Page 7 of The Demon’s Collar (The Bard’s Demon #1)

Ero: A Ride to Remember

Bardic Advice from Eroithiel von Dua to future generations: The ability to follow orders is often overrated.

I was right. The next day was worse.

I slept on a thin mat next to B?k’s—having failed to collect my own Fated-issue tent and bedroll in my eagerness to flee.

I woke to find my hands in soft leather gloves.

I tried to pull one out, only to further discover unforgiving metal bracelets looped around each wrist with tiny locks cinching them in place.

I frowned at my lute. The gloves were meant to prevent me from playing. The tendrils of magic in my chest raged against the insult.

I sat up, trying to calm my fury, only to get a sudden and forceful reminder that my ass was in a dire state. Flames erupted along the welts, and I yelped, tipping forward onto my hands and knees to relieve the pressure .

I’d never dealt with pain of any duration before. Not since I’d learned to control my healing well enough to nip hurts big and small in the bud with song.

I sucked in several breaths, straining to slow my racing mind so I could think.

And then B?k arrived.

The tent flap blew aside, and before I could adjust my position or turn to face him, his hand clapped my ass, which I’d only just served up in the air.

I cried out. He laughed. It was the first time I’d ever heard the sound, dark as night and rich as molasses. I might have enjoyed it if my fury hadn’t consumed me.

“Do you like the gloves?” he asked, stepping deeper into the space and reaching out to cup my cheek mockingly.

The movement was not gentle. I was grateful for that, and the warning in his gaze. Because only fear could have prevented me from snapping. I couldn’t afford to antagonize him again so soon.

With monumental effort, I swallowed every retort on my tongue and managed a mild, “They’ve made your point.”

He grunted. A single pull on the tent’s drop string collapsed it into his waiting hand. That fast, we had an audience of dozens. The sharp morning sunlight made me flinch. I remained on my hands and knees at his feet, cringing at the curious looks.

B?k stalked to his horse, which was tacked and waiting a few paces away, and jumped on.

I feared he would pull me into the saddle in front of him, as he had the previous night, forcing a day of excruciating friction and proximity.

But when he’d settled, he draped a spare saddle mat behind his seat and turned to reach for me.

I wished for nothing more than the ability to leap up without his waiting hand.

I did not possess it. My legs screamed in protest just from the two steps I had to take to reach the beast. Grumbling, I took his waiting hand and swung up onto the mat.

Although the mat was marginally better than the hard saddle, we weren’t fifteen minutes into the punishing ride before I’d fisted his shirt in both hands and soaked the fabric through with my tears.

I shifted and squirmed, attempting to sacrifice my right leg and then my left for any chance of relief for the other—even trying to hold myself in the air with my knees—certain I would pass out from the rhythmic thuds against my raw ass before the ride was complete.

Would he catch me if I fell? Punish me again for slowing him down? Let me fall and be trampled by the others? I didn’t want to find out.

While I focused on surviving my personal predicament, the party came to an abrupt stop. I hissed when B?k’s sudden jerk on the reins slammed me back into my seat. His hand shot back, fingers digging painfully into my thigh in warning. The message was obvious: Silence.

There was one terrifying beat of stillness, during which I assessed our party. It was the same small collective that had overtaken my group in the ruins. Apparently, these were the chosen ones who got to wade into dangerous territory before the rest of the faction followed.

The beat of stillness ended. Hellfire rained down.

It was an ambush, and we’d ridden in blind. This time there was no wardrobe to dive into. But also this time? B?k was on my side. Relatively speaking.

Fl?r turned out to be a few hells of a caster.

His instant incantation blocked the flames that would have cooked us all.

Through his shield, I still felt the blazing heat of the inferno, but I didn’t get burnt.

The man who’d stolen my crossbow leapt up to a crouch in his saddle and loaded my weapon. A series of shots fired into the woods.

B?k lurched out of the saddle—leaving me crashing forward into the void he’d left. When I righted myself, he stood impossibly far up the path. Our assailants’ cries of surprise gave away their positions, but by then, it was too late for them anyhow.

I watched in horror and awe as B?k’s shadow grew from that of a man to that of a beast. His actual frame seemed larger too, though not nearly proportional to the shadow.

A wave of fire washed from his feet outward in a perfect circle, illuminating our assailants on either side of the path even as it set them aflame and drew their screaming cries.

My stomach fell. I froze. B?k’s expression grew thirsty , not even remotely satisfied by the destruction he’d already wrought. He turned like an apex predator to seek new targets beyond the flames.

I felt fingers clawing at my neck for a full beat before I realized they were my own.

Then my mind caught up. In my trance, I’d apparently decided I could not wear this thing’s collar a moment longer.

Fear of B?k pierced straight to my heart.

I’d just watched him roast ten spirited fighters as an effortless appetizer, and every insult I’d spoken—every quick retort I’d issued in the last two days—the way I’d dared to run from him, played on a horror loop in my mind.

He was right. I hadn’t been scared enough. I was now.

I half leapt, half fell from the saddle. To do what? Not run again. Gods and devils.

I froze, realizing there was no escape. Not now. I still had a semblance of a survival instinct. What would he do to me the next time I crossed a line? There would be a next time. If I was born for one purpose, that purpose was crossing lines .

I struggled to catch my breath. This was not the time to panic. Yet, here I was, panicking.

A loud thunk next to me yanked my attention back to the battle. The man who’d claimed my crossbow lay dead at my feet, one of his (my) own arrows stuck grotesquely into one unseeing eye.

How was that even possible? Arrows couldn’t?—

A fresh volley of cries interrupted that thought. Right. Fight now. Think later.

