Page 16

Twelve

T he witch’s spare room faced the waterfall.

Wick watched water pour into the river and thought about the phrase. Spare room. According to Briar, it was a room where visitors could sleep.

“Or a place to keep your gold,” Briar added as she jumped up onto the bed next to him. “I think I’ll have a few gold rooms when I have my own place.”

Wick turned away from the window to watch her. She was wearing the “sleep clothes” Marigold had given her: a linen shirt and a soft pair of underclothes. Every time she moved, the shirt rose and exposed her belly. Wick wanted to kiss it very badly.

“They’ll have to be hidden rooms, of course,” Briar continued, sitting up beside him with her soft stomach showing in the moonlight. “Can’t let anybody see where I keep my important things. That’s how you get robbed.”

“Of course,” said Wick, who had never had to worry about getting robbed at any moment of his long existence. Even animals stayed away from him and his territory. Something in their bones told them he was a threat.

Wick decided he would like a spare room.

The more he stayed in a house, the more he enjoyed it.

It would have to be bigger than this, of course.

Or less full of things. He had the feeling that he could move around quite freely if they moved the clutter.

He could pile his nest into one of the rooms and have others for guests.

Briar butted her forehead against his shoulder. “You’re quiet. What’s going on in that big, horned head of yours?”

Wick grunted. His head was still throbbing from Marigold’s spell. It had been strange having someone rooting around in his head.

“Marigold,” he said. “You said she is a witch. Not a warlock.”

Briar leaned back, frowning. “I did. Why?”

“She doesn’t have a patron?”

“No,” Briar said with a curious smile. “She thought about becoming a warlock when we were teenagers, then decided it was too risky. Always at the whim of your patron, and what have you. Why?”

Wick shook his head. It still ached—an odd, scratchy feeling that reminded him of whenever he had to stick his fingers into his wounds and pull out debris.

But more importantly, it also felt familiar .

Which made no sense if it was just Marigold, the mortal witch, probing into his head.

It still did not make much sense if it was a god or demon she was pledged to, but at least Wick had met gods and demons before.

He had never met Marigold. She could never have produced this cold, deep familiarity that still lingered long after the spell ended.

There was only one thing that could. But that, too, was impossible.

“Never mind,” he said, then paused. “Has anyone told you about the Titans?”

Briar propped herself up on her elbows, gazing up at him so sweetly he was tempted to forgo his explanation and kiss her senseless.

“No,” she said. “Who are they?”

Wick hesitated. It was impossible. But in the moment before Marigold released him, it had been there, freezing and unmistakable, a strange voice half-remembered from dreams. And for once, that voice hadn’t been coming from inside his own head.

“They existed before the Skullstalkers,” Wick said. “Impossibly large giants made of rock. Some of my brothers claim they created the Skullstalkers.”

Briar’s eyes lit up joyfully. “Is this your creation myth? I didn’t know you had one.”

“It is no myth. It is real.”

“Of course,” Briar said, nodding sagely. “I’ve just never heard of them, is all.”

“They did not stray to the mortal realm,” Wick said, trying to remember all that Slate had told him. “Except in the final days. They were fighting amongst each other. That is how they died out, and this age began.”

He paused. Briar nudged his shoulder.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “You were obviously about to say something exciting. Will they rise again?”

“No,” Wick said slowly. “As I said, they are dead. But… some of us hear whispers. Icy songs in our heads. Most of my brothers say it is nonsense. But others claim they hear it.”

Briar’s teasing smile dimmed. “Oh? Do you hear your makers, Wick?”

Wick stayed silent. The voice had been clearer than any whispers he’d heard in dreams, then half-forgotten. His brother Slate had assured him it was nothing more than sleep. But he had never heard those strange whispers, as deep in him as his blood. Maybe even deeper.

“Wick?” Briar repeated.

Wick squeezed his eyes shut, banishing all thoughts of Titans from his mind. He had an end to the blood frenzy in sight, a waterfall outside the window, and Briar next to him. All was well.

“I am enjoying the waterfall,” he said, turning to watch it pour. “I will have a window like this in my nest room.”

Briar’s uncertainty faded, replaced by a blazing grin. She pressed closer to him, dropping her chin into his chest.

“Will you now? What else will you have in this waterfall home?”

“Less things to knock over,” he replied. “And a spare room for when you come to visit.”

Briar’s head snapped up. She stared at him like she was searching for evidence of a joke. Then her eyes softened, and she dropped her chin back onto him again.

“Sure, big boy,” she said quietly. “I’d like that.”

Then she looked away, bouncing in place on the bed. It creaked ominously.

“Still holding up,” Briar said happily. “Told you it wouldn’t break.”

Wick nodded. He didn’t dare move. Every shift made the bed whine in protest.

“Still. Suppose we shouldn’t make too much trouble,” Briar continued thoughtfully. She bit her lip, as if she were thinking hard. Then she turned to him with a smile that almost reached her eyes, her mouth opening in a yawn that turned genuine halfway through.

“I guess I am tired,” she admitted, rubbing her eyes. “Another big, strange day with the gentleman Skullstalker will tire anyone out.”

“Yes,” Wick agreed mindlessly. He settled carefully into the bed, the wood creaking with every small movement, and gathered Briar into his arms.

Briar hesitated, as she always did. Then she leaned into him.

Moonlight streamed into the room. It was colder here, near the mountains. Briar was rubbing her arms more than usual.

“Wick?” she whispered.

Wick looked down at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something about another blanket, or that he should cover her more thoroughly.

Briar bit her lip. “Can I try something?”

“Of course,” Wick said.

She pushed herself up on his chest and leaned over him. She smelled sour, like she was worried about something.

Wick frowned. “Briar?”

Briar leaned down and kissed him.

Wick’s eyes stayed open. He could see her perfectly, even though the moonlight did not reach her face: her sweet blonde brow, furrowed with concentration. Her pale lashes brushed his cheek. So close and so small and perfect, her lips parting on a sigh as he kissed her back cautiously.

He was clumsy. He knew it. But Briar’s lips were slow and gentle, and soon Wick’s eyes drifted shut.

The sour scent faded from the bedroom air. Another scent replaced it, soft and contented, which usually only occurred when she was falling asleep in his arms.

She touched his face. Her thumb brushed the place where bone became skin, trailing down to touch a scar dimpling his cheek. Her touch felt bigger than the blow that had given him the scar in the first place.

Wick made a noise in her mouth. Not a growl, a lost animal moan.

Briar pulled back. At first, Wick thought she was startled. Then he saw her face; there was no shock on it. He could not actually tell what was on it, and her scent was a jumble once more.

“What was that for?” Wick managed.

“I just wanted…” Briar cleared her throat, giving him an odd smile. “I wanted to see what it was like. Not everybody gets the chance to kiss a Skullstalker.”

Wick waited. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did.” Briar ducked her head, flustered. “Gods, that was your first kiss, wasn’t it?”

“It was wonderful,” Wick assured her.

Briar flushed. It was strange to see her be so affected over a kiss after all the things they had done together.

“Good. You deserve…” She stopped, biting her lip. “Goodnight, big boy.”

She lay down in his arms and hid her face from him.

Wick stroked her back through her sleep shirt, listened to the waterfall pour, and did something he had not done before—he prayed.

He did not pledge himself to any deity in particular; Skullstalkers were not a religious bunch, and most gods would not hear them anyway.

But he sent his thoughts out across the voids, hoping against hope they would be heard.

Please , he prayed. Let me keep this peace. I would give anything.

He expected nothing back, and he received it.

Except for the smallest whisper when he was on the verge of sleep. A cold, strange stab at the edge of his mind:

Come home , it whispered.