Page 25 of The Crimson Throne
“Er, I don’t mean to be rude,” the man says, drawing my attention back to him. “But what the hell is going on?”
6
Samson
Birds.
I got attacked bybirds.
First, the birds went after ababy, of all things; then, when I tried to get in on the fray to help, the birds turned on me, and it made sense to lead them away. Only they kept coming at me, pecking and clawing like they were rabid, and how the blazes do you fightbirds? Not sure how much damage I did, stabbing my knife at random.
And then.
That girl showed up. And she didsomethingto turn that man toash. All so she could steal his cauldron?
That’s the only reason I didn’t slip into a blackout, I think. Because I haven’t had a chance to feel truly in danger. It’s all just so bloody weird.
It’s starting to catch up to me though, standing in the yard of what’s gotta be a butcher—it reeks of iron, viscera—my body feeling the scrapes and cuts of those damn birds and this girl just watching me,clinging to her prize cauldron.
She looks mighty pissed off. The hand not holding the cauldron is held loose at her side, not near relaxed but like she’s ready to take a fighting stance. The sky stopped spitting snow, but the heavy clouds cast a dim hue on what looks like black hair pulled into a simple plait. Her eyes are narrow and fixed on me with the intensity of a seasoned hunter, deep and dark like her hair.
I can’t help but notice the fact that she’s real pretty.
The girl adjusts her grip on the cauldron, a small enough one that she can rest it on her hip. It’s just a normal cauldron, no fae glow about it.
“The weather,” she says. In English again, thankfully, though thickly accented and clipped.
I blink at her. “Pardon?”
She cocks her head. “The birds get riled when the weather changes.”
My mouth drops open. I’ve never known birds to attack in a coordinated flock like that, but to hell with those damn birds.
“You turned a man to ash,” I say, pointing at the remains a pace from her feet.
Her lips draw into a tight line, her eyes not meeting mine. She’s looking at the space above my head. After a moment, she drops to look directly at me, and she squints in confusion.
“That? That’s an old firepit. Not a man,” she says.
Look, I’ve lied an awful lot.
And this girl?
She’s lying through her pores.
Anyone else might actually accept what this girl’s saying. Easier to believe the pile of ash is an old firepit rather than a person. Easier to believe they didn’t see what they thought they did.
But I know what exists in this world. I know what fae magic can doto people, and Isawher stab the man with…had to be a small thing. I didn’t see the glow of a fae item, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there—everything was chaos.
The girl used a fae item to kill this guy, didn’t she?
That’s…a mighty coincidence, isn’t it? Not in Scotland an hour yet, and already I’ve found someone using fae magic.
I’ve been quiet too long, fighting hard to figure out how to spin this, and the girl takes my silence as acceptance of her lie.
She nods decisively and turns to walk back up the road.
“Whoa now!” I call out, stumbling after her.
