Page 63 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

But Hakkon would not be on the front lines. The old Forian was far too wily to place himself within easy reach; the ancientFae tunnels under Foria stretched far and wide, the landscape littered with old, crumbling keeps and towers he could be holed up in. It was entirely possible the warg was not a scout, but a lure, the bait in a greater trap I couldn’t quite see.

I dug my claws into the earth, already regretting turning my back on the idea of crossing the border now, but Cirri was at home, and I wanted to be by her side.

Running on all fours, I raced against the setting sun.

I didn’t make it home until the moon was high, but the fires of the keep were still flickering; my kind kept late hours.

It took several minutes to shift myself back into walking upright, and as I made the change, I moved slowly towards the Tower of Spring, retracing this morning’s steps.

Something caught the corner of my eye as I passed a dining room, a flash of scarlet, and I stopped in my tracks.

She sat alone in a dining room, seated at the end of a long table. A candelabra flickered before her, illuminating the spill of her hair; a crimson rose tucked behind her ear had wilted.

I bristled at that; who had put bloodroses in my wife’s hair? That was a gesture for a lover—or a husband—to make.

But it was the look on her face that held me back from anger.

She toyed with the spoon in her soup, not eating, but staring gloomily into it like an oracle reading a terrible future.

For a moment I lingered in the doorway, hesitating to go to her. WasIthe cause for that expression, the downturned lips and lowered eyes?

I didn’t believe so, and yet… I couldn’t stop my feet from walking in, carrying me towards her with silent steps.

Cirri looked up, dropping the spoon with surprise. She signed something rapidly, pressing a hand to her chest with a weak smile.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I lifted one foot, the claws arched back so as not to give my presence away as I walked. “The footsteps of predators never come with a warning.”

This time her smile was more genuine, and she let out one of those breathy laughs. Then she patted the table next to her, offering me the seat to her right.

“Why do you look so gloomy?” I pulled out the chair and sat delicately; it still creaked under my weight. “I didn’t mean to leave you all day, my lady. Not after what happened.”

Cirri shook her head, signing something I could almost understand just from the breezy way she moved her hands—she seemed to imply that the tragedy of Fog Hollow was not to blame for her melancholy.

Her eyes were so green in the candlelight. The forests of the Rift only wished they could be that vibrant, a deep emerald. But I couldn’t stop my eyes from drifting to the bloodrose behind her ear, its petals already darkening at the edges.

She followed my gaze, reaching up to touch it, then yanked it from her hair.

I understood ‘forgot’ in the next sentence she signed. Cirri laid it aside, nudging it away from her plate, and when she picked up her spoon again she actually took a mouthful of soup instead of just swirling it around.

“Who put it in your hair?” I asked, wondering if I might have cause for genuine jealousy. If it was Koryek, that damn handsome bastard who was so good at his job and outside her door day and night…

She mimed painting with one hand, and rolled her eyes upwards. I hid a smile. “Miro… he should know better than to take bloodroses from cuttings that don’t belong to him.”

Miro, that lazy, bitter lad… I’d owed his mother, so I’d given him a place in Ravenscry, working him as a lad in jobs throughout the keep. Visca had despaired of ever making aproper scout of him, Wyn found his attention to detail lacking, and Cook, the smith, and even the huntmaster had all sent him back within days of Miro’s apprenticeships, asking that I not darken their doorsteps with his presence again.

I couldn’t say his company was enjoyable in any way, but he had inherited some of Edda’s talent.

That talent had recently made him invaluable to me; he would paint Cirri, so that when she chose to slough the mortal coil and escape a lifetime with me for eternal peace, I would have a way to look back and remember her.

A sad excuse for the reality, but if I didn’t have him paint her now, I would regret it forever.

But now I wondered if Miro might be the one I should be wary of. He was no vampire, but then… neither was Cirri.

She signed something with brusque movements, her lips tightening with annoyance once more. In the midst of that, I recognized the words for ‘pig’ and ‘horse’s ass’, one I knew very well from the front lines with the Brotherhood.

“I can’t say I disagree,” I muttered, and Cirri smothered another laugh. My relief at her thoughts on Miro was palpable. “Is he giving you trouble? I would very much like this portrait of you, but I’ll find another artist if the horse’s ass is not to your liking.”

She shook her head and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. I took that to mean ‘he’s well enough’.

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