Page 19

Fourteen

T his seems like a poor place to build a village, Wick thought as he stared out the window at the looming cliff. The sun was hidden behind it completely, casting a huge shadow that covered the entire village of Yedzeva.

Wick turned to the mortal man who had just finished smearing him with strange-smelling mud. “What happens if you do not appease the mountain each year?”

The mortal bowed his head as he cleaned mud off his hands. “The cliff over our town will fall and crush us all.”

Wick grunted. For all he had enjoyed Marigold’s house—except for the clutter he kept knocking over—this village was not making him want to spend time here.

“When can I see Briar?” he asked.

The mortal frowned. “You cannot! Not until the ritual.”

“Oh,” said Wick. “Of course.”

The mortal forced the frown off his face and dropped his muddy cloth in a bowl. “Forgive me, stranger. I forget myself. I should know that heathens such as yourself do not know of our beloved and wrathful mountain.”

“That’s alright,” Wick said, pleased. He could get used to mortals making conversation rather than running in terror. The more it happened, the more he liked it.

The mortal did something Briar had called a “bow” earlier. “I will leave you in peace. Madame Thatchbore will be with you soon to lead you to the ritual.”

He did another small bow and left. Wick watched the door close and then stood there, waiting. The mortal had warned him not to smudge the markings over his face and chest.

Wick ghosted his hand over the markings, not daring to touch.

Not for the first time, he wished he had paid attention when his older brother Slate told him about magic.

Since Wick had no ability for it, he had never bothered to listen.

More fool he—another phrase Briar had taught him on their strange journey.

The door creaked open. Wick turned toward it, expecting the man to come back in, glaring at him for almost touching the markings.

Briar entered instead. She was wearing a hooded fur robe and not much else, her ankles pale with cold. She also had mud streaked over her in the same odd, pointy markings as he did.

“Hey,” she whispered with a grin, adjusting the hood over her head. “How are you feeling?”

Wick cocked his head. “They let you out? They did not let me out.”

“They don’t know I’m out,” Briar said.

Wick nodded. That made sense.

He plucked at his loincloth, which she would see as pants. “How long does your witch’s glamor last?”

“For a human? A few days, usually. But on a Skullstalker? Good question.” Briar went to rub her face, then stopped just before she could smear the mud.

“Damn stuff,” she muttered, poking her skin between the markings. “At least it dried fast. Now come on, we don’t have much time.”

“Time?”

Briar nodded and sat down in a rickety chair in the corner. She poked her legs out of the robe, long and bare.

“You need to get me ready,” Briar explained. “You know how much stretching I need. So you can slide in easily when we’re out there saving these freaky townsfolk from their big, bad mountain.”

Something cold and rocky itched inside Wick’s head. He ignored it and got on his knees, inhaling Briar’s hot, eager scent as he pulled her other leg out from underneath the fur robe.

Briar let go of the robe. It fell away to reveal her naked body, spirals of mud decorating her soft belly. She also took a knife out of her sleeve, placing it down on the ground before straightening up.

“Careful with the mud,” she breathed.

Wick nuzzled her thigh and breathed in. Her scent was stronger now, stronger than the mud on her body and the snow waiting outside.

“Hurry,” she told him, biting her lip against a smile.

She was enjoying this, Wick realized. Just as they had both enjoyed, in some strange way, being fucked against a tree while they had to stay quiet for the hunters. He wondered if she would enjoy being ritually mated in front of this small village.

He did not yet know if he would. The idea made him feel prickly and possessive.

But mostly, he was worried about getting attacked.

Having mortals around usually meant he was about to get a crossbow pointed at him.

Mating with so many mortals around him did not sound appealing. But he would not say no to Briar.

Especially if the mountain’s wrath was real. He did not particularly like this village, but he would prefer not to see it crushed.

He slid his tongue up Briar’s thigh, watching it turn shiny under his touch. It made him wonder what she would look like covered in his come. What she would smell like.

Wick pushed the tip of his tongue inside her.

Briar groaned, working her hips against him. She reached up to touch her breasts, then grimaced. “Ugh. Stupid mud.”

Wick looked up to see her twisting her nipples carefully. Usually, she would be squeezing them, but there was mud circling her nipples.

“Come on,” she urged.

Wick pushed his tongue deeper. Her slick flesh parted around him, squeezing his tongue eagerly.

