Page 10 of The Dead Saint

Another man stepped forward and took the Wolf’s mount to the line of other horses. This one did throw a glance her way, but his expression was unreadable.

Sorcha’s skin crawled with unease, standing hesitantly back as the Wolf went to speak with the pair playing cards.

A copse of trees rose to the right, the grouping spindly and short. Even if she made it that far, there were barely enough trees to conceal her. The rest of the land around them was farmland, trampled fields, with nowhere to hide but the shallow ditches.

Sorcha took a step backward, still facing the group of men. Then another. No one seemed to notice or care that she was slowly easing back toward the road.

Hugh returned from the group of horses carrying a gray blanket. Even from a distance, Sorcha could see it was stained and filthy.

Between noticing Hugh had returned and taking another step back, the Wolf was there beside her, moving so silently she hadn’t even heard his chainmail rattle. He gripped her arm with one black-gloved hand, dragging her toward the fire. She stumbled, but he kept her upright. He indicated a flat stone, barely large enough to perch on, and let her go.

“Sit,” he said, then turned to Hugh. “Find a clean blanket.”

“The witch doesn’t deserve one.”

The Wolf stared at Hugh, radiating cold, not speaking.

Hugh paled, turning away to search for another blanket.

In a smooth motion, he removed his sword and sat beside her with a creak of metal and leather.

She glanced at him, his profile so near to her own, the long dark lashes and smudged soot on his cheek.

Sorcha was painfully aware of him. His cruelty frightened her, the obvious strength and fear he commanded from those around him. He was a palpable force beside the fire, a man made of anger and darkness. But he drew her eye as he took out a cloth and a polishing stone and began to clean his weapon.

It took only a moment before Hugh returned with a cleaner blanket. He offered it to Sorcha without looking at her, his attention on the Wolf.

She took it, grateful despite herself, because the cold seeping up from the ground was already sinking into her bones.

“How do you know this is the vessel?” Hugh asked, mouth set in a hard line. “What if this is some other witch hoping to escape the sword?”

The Wolf didn’t look up from cleaning his weapons, and when he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft. “Why are you asking questions?”

The camp fell silent as the men paused, watching the three by the fire, tension building.

Sorcha looked from one to the other.

In a lightning-fast movement, the Wolf removed the dagger from Hugh’s hip and pressed it to his throat. A trickle of blood appeared, sliding down into the high neck of his undershirt.

Hugh’s eyes went wide, the whites visible all around the iris. When he swallowed, the blade cut into him a little, and more blood trickled down his neck.

No one said a word.

Sorcha forgot to breathe. Would he kill the man right here? Like the yellow-eyed man had killed his compatriot. Was there no honor among killers, then?

“I’m not asking questions, sir,” Hugh said, voice rough as he swallowed, and the blood continued to flow.

The Wolf released him, turning away.

Sorcha looked away from them, not wanting to see if either one threw a glance in her direction. She didn’t want to be any more involved than she already was.

The other men returned to their conversations, and Sorcha watched the fire.

The Wolf did not take his seat beside her again. He went to speak with another man, one she had not heard a name for yet, and she was grateful for the small solitude it gave her.

As the sky darkened, a man put a collapsible cooking pot over the fire and poured water into it before adding hunks of some unrecognizable dried food. When it had boiled, the men gathered around the pot, holding cups close to their bodies and talking quietly. The Wolf was last, making sure all his men had eaten before receiving his share.

Sorcha’s stomach growled, but she didn’t think she’d be able to eat. There had been so much blood, the last few hours a blur of panic and pain. Yet her body betrayed her, the scent of the food overpowering.

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