Page 6 of Deadly Maiden (Dragons and Darkthings #1)

Wyntre

I have barely set aside my plate when I’m bustled to the armory. After that we slip outside to the stores in another building. I choose supplies with Rorsyd observing, his massive shoulder to the doorframe while he lazily eyes me and everything I pick up. Since I’m to be smuggled out in a bookseller’s cart, I can only carry a few items such as weapons—sword and knife—and things like a toothbrush and a spare set of clothes. The rest I have to trust him to bring.

And if he doesn’t meet me at the end of this people-smuggling route? I am half hoping he will do that, half that he will not. There is comfort in having a companion.

After living in this bustling golem town, I don’t want to be alone. I have none of the precious objects from our house, and none of the memories embedded in them—the sketches I did of the places we passed through, of friends, of Father. My somewhat grimy, stuffed bunny still sat on my bed the night I fled. All those are gone.

When I imagine myself exploring paths and towns by myself dread is there, too, on the edges, crunching through the spindly black trees and shadows.

Fear nudges me, to hint that Rorsyd might do something to me when no one else is around.

The sight of the toothbrush I hold too-tightly breaks me a little. Even this is not mine, and I cannot say goodbye to my friends. I blink away unshed tears.

I suck in a breath, look to the door and frown. Rorsyd has wandered away, is talking to someone.

Fear is the unknown, and there will be many unknowns.

But fear is not Rorsyd, I decide, firming my jaw.

I sling the rucksack over my shoulder to hang at my back—it’s not full, but I might need more space in the days to come. I pick up the box Landos left. It’s quite heavy and is plain timber, apart from fancy brass hinges and handle, and the crow sculpture on the latch.

The male out there is a dragonshifter, and he’s the first of those I’ve met. I did not understand how alluring one might be. I should not fear him. He’s had twenty years to do nefarious things to me if he wished to, as Thander said. Twenty.

And…just thinking of him doing nefarious things stirs excitement in me, a low-down, dirty excitement. I’m probably going to be condemned for loose morals. I smile at this. I need to find the humor, the pluses in this new life that’s arrived. I refuse to be cowed.

This is when it strikes me, stupidly delayed though this realization is, that my parents were killed by a dragon’s breath. Killed twenty years ago, the same time he began watching me. That’s a chilling thought.

What if it was him?

If I ask him, what will happen?

The odd thing is, I’m not sure how I will react even if he did kill them.

I never knew them. They’re dead, no matter what I do. I do wish I had met them. I doubt that ache, that regret for the loss of them, will ever leave me. I massage the middle of my chest where my heart lies. It hurts there, but would I hate the person who took them from me?

Probably. Any normal person would. I’m adrift. This is a stupid time to be thinking this.

I will ask him, once the moment is right. Such as in the middle of a busy tavern with a friend who can drag me to safety? Again, I have no friends. I frown at my stupid self because leaving doesn’t clear the slate. I do have friends. They simply cannot follow me. And if they did, if I asked them to, and they did, that might get them killed.

I drop the rucksack, put the box on the table, pull over a sheet of paper and one of those new plunger pens with the tank of ink that the storeman left. I eye the weird pen, figure out how it works, then I start to write.

This last thing I must do before I leave Bollingham—write them a note.

Dear Rhuy, Tomas, and Tiera,

I tap the butt of the pen on my chin. This farewell should also be about wishing them well and hoping we can see each other again. I nod and keep writing. Because that is my priority. Friends. Keeping in touch. Since we can write to each other, surely? Good things. Smiling, I draw a deep and wonderfully freeing breath. That’s my future, and I will make it so.

Not revenge. Not killing anyone. I want a good life, and I refuse to travel the dark road of vengeance for what has happened.

The bookseller’s cart waits outside the rear of the storehouse. It’s red with a painting on the side showing books tumbling about among blue-and-white flowers, and a sign declaring, Books, Books, Books . I approve of this.

I shake hands with Bethy and Fiorn, the owners, who will be driving from the seat up front, then I climb the three back steps and settle myself on the padded seat inside. I drop the rucksack to the floor, carefully place the box.

Fiorn gives me a thumbs-up and slowly sets about unhooking and closing the doors.

“Don’t worry, love. We stop regularly so you can stretch your legs and so on. First town we sell at is a day and a bit away. Your man will meet us there.” She gestures at the books secured on the concertinaed shelves to left and right. “Find a good read. It’ll pass the time.” Then she points at the top shelves, though I don’t understand why. What is up there?

I return her thumbs-up as the doors click shut then hear a latch locked down. How does one read in the dark? It’s thick black in here. I feel for the books to either side, reassuring myself as to the space I have to move in. It’s not much, but I can breathe.

I blink and try to discern something, anything. There is a pale grayness, here and there.

I guess I could force my way out if I must. I hope so. Imagine being locked in here if it was set on fire.

Stop that.

The cart rocks, grinding over the town’s streets then tilting and bumping as we negotiate the exit ramp.

I can hear the women talking, the clatter and clink of harness, the clop of hooves, the squeak of the axles.

It dawns on me that I can see—the moon is sneaking in through gaps beneath the eaves of the roof. Ahhh, there is a winding handle. On both sides. Is that what she pointed to? I stand and try one. As I turn it, an outer shutter lifts, letting in more of that moon. A long slit of window is revealed that runs almost the length of the cart. It will be dawn in an hour too. I do the same on the other side.

