Page 4 of Deadly Maiden (Dragons and Darkthings #1)

Rorsyd

I awaken staring at a black nothingness…with twinkles.

Those are stars. The ground beneath me is cool and pricks my back. Grass blades rustle as I sit up and prop myself on one hand, for a moment, before I stagger upright.

I remember screaming, a scream that scorched a path across my nerves. I can taste that scream on my tongue, smell it, feel it in my nostrils and throat.

I look about, scanning in a full circle, turning, astonished and devastated at what is before me.

Dead men and beasts.

Much dead.

“What. The. Fuck?”

I shifted, shifted fully for the first time in twenty years. It hurt like hell, and it appears I have killed almost everyone within reach of my wings. The lack of smoke or the acrid smell of fire, and the absence of any signs of burning tell me it was my mere audacity in occupying the same space as them that was their undoing.

Something stirs within that I have not felt…ever. A rustling, an unfurling.

A greatness.

Now I know I can achieve that state. Getting there and staying dragon is the hard part.

But. I can do it.

I wipe my mouth with one clawed hand and hurriedly retract those claws into my fingers, a second from spearing myself.

The girl, Wyntre?

Frowning, I move among the bodies, studying each one and finding no sign of her. Two horses crop the grass in the distance, close to the stand of trees that hid the incoming troop of enforcers.

I feel as if I should say sorry to them, though they did try to mess with a dragonshifter.

Honor thine enemies was one of Orish’s sayings. I’m not sure he would’ve said that about her parents, seeing they killed him in such a revolting fashion.

Nevertheless, these fae were not even my enemies. They did some bad things, but they were not that.

“I am sorry,” I mutter to each body I pass thereafter. “May you find peace.”

Along the way, I pick up new clothes and boots—the cleanest I can find.

I hesitate then tear off the Aos Sin enforcer insignia.

I nod at the cloth as I pull at the last badge, on the back pocket of the breeches. “I do believe I’ve lost my job.” Good. I hate it, and they were mostly assholes, as mortals often are.

My roan gelding, that I recall has the name of Brinker or Brinks, eyes me suspiciously and whinnies, but remains still as I approach. I do not blame him for being uneasy.

“Here, boy. Good boy.” I let him smell me, smooth my hand over his nose and mane, traveling my palm to the saddle. Inside the saddle bag is a fine bottle of Versage Whisky, ninety years aged. I uncork it and raise it to the surroundings. I need something to wash away the stench of blood and death, the memory of agony when I ripped into dragon form then imploded back into this man-shape.

“Sproll!” I shout the toast of the bloodwielder mercenary who introduced me to this liquor then chug down half the bottle. “ Ahhh. Better.”

After I wipe my mouth again, I decide I am not rescuing underwear from the corpses. I don the borrowed clothes that are now mine. The tan shirt is somewhat tight across the shoulders, in the arms, too. It will do though. The breeches are nigh on splitting, and I wriggle my butt, unhappy with the way the clothing fails to expand. I shouldn’t make any sudden moves, any kicks, or touch my toes. I need to find a tailor.

I mount up, carefully, wary of the pants doing uncalled for things, then I pause. I feel good. Better than good. I feel excellent . And this is not simply the effects of that measure of whisky. I feel better than I have for a very long time and maybe better than I have for these past twenty years.

That unfurling and rustling whispers, deep.

I lean forward to pat Brinks’ neck. “Let’s go find that girl.” She must be alive. Brinks survived my shift, and she was beside the horse.

Gods. I smile as he breaks into a trot. I just shifted. It’s possible!

Perhaps that is why this euphoria persists? Now, which way to go? I have a hunch as to where she will aim for. My years of observation have gifted me some insight into the female’s head.

Seeing her close enough to talk to was interesting. Even prettier than I recalled, and with an ass and a bunch of curves that pleases my eye. One should be honest with oneself.

We are attracted to her.

We… I guess we are? It’s a truth that bothers me.

I was lying in that field, face-up, with zero clothes. Hmmm.

She may have seen me naked. I narrow my eyes. Considering the amazingness of my physique compared to the average fae, this is actually okay.

However, I am not chasing her for excitement.

I clench my fist on the reins.

If I see her use necromancy, my vow is to kill her, but if I simply follow her again, what will I achieve? I’ve tried this and failed. I need to get closer, and so I swing back to study the field from afar for ten, fifteen minutes. There is more to be taken from this scene than my guilt over killing those men. Yes, they were only obeying orders.

There is more to take, though it will be gruesome.

Many miles south, Kyvin the undead servant has paused to consider what direction he should head toward. Unlike the raven, he is slow. He does not feel disappointment, but he can tell that his goal is moving about more than she was previously.

And so he sighs the sigh of an undead with no air in his lungs—which is silent—and he alters his course.