“ Yes .” Briar tipped her head back, resting against the fur draped over her chair. “Stretch me out, sweetheart.”

Something warm curled inside Wick’s chest. Soft and gentle, nothing like the dangerous haze of the blood frenzy.

It had been happening more and more with Briar’s pet names.

It felt less like she was trying to be charming, as with the wink, and more like she was truly fond of him. Friends, just like they agreed.

Perhaps even more than that.

Briar clutched his horns. Her eyes flew open, her head coming up to watch him.

“This is so strange,” she said. “I can’t see them, but I can feel them.”

Wick rumbled, thrusting his tongue deeper. His mouth pooled with spit, and he had to fight the urge to plunge his tongue as far as it could go. He always wanted more with Briar: to hold her down, to take, to devour . His primal impulses had never been so fun until she showed up.

“I miss them,” Briar continued.

Wick looked up, surprised. He had assumed that his monstrous traits were tolerated, nothing more. But there was nothing fake in Briar’s expression, her eyes falling shut in bliss as he worked inside her.

“Good to have something to grab onto,” Briar continued. Her legs jerked around him as he laved at that sweet bump inside her that never failed to make her writhe. “A-and your tail. Like when it wraps around my leg when you’re fucking me. Like you can’t get enough— oh !”

She trailed off in a gasp as he pressed forward, the end of his skull mask bumping into her clit.

“ That’s it,” Briar said with a victorious grin. “Am I getting loose enough for you? Can I take your cock yet?”

Wick growled, gripping her thighs even more tightly.

His cock pulsed under his loincloth, already leaking from the thought of sinking into her hot, wet warmth.

She was always so tight, no matter how much he stretched her beforehand.

Always squeezing down around his cock so beautifully, stretching around his girth.

He pulled his tongue out, ignoring her moan of protest. It faded into a satisfied sigh as he slipped his fingers in—two of them, claws carefully retracted, curling up against that bump that made her spasm around him.

“Gods,” she gasped. “Oh, gods.”

She rocked her hips against him. The chair squeaked.

Wick held her still. “Hush. They will hear.”

“They’ll hear much more of me once that ritual starts,” Briar said with a grin.

Wick pushed a third finger inside. Briar’s grin opened in another gasp, her neck arching into a straight line so tantalizing Wick wanted to bite it.

“Hush,” Wick repeated.

He reached up and slid his fingers into her mouth. Briar’s eyes flew open, bright with surprise. Then she went lax. Her lips sealed around his fingers, sucking eagerly and muffling moans as he fingered her.

Wick’s hips moved against nothing. He wanted to mate her right there, ritual be damned. He wanted to see how far she could take him, wanted to turn her over and have her other hole again, wanted to shove into her mouth and fill her up from every angle?—

The door opened.

“Void take me,” said the man who had smeared mud on him before.

The elderly woman stood beside him, looking remarkably unbothered as she clutched her cane.

Briar spat out Wick’s fingers reluctantly and beamed.

“Madame Thatchbore,” she said, before bending down to grab her knife from the ground, passing off the movement as a method to hide her naked body. “Lovely to see you.”

“Save that for the altar,” Madame Thatchbore replied. She stepped back, nodding at the village, made dark by the towering cliff. “Come. It is time.”

They led Wick and Briar down a snowy path to a circular altar. It was brushed clean and studded with candles, wax melting down and puddling onto the stone.

“So much for heat,” Briar said, adjusting her fur robe. “You’ll have to keep me warm, big boy.”

Wick did not reply. He stared around at the people gathered to watch. They were dressed in robes similar to the old woman's, all of them clutching candles. It was an oddly eerie sight, made all the eerier by the scent of anticipation in the air.

Briar gasped. “Look.”

Wick followed her gaze. There, beyond the altar, stood a ravine.

It was narrower than Wick had expected, but cracked and jagged like a broken bone.

A series of twisting cliffs waited on the other side, lined with the flowers Wick recognized from the sketch.

There was only a glimpse of them before they vanished into the spiraling cliffs, which blocked the rest of the flowers from view.

“We’ll have to come back after everyone’s gone,” Briar whispered as they approached the altar at the edge of the ravine.

Wick nodded. He stared at the twisting cliffs beyond the ravine. It was no wonder the mortals had invented a myth to be afraid of them. Those cliffs looked like the perfect place to get lost.