Page 9 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Not according to our bargain.“If you let her pet you,” Hrafn added quietly, “it looks like she might give you a treat.”

Ezra turned his head, aiming one liquid black eye at the stall owner.I will consider her offering, but I won’t be lowering my guard. It could be weapons she hides under this stall. Humans cannot be trusted.

From the satchel at her hip, the woman pulled out a handful of balled up linen. Unfolding the handkerchief revealed dried bits of meat. She held out a small grouping of them in her palm, lifting it for Ezra to inspect. “I like to keep the hawks near my homestead happy,” she explained. “These seem to do the trick. The useful birds keep the vermin away. Though I’ve never seen one as big and beautiful as yours.”

Ezra preened over the compliment. Then he lowered his head, selecting a plump piece of dried meat from the offering and gobbling it down, allowing the woman to rub a few fingers gently across his chest feathers.This changes nothing. I’m certain she’ll still try to kill us both.

Perhaps the meat is poisoned, Hrafn teased.

Ezra squawked.Gods, do you really think so?

No.“Thank you, new friend,” Hrafn said to the human.

“I’m called Lindiwe.” The woman leaned in and breathed deep. “What’s that incredible smell coming from your satchel?”

Hrafn removed one of the fragrant bags of spices from her pack and handed it to the stall-owner.

Lindiwe worked the tie off the opening and peered inside. “How’d you get fresh spices like this in such temperate weather?”

Hrafn glanced at the familiar on her shoulder. “Blood magic helps them grow even when the temperature is wrong.”

Ezra was preening again over his job well done.

“Around these parts we can’t afford such spices. The cost of transporting them is too much. Don’t let anyone undersell you here,” Lindiwe cautioned, lowering her voice. “You’ve got a good product, but I’m afraid I don’t have anything that comes close to matching it.”

“I want to trade with you,” Hrafn said. “You remind me of the Manna I once knew.”

“Manna?” Lindiwe’s smile was bright and friendly, and she’d spoken the word correctly, not like a horse. She had a tongue accustomed to different languages.

“An Olden word for mortals favored by the gods,” Hrafn explained. “Manna or Manna-heim. A blessed people who will treat you like family so long as you are honorable. Long ago when they treated me as family, they favored bright clothing in a pattern like your scarf.”

“I’ve lived here in Reedlet all my life, but this scarf is an old heirloom. Perhaps there’s a connection somewhere.” Lindiwe waved her in closer. “Have a look at my vegetables. We’ll make a trade that pleases us both, and you can tell me more about this Manna-heim.”

A fondness warmed in Hrafn’s chest. She was the last of her clan, a warrior who stood out even amongst the fae who lived in the area. Acceptance was rare for her, and she coveted it.

The world had changed so much around her, too quickly for her to keep up with. Hrafn frequently felt left behind by it all. But this woman had done none of the things she’d come to expect from the locals. Lindiwe hadn’t cowered or winced in fear as they spoke, or behaved as though Hrafn would harm or trick her. She’d been kind and inviting from the start.

Just like the Manna-heim who opened their home to her long ago.

Nefarious, Ezra insisted again, and Hrafn rolled her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The ragged voice came from the road behind them. Ezra let out a hoarse screech of warning at the intruder.

Hrafn turned to find a mortal man with leathery skin glaring at her. He was well-dressed in fine clothing, but his face was covered in abrasions.

“Harrow?” Lindiwe asked, sounding surprised. “What are you going on about?”

“Her.” He pointed a trembling finger at Hrafn. “She shouldn’t be here. She . . .” His words seemed to catch in his throat. He swallowed hard. “Well, I can’t tell you what she did, but that one’s dangerous, she is.”

Lindiwe hooked a hand on her hip. “It’s a little early to be in your cups, isn’t it, Harrow?”

“I haven’t had a drop to drink,” he shouted, and his voice carried to the other stalls, drawing curious eyes. “I’m trying to warn you. Can’t you feel it? Her power is here, heating my skin! Stay away from that witch!”

“I’m not using any magic.” Hrafn fixed her eyes on him, and his hand dropped to his side. His legs set to tremoring, knees knocking together in his trousers. “I don’t know you, and I’ve done you no harm.”

“Lies,” he said, and his voice shook.

There were few things worse to call a fae than liar. They valued their brutal honesty highly. “Hrafnar hafa mus pak,” she hissed through her teeth, because the insult sounded so much better to her in Olden.

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