Page 22 of Wolf of Ashes
As soon as the magic touches them, their eyes become blank and they drop softly to the floor, although they’re still gripping their would-be weapons.
“You don’t need to be concerned about us.” The keeper’s voice is soft and his eyes are entirely black now as he focuses on the two women.
The moment he speaks, they relax, as if they believe him.
He continues in a mesmerizing croon. “We’re not your enemies.No. We’ve simply come here for food and water and nothing more. You will fill three jugs of water and leave them on the table. You will serve us two of the meals you’re preparing. Finally, for our beasts, you will prepare bowls of water and bring fresh meat. We will eat, drink, and then we will go.”
His voice remains quiet, but there’s a harder edge to it as he continues. “While we’re here, you will not look at us. When we’re gone, you will forget we were here. If you do this, you will not be harmed.”
“Speak for yourself,” I mutter. My hatred of angels extends beyond my captor to their entire race. Even if the keeper has forbidden me from spilling their blood.
The keeper side-eyes me while the women retract their wings and place their cooking implements back on the table. They immediately set about retrieving jugs, plates, and food, ignoring us the whole time.
I watch them warily, waiting to see if they wake up from the trance the keeper placed them in.
When they don’t, I take a moment to study them more closely.
The younger angel has bright, blue eyes and auburn-blonde hair, and by the unholy saints, she smells like fucking spring. Her scent is so bright and cheerful that it turns my stomach.
The older angel has dark-brown hair streaked with gray and delicate wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
I have no way of knowing if either of them is affiliated with my captor. My only certainty is that they are not the same kind of angel as he is. The energy around them is far weaker.
Beside me, the keeper’s ears briefly take on the shape of a wolf’s before he resumes his former countenance: light-brown skin, deep-brown eyes, and no tail or horns in sight. “The other angels are still outside,” he says. “But we should stay alert.”
My stomach pinches, a nasty, empty feeling that reminds me just how much I need water and food. “I’ll be prepared to run.”
But only if I manage to scoop up a jug of water first.
As soon as the younger angel places a flagon of water on the table, I grab it and drink the whole thing as fast as I can.
Thank the dark saints.
I groan with relief, licking the final droplets off my lips as I pull out a chair and sit at the table.
The angels don’t bat an eyelid, proceeding to place bowls of water and pieces of raw meat on the floor for the panthers. Then they serve out plates of food for me and the keeper and push them across the table toward us. All without looking at us.
Each plate is laden with food they took from the hot oven.
I sink back against the chair, not yet reaching for the food. I’ve never been drunk, but I imagine it feels a lot like this. My mouth is no longer dry, my body feels stronger, and my thoughts are sharper.
I grin at the keeper as I slouch happily in my chair.
He takes small sips of water, and it makes me wonder how long it’s been since he’s drunk anything—or even needed to.
I’m more cautious with the food since I’m not certain how my body will tolerate it. I recognize most of its components as vegetables.
The keeper also eats slowly, pushing the pieces around his plate. He stabs them with his fork and examines them, sniffing them carefully before he puts them into his mouth and chews.
Every now and then, he pronounces the name of the food. To the small pebbles of yellow vegetables, he says, “Corn.”
To a chunk of orange that is straight on one edge and curved on the other, he says, “Carrot.”
“Yes.” I’ve never eaten either before now. Even if Mom hadn’t told me about corn and carrot, I’d recognize them from children’s books. “Did you see them in the memories of dark creatures who died?”
He gives me a nod. “Centuries ago, it was common for dark creatures to die in taverns. Even now, many deaths happen in places where food and beverages are served.” He shrugs. “Alcohol seems to bring out the worst in us.”
He arches his eyebrows at me as if he’s baffled before he returns his focus to the piece of carrot, which has remained impaled on his fork. “Also, I think I must have eaten carrots in my life before I became the keeper.”
