Page 63 of Spellcast
A full-body shudder racks me.
The knowledge of that, of course, always itches under my skin, but it’s easy to forget when I cohabit side by side with them. When they look and talk as humans.
I remember that now as his fingers dig deeper into my tender skin and he growls in my ear in a voice that sounds warbled, caught between human and...not: “I think about that, wonder what you would taste like...the texture of your meat, the flavor of your blood. I’m sure I’m not the only one who wonders what you taste like. Would you be better roasted on a spit...or consumed raw.” He pauses and then licks the side of my throat in a long, savoring swipe of his tongue. He groans. I jam my eyes shut and whimper, waiting for the inevitable tear of his teeth. “Oh...that’s sweet. I’ll fall asleep with the taste of you on my tongue. You think about that.”
Then he’s gone.
By the time I lift myself up on my shaking elbows, there is no sight of him in the vast space of the cave. I’m alone.
I drop back down on my bench and rub the blanket roughly over my neck. I rub until the skin goes raw, desperate to rid myself of the sensation of his tongue. It does no good. I still feel it, feelhim, and I want to weep and scream.
But mostly I want to flee this place.
Gone is the notion that I could wait out winter before escaping. I can’t stay here. Cyphus made that painfully clear.
I reach for one of the pillows resting on the floor. Pulling it close, I hug it to my chest, seizing what comfort I can from it. It doesn’t work. I can’t feel safe. Can’t fall back to sleep.
Curled up on the bench, I stare into the fire and start to plan.
26
Swordplay
Verdaberries,” Viggo explains as I sample the fruitexperimentally, rolling the bead of sweet tartness over my tongue until it bursts, then, finding it pleasing, I shove the berry greedily into my mouth, eating with gusto.
Viggo nods in approval, and I smile before my gaze slides farther down the table to a glowering Cyphus. My smile vanishes and my stomach sinks. His gaze settles on me like a heavy weight, and I resist the impulse to touch my throat where I still feel the rough slide of his tongue even a day later.
“We harvest them year-round. They only grow in the Crags,” Viggo continues, his green eyes emerald bright as he elaborates. “Not only are they tasty, but they have healing properties. You can ingest them...or turn them into a salve for wounds. I apply it daily on Arvos to help him.”
“Really?” I muse, wondering if there is a way I can slip a jar of the stuff into my stash of belongings tucked away in the kitchen, hidden, waiting for me. It could be useful for the days ahead on my journey south.
I catch Tage glancing at me as I nibble on a thick slice of pungent, heavily seeded bread, also made from the curative verdaberries, but the moment I return his look, he averts his gaze and loses himself in conversation with Danhy, ignoring me once again.
I force myself to eat even though I’m a bubbling pot of nerves. I don’t realize how hungry I am until the food hits my stomach. It’sas though my body knows what looms ahead and seeks the fortification.
As I eat, I sit as still as possible, no grand movements or gestures, making myself as small as possible, determined to not attract attention. Last night taught me just how detrimental that can be.
I’d been foolish, lulled into complacency among them. Forgetting myself. Forgetting them. Thinking I could bide my time and wait out these coldest months of winter. Cyphus restored my perspective.There’s a reason that humans don’t live in the Crags. You’re not bred for this. You won’t survive here.
As soon as the meal ends, I gather dishes and head to the kitchen alongside Viggo. I wash them quickly, knowing the sooner it’s done, the sooner Viggo will take himself to bed. The sooner theyallgo to bed, the sooner I will be left by myself.
It feels like forever before that happens but, in reality, it’s no different than any other night since my arrival. I try to calculate how long I’ve been here, but I’ve lost track. A week. Two.
I settle down near the fire, blanket pulled to my chin, eyes wide.
And I wait.
Every time I tell myself enough time has passed, and that I can get up, I force myself to wait a little longer, to be less eager, less anxious. There will only be one chance at this. I cannot fail.
When I can wait no more, I sit up slowly and study the great room, the far rock walls and the dark eyes of the inky tunnels that lead to the dens. Satisfied I’m alone and everyone is in bed, I slip quietly into the kitchen and retrieve the pack of supplies I stashed.
Returning to the main room, I move on the balls of my feet and snatch the fur blanket from the bench. I will wrap it around myself as I travel. If it served as sufficient protection for the animal that once wore it as a hide, it would serve me.
I creep across the cavernous great room. My every sound seems magnified in the echoing space. I continually glance over my shoulder. The moment I step into the tunnel leading out into the Crags, I exhale. Almost out. Almost free.
Already it’s colder, the whistle of wind louder. And dark. So dark. The kind of dark that awaits you in death. I can’t even make out my own hand before my face.
I shuffle along cautiously, gritting my teeth as I adjust the fur more fully over me. If I could wait for winter to subside, I would, but last night confirmed it.
