Page 59 of The Cruel Dawn
“How dare she?”
“What’s left for her to destroy?”
“Take her head.”
“No. Take her hands—her hands are the biggest threats.”
I say nothing, shivering, though, as I listen to their most dangerous thoughts. They look up to me, not because of who I am or what I can do to them but literally because I’m tall and my hair is as big as the wool-haired, bargain-basement effigy someone made that they’re now burning on an installment plan—straw Kai has only been torched to her shins. Some follow me through these streets not because of their love or admiration but only because they’ve forgotten my strength and power.
Follow a strange dog at your peril, Caburh. Right now, I’m an unpredictable bitch.
Enough townsmen surround me to slow my march to the Broken Hammer Inn. One man with a crooked nose and white, dandelion-seed hair steps in front of me.
My hands go clammy.Come on, guy, I don’t wanna fight you.
He curls his lip and snarls, “You’re dying today, Perversion.”
“I haven’t come to start trouble, sir,” I say. “Yes, my last visit here led to unfortunate losses, and I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t start it. The army of Syrus Wake came for someone else, and I simply defended myself—”
“A hundred souls died that night,” a broken man with a broken voice shouts from behind me.
“Yes, I know,” I say. “And I mourn them each day. My deepest sympathies to you all for those who were taken during the fight.”
The man with the crooked nose and white hair squints at me. His fists clench and unclench as though he’s already squeezing my heart or my throat, and he’s ready for justice—or vengeance. “It’s easy for you, isn’t it?” Dandelion-Seed Hair spits. “To walk into this town with your fancy clothes and fancy swords while our homes still bear the scars of your ‘defending yourself.’”
“What do you want, sir? All of you: What would bring you peace? What would restore the dead?” I ask, scanning those gathering around me, chills dancing up and down my spine.
Soot-covered faces, hands hardened by labor, eyes glinting with grief and rage. Faces scarred and swollen, amber glowing as intense as daylight. They look as scraggly and forgotten as the scraps of fabric discarded in the mud. They look as broken as the shards of furniture tangled up in hedges and ivy that continue to grow around them. Shoes, hats, and belts are found everywhere except on the feet, heads, and around the waists of the townspeople of Caburh. And their numbers are growing as they gather around to watch, swelling like a bruise spreading across skin. Their anger pulses and could explode with one careless word.
I need to move on, but I can’t—their hearts are filled with agony even though their hands are heavy with metal. The townspeople need a goddess, and I cannot oblige. “The deaths of your loved ones were not my intention,” I say with sincerity.
They scoff.
“She is the reason!”
“Cleanse us of her wickedness!”
“Destroy this abomination!”
Cleanse? Abomination? Those two words are never good together.
The angry townsfolk grip their weapons tight. They pull their lips tighter across their teeth, holding their hatred of me like they’d hold a baby rescued from a rushing river. They’re ready to fight and kill me.
Don’t they know? Mortals should never tempt the gods. Doing so surely brings disaster.
Fear fills me, not because of what they want to do to me, but because of what I can do tothemwithout pulling the blade from my scabbard or the dagger from my boot.
They press in closer to me.
“Stop right now.” I lift my left hand as a warning. Flames leap across my fingertips.
Some in the mob gasp. Those holding weapons lift their eyebrows in surprise, but their thirst for revenge compels them to take cautious steps toward me.
“I’m asking you one last time,” I say and lift my right hand. I spot a broken cart and prepare to hurl fire at it as a warning shot.
“No!” a woman yells. “Don’t!”
Separi Eleweg the Advertant, proprietor of the Broken Hammer Inn, stands at the edge of the mob. She’s the one who just told me not to throw fire. Her thick braids quiver with anger, and the gold charms clamped on those locks tinkle with rage. Her eyes are flat and black, but her words are sharp and filled with horror. She doesn’t wear her silk waistcoat or velvet breeches as she’s done in the past. Like the other townsfolk, she’s dressed in a simple tan tunic and frayed burlap trousers.
