Page 27

27

Night at the Lark

Anya

B rine’s revel for Idris extended into the night with fresh bread, hot stew, and free-flowing ale. The only moment of peace he seemed to get was when the innkeeper, Fiona, showed him his room; he returned downstairs with wet hair and a clean face, clad in fresh clothes; without his armor, he appeared more approachable, but no less heroic, his broadness and musculature proof enough of his power.

As soon as he reappeared, Idris had been swept up in the merriment, folks slapping his back, shaking his shoulder, and pressing fresh tankards into his reluctant palms. I tried not to glance in his direction as I nestled deeper into my corner seat by the fireplace, nursing a hot mulled cider.

Surrounded by half-drunk townsfolk, I couldn’t help but relish the camaraderie around me. It reminded me of the Possum—I half expected to hear Hattie giggling behind the bar, spot Martha and Hugh and Vera at a nearby table, to glance down and see Wicker at my feet. Just the thought of Waldron made my heart clench, tight as a fist.

I took another long sip of my cider, a part of me wishing I’d ordered something stronger.

Across the pub, a string of men had slung their arms across each other’s shoulders, with Idris in the middle. They were singing an old soldiering song, swaying from side to side. Idris clearly didn’t know the words, and his lips moved reluctantly during the long verses, gaining confidence with the repetition of the chorus. He was clearly uncomfortable—bemused, even—under such enthusiastic attention, but he seemed appreciative, too. Given his secretive life, it must’ve been overwhelming to suddenly be at the center of a celebration.

I found his reluctant acceptance of their praise endearing. Most men—especially those in the rural stretches of Fenrir, who fancied themselves tough—would’ve preened under such revelry. Chests puffed, flirtatious comments on the tips of their tongues. But from the moment Idris had emerged from that burning barn, smeared with pig’s blood and the black splatter of his foe’s gore, he hadn’t raised his sword in triumph or declared himself a hero. He’d simply looked like himself, huge and capable, but also humble and kind. A man of hard edges and a soft center.

It was another tally in the growing list of reasons that his appearance in my Mirror of Death seemed…wrong.

His humility was not the reason I’d kissed him, however. It’d been the hysterical relief flooding my veins. The acute desire to touch him, just to prove to my harried heart that he was all right.

All throughout the fight, the crowd had been whispering their doubts, their discouraging words penetrating my sensitive heart. Confident as I was in Idris’s capabilities, it had been impossible not to feel the collective sense of doom as we waited. Horrible, frightening noises had come from within the barn.

It seemed the widow’s son possessed similar gifts as mine, because when he heard the grunts of Idris’s efforts and the monster’s returning snarls, he’d become convinced —blinded by grief—that it was not Idris but his own father fighting the monster inside. When the boy darted across the grass, I’d anticipated it. I’d raced after him, fearing not just for the child’s life, but Idris’s, if the boy’s interference caused a distraction.

And it had .

We’d arrived in time to see Idris on the ground, his flaming sword held awkwardly aloft as the huge, wolf-like abomination stalked toward him. At the critical moment, Idris had taken notice of us, his blue-green eyes finding mine.

Seeing the horrible monster leap toward him, mouth open wide, ready to consume him—it had filled me with an ice-cold dread similar to what I’d felt for my own life the night Idris had rescued me. Even now, safe inside a merry pub, a warm drink in my hand, I did not feel fully thawed. But as I watched him swaying with the other men, the dark waves of his hair brushing his cheeks as he rocked from side to side, desire heated my blood once more.

Try as I might to convince myself that the kiss had been a one-off—merely an impassioned moment after Idris had put himself in harm’s way and survived—I knew myself better. Tension had been simmering between us since our first night in the tent, and now that I knew what it felt like to have him crush me against his chest, hungry for my mouth…well, it only made me crave more . What had once been a spark in my belly was now an inferno, and the longer I spent with him, the less I cared if I got burned.

I should care. I should keep my eyes firmly on the path ahead. Because beyond the creature comforts of a man , what I really wanted was to clear my name and return to Waldron and forget this adventure ever happened. But was forgetting even possible, now that I knew what lurked in the Western Wood? Could I go back to normal life, now that I knew what Idris tasted like?

I downed the rest of my cider, frustrated with my inner contradictions. He’s your future killer , I reminded myself sternly, but even my inner voice sounded halfhearted tonight.

All afternoon, I’d been ruminating on the rumor from Brine, about the old man’s altered Fortune. Had the proximity of monsters been the cause of his warped Fate? Were the tangled threads of that story and today’s events enough to prove the possibility that Idris’s Fate could negate mine? Or was I simply grasping for excuses to trust him, to justify my attraction?

I can lie to you all I want , Idris had said on the first morning of our quest, but at no point during the past ten days did it seem like he had followed through on that threat. At least, not on the topics that mattered most.

The singers had started a new tune about a brave man on the road, dreaming of his lady love. I hummed along softly, chuckling to myself when Idris fumbled the words, only to sober at the reminder that I, too, was merely a brave soul on the road, pining for home.