Now I can read. Yesss. I need this. I really fucking need this.

The box? Not yet. I’ll wait for daylight.

I pull down a few volumes and grin as I find I have in hand a copy of Best Parenting for the Modern Fae .

This one is on Landos’ shelf. Was on.

Though it must still be there. Who will live in our house now? Will anyone work the smithy? What will happen to our possessions? I pray Thander Munk has the kindness to store everything away for us, or for Landos anyway. He is the one who might be able to return to Bollingham.

For me to return and live there? Me, the detested necromancer, expert at I don’t know what? Badassery and forging so-so swords? Me, who has done nothing wrong…

I’d have to assassinate the current ruler, King Madlin Darsh, Aos Sin fae and immortal. Probably along with his queen.

And then everyone would be extremely unhappy with me. For some reason, this starts me grinning then laughing. I sit on the floor and silently heave and hiccup with laughter for ages until it dies away. My ribs are aching.

I sigh, feeling strangely empty but content, as if I laughed away many of my burdens. I open the book. Better Parenting?

Who knows? One day I might have a little sassy, snotty, fool of a child, just like me.

From the rear corner of the cart, a piece of the dead blackness detaches and slinks toward me. It’s Anathema.

“I could feel you in here.” I reach down to pat his round head with the stubby bumps of not-really-hair on the top. His eyes are the only white part about him, but he often keeps them as the thinnest of slits.

Anathema springs onto my lap and lies there, lazily draped over my knee, his arms and legs dangling to opposite sides. He’s blacker than the darkest spot in here, but it is the truth—I can feel him. The size of a rabbit or a cat, he can smoosh himself into small spaces and adapt to their structure, but I made him, and thus I tend to know when he’s nearby.

If he emerges and Rorsyd sees him, will I be in trouble? He is the one necromantic part of me that I’ve truly manifested. He was lumped together from the leftovers of the dead part of that puppy’s leg—extracted after I made a splint around the bone. That was an interesting day. It was…I think back…it was like sculpting clay with my mind, in a spot I could only imagine. Ruckus healed the break in his leg and what was left of my internal splint simply evaporated, as far as I could tell.

A month later, Ruckus tried to bite a few visitors at the market, but that was not due to necromancy. It was due to him being a nasty, antisocial mutt.

“You need a disguise,” I tell Anathema, sucking on my bottom lip. Because he never vanishes for long. “A cat shape? Will that work?”

Without any exercise of my stagnant necro skills, Anathema quietly pops out a pair of black ears. Then a tail and paws. He smiles a ragged fanged smile, all triangle-toothed.

I narrow my eyes, tsking. It’s a little strange how well he understands my words, but I nod approval. “Your eyeballs will need work.” I can probably help sculpt them.

The question is, will it fool Rorsyd?

By the time dawn arrives, he does look fairly catlike. His hair is fine and soft, his eyes are bright blue—that is my doing. He has a cute cat nose and soft paws, a mouth with a suggestion of fangs. He doesn’t have claws or a butthole, but I figure nobody will check those out. In full light he seems wrong, and on touch he squishes like a toy.

“Make sure you keep to the night,” I murmur to him absentmindedly, as I unlatch the box and fish out the envelope.

The gheist gun is in here—a reminder of the last excursion I went on with Landos. I set it on a shelf and wonder what I can do with it. Perhaps there is a market for these, but my skills fall below the standard needed for making the small components.

The key Landos mentioned is brass and as long as my palm. It is unmarked and threaded onto a metal chain. This is supposed to open Slaedorth?

I find the first page from my parents and cannot help my forehead wrinkling. It’s a will.

I leaf through the following pages. They’ve written down Slaedorth Fortress, and there is also a long list of contents, including, what-the-fuck, a small army of undead. Would they still be like…useable, or do they expire after a while? What would one even do with them?

I let my head drop backward and hit the wall of drawers behind me. I sigh at the ceiling.

Then I page through the rest. The last page is more personal, and my heart warms, my inhalations are shakier. Tears well up as I read.

Dearest daughter, dearest darling Wyntre,

You are only a baby as we pen this.

If you’re reading this, we hope you are old enough to understand that we love you. We will always love you, no matter what has happened to us. Keep us with you in your heart as we keep you in ours.

We are about to go into a great battle. I suppose this is where we should tell you many wise things, but time is short.

Be happy and find your own way in this world. Keep your friends close. (Your lovers too and we really hope you are old enough to read that.)

Enemies are best kept away—far far away.

Similarly, try to stay away from wars and battles and similar conflicts, even if your enemies want them. Yes, we know we broke that rule.

Slaedorth is yours but it would be best if you do not go there. See the above regarding enemies and wars. Slaedorth is for those. It is no place for a holiday, though the view is quite stunning from the rear and from the highest tower.

Here we will tell you of one of our emergency plans that we hope will never be needed.

But then you are reading this. So.

Kyvin will find you. He holds the key to something secret of value, that is only found at Slaedorth. If you use him, be careful. Read what you find. He can be trusted. His current name is tattooed on him, but he will not waken for twenty years. You’ll know him when you see him.

Then one of them drew a heart and they signed it.

Love,

Your mother and father.

Aislinn Gothschild

Sabre Gothschild

“Damn.” I sniffle and blow my nose on the one handkerchief I packed. That was worth it. For the first time ever, I feel like I have more than one father, and I had a mother who cared for me. If wishes could come true, I would go back in time and run into their arms for a hug.