes.”

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Bryson said numbly. Her fingers came up to rest against the surface of the table in front of her. She felt her way around it, but there was nothing but the gentle fabric of a tablecloth that reeked of mold.

“Think nothing of it.” There was a rustling as the woman moved around. Bryson followed the noise with her ears and the shadowy figure with her eyes, hoping she would come into focus.

She didn’t.

Finally, when the woman finished whatever she’d been doing, she came next to Bryson, slamming something down on the table in front of her.

“Soup,” she declared. “Eat. It will warm your bones.”

Bryson loomed over the soup, her body nearly seizing as she caught a whiff of it. It smelt strongly of herbs and something else that wasn’t at all pleasant.

“Sheep stew,” the crone supplied. “It will help you grow hearty and strong. Eat, eat.”

Not wanting to appear rude, she felt around for a spoon. When her fingers came into contact with one, she wrapped them around it and carefully dipped the utensil into the soup. Stirring it only caused the weird odor to sharpen, so she bent low and pressed a spoonful onto her tongue.

Bryson nearly gagged.

It tasted raw of rot and decay. So foul, she nearly spit it out, but she could feel the crone’s eyes on her, expectant, waiting. So, Bryson swallowed it down even as her stomach churned with nausea and bile rose to the back of her throat.

“Good, yes?” the crone asked.

“Hmm,” was all Bryson could reply.

She couldn’t bring herself to take another bite. As it was, the soup still felt thick on her tongue, the taste vile and gross.

There was a soft swishing sound, like the rumple of the hem of a skirt. A hiss.

Bryson blinked, but all she saw was the shadowy form of the woman.

Then, there were fingers slipping through her hair, caressing the strands with gentle care.

“Don’t you worry, deary,” the old crone whispered. The sudden change of her tone made a shiver glide down Bryson’s back, though she couldn’t be sure why. “I will take very good care of you.”