Page 31 of Blackheart

Whether or not I was out of line for confronting him mattered no longer. I wasn’t upset that Charles was dead, but I needed to know if the Witchlord would kill someone on his team.

“Would you like it if I did?”

“Answer the question.”

Lord Ansel shrugged. “The Imp shouldn't have been careless.”

He had no morals, not that I should have expected much from a Witchlord.

Beck cut in. “My prize, Witchlord,” he demanded, holding his hand out.

“Of course.” Lord Ansel plopped a small black bag in his palm, clinking from its weight. It was full of enough gold to survivemonths in the Waywards if spent wisely.

Beck gave me a friendly nod, stuffed the pouch into his pocket, and left without another word.

Lord Ansel's eyes slid to me. “Do you have anything specific you’d like? From outside the walls?”

I was still in shock that I had gold to spend at all, or that I was coherent enough to have a conversation. Of course, there were things I wanted.

“I desire food, warmer clothes, a blanket, and more immediately, I need a drink.”

Lord Ansel nodded, tossing me my gold while casually surveying the field.

Tucking the prize money into my threadbare pocket, I brushed myself off and crouched next to Charles. Or, specifically, his fingers.

I’d promised he would lose one.

“Do you have a knife?” I blurted.

Pulling a folded blade out, Lord Ansel tossed it my way without question. The game was supposed to be a reminder, but to me, this finger was the reminder. I severed it without a second thought.

With the green trophy in my pocket and Lord Ansel’s knife returned, I crossed the field to the rest of the Waywards. I needed food. My already aching stomach was even more unsettled after using my Nature, and I had a Nightcastor waiting in bed for me in the Pearl.

The excitement of winning almost made me forget about my injuries. I gently tapped the wound on the back of my head and looked at my fingers. There was no more blood. The rest of mybody would take days, maybe weeks, to heal. I could live with that.

There was still celebrating to do.

Chapter 10

The Draker

“Ah, midwinter. Trust them to make even a celebration smell of death.”

—Jon Harvington, Golden Scholar of Lyonscliff

I wasn’tsure what was worse—the deep pain in my shoulder or the massive hangover. Even more dismally, there was an abhorrent pounding on the door to the posh apartment.

I sat up. The Nightcastor had been heavily in his cups just hours before, and snored away next to me.

It couldn’t be morning. The partying outside was still louder than a brothel on payday. The midwinter celebration would go on all night: the music, the drinking, and the socializing.

The knocking continued. If I woke the Nightcastor, he might’ve dealt with whoever was at the door, but he also might’ve tried to bed me again, and I was in no mood.

I stood up and threw on a loose grey shirt that had been strewn about the floor. Passing the crackling fireplace and ridiculously large living room, I opened the heavy front door.

“Riven?”

His warm skin was unusually pale, and eyes nearly glowed in the moonlight. He was not in his usual Draker armor and mask, either. Instead, he wore black mercenary leathers with a blade strapped to his side.