I stood, suddenly ready for solitude. I carried my glass to the bar, thanked Fiona for her hospitality, and slipped upstairs.

My room was at the end of the hall. When I slipped inside, I was pleased to find it pleasantly toasty, the hearth already crackling. The room wasn’t as nice as the Possum—the furniture plain, the curtains a bit dusty—but the bed was spacious and inviting.

The one thing the Lark did have on the Possum was a working chimney. I sighed heavily, resolving to clean ours if I returned home. When I returned home. I bit my lip, turning away from the fire even as I wondered if Idris was any good with chimneys.

A tub in the corner had been filled, and I swirled a finger in the water, finding it tepid now, but not too chilly. After unpacking my things, I decided to wash up; compared to my icy river baths, this was decadent, and I went so far as to scrub my hair and soak in the sweet-smelling water for a while, my cheeks warmed by the nearby fire.

When I was done, I threw an extra couple logs on the coals and bedded down, nestling into the comfort of the soft mattress and excess of blankets. The pillows weren’t as fluffy as the Possum’s, but I was just grateful for a pillow that wasn’t my wadded-up cloak. Cozier than I’d been in two full weeks, the merry sounds of the party downstairs lulled me to sleep.

I awoke to a loud thud outside my door.

I peeked one eye open, irritated. The room was dark. Voices still floated up from downstairs, but they were diminished now. I glanced at the hearth and found that it had died down, signaling the lateness of the hour. Midnight, perhaps.

I closed my eyes again, chalking the thud up to a drunken guest stumbling to their room. Peaceful seconds passed.

Then another thump sounded, this time like a heavy fist hitting my door.

I lifted my head, peering at the threshold. The dim light of the hall illuminated the gap underneath my door, but the strip of yellow was darkened by twin shadows: feet.

“It’s me,” Idris grumbled from outside.

At the sound of his gravel-ridden voice, two sensations occurred in my chest. First was a flood of annoyance that Idris would interrupt my precious night in a proper bed. Second was a fluttery, thrilling sensation, like a murmuration of birds trapped inside my ribs.

I decided to focus on the annoyance.

I flung the covers back and shuffled over to the door, opening it a crack. “What?” I enunciated harshly.

He rested a hand high on the doorframe, his bicep mere inches from my face. A goofy smile spread across his lips. “Hi.”

He was drunk.

“May I help you?” I asked.

His eyes fluttered closed, and he lifted his chin. “I hope so,” he slurred. “Will you let me in?”

With a sigh, I opened the door wider, stepping to the side. He stumbled into my room, carried forward by the momentum of inebriation. I closed the door and swiveled round to face him, finding him near. He swayed toward me a little, and I steadied him with my hands on his stomach.

His very solid stomach.

“Whoa there,” he said, straightening.

“Seems they lavished you with ale,” I said, taking a healthy step back and resting my fists on my hips.

His eyes meandered down my body and back up again, apparently noticing that I was, unfortunately, wearing the same chemise as that of the morning he caught me bathing in the river. He didn’t seem to think it unfortunate, however. Drunk as he was, his eyes darkened. “What I wouldn’t give to lavish you ,” he murmured.

“With…?”

His eyes narrowed, like he hadn’t quiet followed.

I laughed a little, even as the fluttering sensation in my chest threatened to lift me off the ground. “Do you mean ravish ?”

“Whatever you want,” Idris said, with the grave seriousness that only a very drunk man could pull off.

He didn’t seem like a grabby drunk, nor a dangerous one—rather, he seemed like an honest drunk. My favorite kind.

I smiled sweetly at him. “And what do you want?”

Those blue-green eyes bored into me. “Something I can’t have.”

My breath caught, but I recovered quickly. “What can I help you with, at such an hour, Idris?” I asked, lacing my tone with impatience. “Knowing you, you’ll demand we leave at the crack of dawn, and this late into the night, I can’t imagine you’ll have enough time to sleep off the barrel you’ve drunk.”

He huffed a laugh, then said on a sigh, “I just wanted to know why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you did it.”

He was speaking of the kiss, obviously. But I played coy. “Did what?”

He took a step closer, looming over me. I wanted to put my hands on him again—and not just for the sake of keeping him from falling. “Why you kissed me,” he whispered, sounding utterly pained.

In the dark, the sharp angles of his face took on a shadowy quality, the effect intensified by the dark stubble on his jaw. The only soft thing about him, it seemed, were his eyes—looking at me so longingly—and his barely parted lips. I knew his hands could be soft, too, but they were currently in fists at his sides.

“Because I wanted to,” I answered honestly.

A crease formed between his eyebrows. “But only the one time, right?”

I couldn’t bear to answer that—not with the way he was looking at me, like a flower he was trying not to pluck for himself. I saw in his eyes the answer to the question I had been wondering all afternoon, and it scared me.

Slipping out from his personal space, I opened the door for him to leave. Even drunk, he knew how to take a hint, and walked heavily into the hall. With his palm on the doorknob opposite to mine, he glanced back at me.

“I hope you sleep well, Anya,” he said, then shuffled into his room and closed himself inside.