Page 22 of Bounty Hunter

“Overall, I’d consider the evening a success,” I say, as we continue through the dark forest.

Darvy snorts a laugh. “Did you forget about your broken ribs and nose, the split lip, and everything else I had to take care of after?”

No, in fact, the pain is still quite fresh. Still, I respond, “The cost was worth it.”

Darvy is the best healer I know, but it’s a horribly painful process.

We walked for hours through the night and have finally come to a quaint village settled in the depths of the dark forest. Some are more run-down than others, but this one is tended and well-kept. Bits of light and sunshine find their way through the thick treetops as the suns rise. Thatched roofs of small cottages are covered in moss and pine needles from the fir trees that grow tall and straight. Some have gardens larger than the size of their home, and birds nesting in the trees twitter back and forth noisily. Most have neatly laid cobblestone paths that lead up to their doors, and as we get closer to the main street, the dirt path widens and also becomes paved in stone. Forest flowers and greenery grow at the base of thick tree trunks, between mossy boulders, and nestbushes and other flowering plants grow so thick I can hardly see the forest floor off the path.

The main street consists of only five small buildings—a falconry office for sending messages combined with what looks like one sheriff’s office, a healer’s house marked with ahanging sign, a small stable, and the largest building has a sign naming it theNestbushInn.

We enter the inn to find an assortment of tables scattered throughout the room, a variety of men and a few women occupying the seats. One table has a game of cards in play, and there’s a low murmur as conversations carry around the room. The left of the room holds a staircase that leads to the second level, where I assume the rooms are. Darvy, Rhosse, and I take a seat at an empty table in an area where we have full view of the room and pull out the parchment. It’s not likely we’ll gain any useful information in a small village such as this, but I’m desperate enough I’ll be asking everywhere. A young woman approaches our table and places rich smelling soup filled with plump dumplings and vegetables with a thick slice of nestberry pie on the side in front of us. My mouth waters. We haven’t had fare like this in a week, but I put off food for a moment longer.

“Before you go,” I ask the serving woman, “can you tell me if you know any of these names?” I hand her the slightly wrinkled list.

She frowns as she takes the list in her hand and scans it. “Can’t say that I do. Sorry.” She shakes her head and places it back on the table.

“How do we know if the list is even accurate?” Darvy ponders aloud after she’s left.

“We don’t,” I admit.

Rhosse is quiet, but I sense the frustration behind his stoic gaze. He is the best tracker in the entire five kingdoms, but even he, without any sort of direction, can’t say where to start—even with a list in hand. And so we will continue our mindless, directionless searching until we catch a scent.

“All we can do is keep searching.” The thought of what thatmeans for me, mainly marriage, twists uncomfortably. I still feel an uncomfortable burden of guilt about how I told Nadiette we could no longer plan to marry. The worst part? The look of betrayal and hurt in her eyes.

Darvy and Rhosse waste no time getting started on their meals, but as I lift my spoon, the inn door opens, and a young woman walks in. At first glance, with her hood up, she could be taken for a teenage boy, the way she’s dressed in decidedly masculine attire that drowns her frame. But as soon as she drops the hood, it’s easy enough to see she’s certainly a woman. Dark brown hair hangs over her shoulder in a messy braid. Her eyes are cool gray and framed by lashes so thick it’s as if she’s used coal to line them. Beneath her petite nose are a set of lips that could never be called boyish. Her well-worn, loose-fitting trousers are tucked into dirt-covered leather boots, and a long sleeve nondescript shirt sits beneath a vest, with a long, navy jacket tossed over her forearm. A short sword fits snugly against her hip, its hilt worn from pommel to guard, the leather wrapped around the grip looks so aged I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off. A pack over one shoulder completes her attire. Her gaze scans the room for a moment, meets mine, and holds for the shortest second with what seems a flash of recognition before she breaks the contact and makes her way to the counter to order.

Warning tingles. Why? I have no idea. I have never seen her before, and even if I had, the glamour Jethonan gave me should prevent anyone from identifying me. I push aside the worry, gauging her physical threat level atmaybea two on a scale of ten. Unless she happens to be some lethal warrior who is an expert in weapons while simultaneously appearing completely harmless. Which could be a possibility. A very unlikely possibility. I detail her just like I detail everyone elsewho comes into this inn, even though she doesn’t look the part of the usual customers. Five foot six. Dark brown hair. Even with the large clothing, it’s obvious she’s thin, maybe too thin. Her face lacks the fullness that comes from regular meals. She strides confidently through the middle of the room, unaware of the attention she has grabbed from the current customers as they eye her. She doesn’t fit in here, and my interest is piqued.

Darvy raises a brow in question when I stand, pausing momentarily with a heaping spoonful of fat dumplings halfway to his mouth.

Rhosse looks up. “Searching for another illegal fight to join?”

A grin lifts one side of my mouth as I push my chair in, but I don’t respond to his good-natured ribbing. I know I’ll never live that fight down.

He chuckles and returns to his meal.

They probably think I’m desperate as they watch me, and they’d be right, but something about this woman has caught my attention, and with the stakes what they are, I intend to find out why. I make my way to the counter beside her. I slide onto a stool two down from where she sits and rest an elbow on the counter in what is, hopefully, a friendly and non-aggressive manner. I also hope it covers the blood that has dried onto my jacket and shirt. Maybe I should wash up before continuing this search.

“New here?” I smile in an easy sort of way, not wanting to chase off a possible source of information.

She eyes me, then without any further attention goes back to the bowl of soup before her, as if I’m a fly she just waved from her space.

I slide the wrinkled paper toward her. “Are any of these names familiar?”

She looks at it while she slowly chews her bite of soup, then finally presses a slim fingertip against the parchment like she’s disgusted by it and drags it closer. Her gray eyes skim the seven names, widening a bit before her face washes of emotion. Then she rereads it. I resist a triumphant smile. She knows something.

Chapter 17

Vera

I’m positive this man is the bounty we’ve been searching for. The moment I stepped into the inn and saw him, I knew. My mouth feels dry.The sketch was inaccurate.I take in his features with disdain. He is dreadfully handsome—unlike the artist’s rendition shown on the parchment in my pocket shows him to be. Surprising. Most sketches, especially of the criminals I search for, give a little more in the looks department than is true. Doesn’t matter. I do this for pay, not boyfriends. But this man is different in that I don’t sense the… ‘I’m a criminal’ vibe about him. Doesn’t mean it’s not there, though.

Along with that, I get the sense he has a glamour. My magic enables me to see through glamour, which is probably the explanation for the large discrepancy between the bounty sketch and his actual appearance. But while they don’t work on me, I wonder why he uses one. Can’t be for anything good. I should know, I was raised with the fae, but my instincts have failed me before. I won’t be one to be taken advantage of by his looks and charm, his blue eyes, and the roughnessthat a few days’ scruff adds to his strong jawline. He has the list, which only confirms that he’s a mercenary, and he’s aftermy kind.

"Can't help you,” I say to the man.

“Can’t, or won’t?” he challenges.

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