Page 7 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

“W-witchcraft,” Harrow stammered.

“No,” Malcolm said, shaking his head.

“It was,” Harrow insisted. “My lord, I’m not one to wander about with my prick out! The witch of this woods did this to me!”

“No,” Malcolm spat, and Solis grew and darkened behind him, casting a formidable shadow across the ground. Harrow cowered from the display. “She couldn’t have done this to you. She was with us—with me.”

“It was witchcraft, my lord. One moment I was waiting for you, the next thing I know I feel like my skin is on fire, and I’ve stripped off my clothing. I ran in circles through these trees until my feet were bleeding and I was lost. Then the only way to make the burning stop was to break the runes.”

“What runes?” Malcolm demanded. The human blubbered at him, his leathery skin raked in scratches and abrasions. “Just show them to me.”

From the underbrush Harrow pulled free another fallen branch full of leaves and held it behind his back, covering some of his starkly pale ass. He led the marquess east, several yards deeper into the forest.

What remained of the tombstones in the woods near the petulant horses were in pieces and parts.

Harrow’s mouth trembled as he spoke. “I smashed them with smaller rocks until the runes were illegible and the burning finally stopped.” He held out his hands. The nails were torn and bleeding, his palms swollen and scratched.

Malcolm shook his head. “Harrow, this isn’t witchcraft. These are Olden tombstones that you’ve defiled. Vanir warriors were laid to rest here.”

“I’m naked, my lord,” Harrow said, his voice pitching high. “A madness the likes of which I’d never felt had taken me! My skin was on fire! If that wasn’t magic then—”

“The witch was with me, and she cast no spell,” he said firmly, though at that moment he wondered what her familiar had been up to. Such mischief was not beyond a demon with blood magic. “I’ll find out what happened here, but I won’t have you slander her. Do you hear me? The witch of this wood didn’t do this to you.”

It was the last thing he needed, more trouble from the tenant farmers. The locals feared her already. At the moment they feared her just enough to keep away, but increasing their distress could turn them from an annoyance into a dangerous mob. People would get hurt.

His mate might get hurt. Solis snarled at the notion.

Harrow’s chest heaved on a shaky breath. “The witch didn’t do this,” he repeated obediently.

“Good man. Now go on. Let’s get you home.”

Whimpering, Harrow trotted ahead, his branches rustling against his person. When Malcolm was sure the mortal was properly distracted, he pulled the feather back out of his pocket and held it under his bent nose.

Her feather smelled like rich spices, like the yeast in freshly baked bread, leather, and wood oil. She smelled like adventure.

We go back for our Raven soon?Solis pleaded.

“We fix my nose, and then we go back in the morning and try again,” Malcolm agreed.No kidnapping this time!He scolded.

No kidnapping,Solis vowed.Spoil sport.

Chapter 3

Hrafn

Leaving her homestead behind was always a challenge for Hrafn. It was the resting place of her clan. A graveyard that had become a cage. Duty held her there despite the blood of the old gods pulsing through her veins, beckoning her to explore far and wide. She didn’t dare because her home was also a cage forit.

The monster.

It made her blood run cold to think of the ancient bindings failing, so when she left her home, she kept her trips short and she never traveled far. The village of Reedlet felt like a stretch in comparison. She’d be too far away to chase off anyone that came wandering through, but leaving was necessary now. They needed supplies, and it was becoming unsafe to trespass on the neighboring farmers.

Hrafn cut up the last of their flat bread and a lowly little wrinkled tomato and served them to her familiar for an after-breakfast snack, refueling. Flying took a great deal of energy. Ezra, her demon familiar, was understanding about the meager meal—for the most part. He grumbled only a little under his breath. She’d packed light so she’d have more room to carry goods from Reedlet’s market.

Ezra pecked at the piece of bread she’d laid out for him in his hawk form. Familiars were tricksters who could magically change their shape, but Ezra had developed a preference for the hawk. They sat on a grassy knoll, the first cottages of the village in sight several yards away.

The piece of soul you gave me feels fixated on the fae we met yesterday,Ezra said, sending her the words through the link made by their magical bargain.You know the one. The lord with the brittle nose.

Hrafn shook her fist out. It ached at the reminder. She popped a sliver of shriveled tomato into her mouth and avoided the question, gathering up her pack of fresh mushrooms and her satchel of spices for trade. She remained hopeful the lord had been right about the village’s willingness to accept what she had to offer. She needed flour and oil and whatever else they’d spare, but she didn’t understand their bargaining system. They favored metal coins over goods.

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