Page 100 of Bloodguard

Though it’s hard, I force my gaze ahead.

One block. Two blocks. Three. That’s how long it takes before I manage a breath that isn’t painful to take.

All the structures along the cobblestone main street are constructed of white stone. Their rooftops resemble a field in bloom—all bright colors, although I notice some method to the hues. Blues on the bigger homes, yellows for what appear to be businesses, reds for restaurants and taverns. The colors are bright, sweeping like strokes of a very thick paintbrush.

Caelen offers a stiff nod to pedestrians on the way to market. Everyone from a troll with soot on her hem to a young elf dressed from head to toe in silk gives Caelen ample space the moment they catch sight of his green-and-blue military uniform and how his hair is shaved on the sides. They know he’s a legitimate member of Arrow’s army—a high-ranking member—even if they recognize that he was once one of their own.

We reach the top of one street and descend another before either of us speaks again. “The inn where we’re meeting him is not much farther. Giselle should already be there.”

“Giselle?” I ask.

Caelen presses his lips into a thin line. “Giselle does what she wants, when she wants, and her steed, Usic, is faster than any moon horse, save for a few in the army. With her royal crest, she would have been permitted entry automatically.” He sighs. “I know she wants to see an herbalist here, and in her own way, she wants to watch over us. She’ll be here. On my life, it’s only a matter of time before she shows herself.”

Watch over us?I glance at the fearsome soldier next to me who clearly needs no watching over but decide to keep my mouth shut.

He’s done talking about Giselle, and despite wanting to, I don’t ask about the affliction that no one dares speak of. Maeve’s secrecy about it bothered me at first—and I still want to understand the gloves and know what threat, if any, Giselle might pose—but I respect her loyalty and Caelen’s, too.

Our moon horses pick up to a trot as we reach Tunder’s main square. Two streets past, and then down another four. There are lefts and rights, and though I try to commit the directions to memory, it feels like we are turning circles in this place.

Finally, Caelen pauses. “We’re here,” he says.

A stable girl reaches for his horse’s reins.

Another young girl reaches for Star’s bridle as I idle beside where Caelen strokes his white-and-tan mare. He looks up, so I do, too, releasing a string of curses when I catch the name of the pub.

Your Mother’s Bloomers

Now there’s a place you want to meet the man charged with your mother and sisters’ safety.

The roof of Your Mother’s Bloomersis more moss than shingles, coating the tiles in red and green patches. The pointed roof arches go this way and that, more of a last-minute thought.

I glance into the elegant tea shop beside it. Through the window, I see an assortment of well-dressed patrons sipping from teacups and sating their appetites on towered plates of pastries and pies.

“Tell me we’re going into that tea shop,” I say through my teeth. The last thing I want to do is sip tea with my pinkie high in the air or whatever the fuck, but the pub looks like where murderers go to put hits on their grandmothers, not a place we’ll find someone trustworthy to safely transport my family.

Caelen strokes his horse one last time. “We’re going into the tea shop,” he says.

I hop down beside him, staring at my mud-splattered boots, and scratch Star behind the ears before she’s led away. “We are?” I asked, relieved.

“Nope,” Caelen says. “I’m just telling you what you wanted to hear.”

Caelen strides toward the pub as a dwarf and a very naked giant stumble out. An enthusiastic roar of the crowd in the tavern shouts, “Drink, drink, drink,” loud enough to overtake the busy street.

The naked giant holds the door for us before joining his gentleman friend…vomiting into a sewer. Yes, indeed. This is a classy establishment.

“Drink, drink,drink!”

A crowd gathers around a small table where an ogre with spiky fair hair and black clothing guzzles down a pint of beer. The changeling in front of him morphs from a large cat to a pink possum and then to a stunning, brown-skinned human before slamming her metal cup down.

Caelen stops briefly, taking in the madness and the scathing looks tossed our way—can’t blame them, I’m dressed like a real asshole right now—before he quietly crosses the room and into a dark corner.

He slips into a booth, and I follow, sitting beside him. My companion raps twice against the wooden table, pauses for a moment, and adds a third. As if materializing from the shadows, a mountain troll appears, pushing our table out of the way to make room for his massive body on the bench across from us. Traces of barely there black strands poke through a mostly bald head.

The troll smooths out what little hair he has like someone with bountiful locks, starting from his forehead. As he glides his palm over his scalp, I catch sight of a deep scar in the shape of anXcarved into his forehead.

“Xavier.” Caelen nods.

The troll huffs, annoyed. “I go by many names. Pick the right one, and you might get what you need.”

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