B?k’s ring of fire sizzled another group of hidden soldiers. How many were there? I thought he’d cooked most of them already. But no, through the flames came at least two dozen more. Their party was massive. Too large for the handful of us, even with B?k slaughtering them in scores.

I grabbed my crossbow, turning it unsteadily in my shaking hands. There were only a couple of arrows left. Fuck. I didn’t even know how to draw the thing. Even if I managed it, I’d be as likely to shoot someone from my party as I would be to hit an enemy.

I flirted briefly with the idea of hiding behind a tree and simply turning myself over to the victor. But no…I’d inked the Fated tattoo on my wrist. There was no wiping that away. My new reality was this, for better or worse.

The burning need for my lute sent my tendrils writhing. If something didn’t change, we were all going to die. I lifted my hands to assess the gloves.

“B?k!” Fl?r wailed, and my head snapped up again.

He was surrounded by the enemy. The others were in no better shape. The only thing saving them was our assailants’ apparent desire to take prisoners. Surely, they would have already been felled otherwise .

I swallowed. The time for idleness had long passed. I was no archer, but I had magic . And I wanted to live.

My song started soft. A cappella. Not my favorite way to do things, but I had little choice.

It was my best battle song. Two overlapping melodies, one to bolster those who would keep me safe, the other to distract those who would do me harm.

Would that put B?k and his people on the right side of the music? I could only hope.

The tendrils in my chest twitched like feral cats being asked to play nice without the enticement of a treat. I needed my damned lute. I longed for my lute.

To hells with it all.

I clawed at the gloves, dashing them violently against anything I could reach. The panicked urge to fight imminent death with stronger chords of protection outweighed even the fear of what B?k might do to me for disobeying him again. (Though only just.)

In the end, the gloves were no match for my tailspin. With the aid of a knife from a fallen man’s hip, I tore them to shreds.

At the first strum of my lute, my tendrils soared . The soft song rose with a fearsome swell. Words changed on my lips to a language I didn’t even know. I sang in tongues. I screamed the lyrics. I let the magic unfurl.

Fl?r’s assailants stood briefly stunned, but the jester showed no such hesitation. He lifted his blade and slew them in short order. The others engaged around us had mixed success. They all gained an edge, but some were quicker to use it than others.

It was B?k’s reaction that paralyzed me.

His shadow doubled again in size, spilling over the treetops.

It wasn’t just factionites who cried out.

The panicked hisses and squawks of woodland creatures fleeing chilled my bones.

Despite my horror, I did not slow my song.

I played louder, sang the words at B?k, and watched the magic work.

B?k’s flames abandoned their tidy wave formation. They sailed through the dark trees in flaming balls of vengeance, flushing out every hidden fighter, torching people I’d not even known were there.

They all died screaming.

Bolstered by the turn of fortune, my song reverberated with refreshed confidence.

The battle was over in minutes. The Fated around me roared in the throes of victory and adrenaline.

Someone pulled me into the celebratory throng—and I, at the height of my magic-drunk euphoria, allowed it.

I hugged, I high-fived, I shouted insults at burnt corpses.

(That was a bit much, I admit, but I was thrilled not to be among them.)

I raised my hand as the crowd spun me toward another party-mate, ready to celebrate with him as I had with the others. But his angular face was still, his green eyes troubled, and he didn’t seem to see me at all. It was Brü, the one who commanded the little group.

I followed his gaze. B?k faced away from us, his body tensed. He was framed by two thick trees, one hand on each, both aflame and glowing red. His shoulders heaved. For a split second, I thought he was sobbing. But no. He was sucking in breath after breath, overcome with rage.

Oh. Shit.

Brü’s hand closed around my elbow. He frowned down at me. “Mount up, initiate.”

I looked from him back to B?k, letting out an unintentional groan as one of the burning trees collapsed. A flaming branch glanced off B?k’s shoulder. He didn’t even notice.

“Ero, right?” Brü asked in a tone that lived somewhere between stern and empathetic. “Listen, he won’t be able to ride. We’ll meet him at the next village. Our path is clear now. I will need you to mount up.”

I didn’t ask how he knew our path was clear. Or if he really knew. It could have been a guess. I suspected from his certainty, though, that it was not. Someone in the party might have read one of our now-dead adversaries—a mind worker or a necromancer or some such.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to disobey a superior’s order. I had enough problems at the moment.

I took a deep breath, nodded, and moved for B?k’s horse.

Brü called after me like an afterthought, “Do try to heal yourself and any factionmate for whom you can spare the energy, Ero. And good work. Your song saved a few asses.”

He turned away without waiting for my response.

Brü had a natural charisma, in that I immediately wanted to please him.

Which annoyed me. And yet, in much the same way I’d glommed onto the Huntress party when I’d sought safety in numbers, I knew I didn’t want to face these woods without Brü and his team.

Nor did I wish to go anywhere near the raging B?k.

I touched my lute hesitantly. I chanced one last look B?k’s way, only to find the place he’d stood empty. Through the tattered gloves, I played again, blanketing our party in healing melodies.

Guilt, dread, and relief mingled in my belly as the cuts and scrapes faded from my hands…and the welts faded from my ass. I was only following orders, I told myself. Yet the tattooist’s words and B?k’s both swirled heavily in my mind.

Lord Austvix’s wrath is fearsome. B?k’s is deadly.

If you heal yourself, the next time will be much worse.

I took a steadying breath as the melody faded and Brü’s orders to mount echoed around the clearing. B?k’s saddle was still warm. It was comfortable now, too. The others formed up around me, several issuing passing words of thanks for my songs.

For a moment, I allowed myself to feel the familiar and intoxicating joy of belonging. For a moment, B?k wasn’t there to take it away.