Page 79 of A Chill in the Flame
Abject horror leached down his spine. “If it reaches its head…”
“It can’t die.”
“It can’t die,” he repeated. “Holy fucking shit.”
Dwyn’s face flickered with pride, her mouth slowly turning up into a smile. “Well, well, well. Look at that, Firi. What on earth have you done?”
***
Being near Dwyn was a lot like being infected with repulsion. Tyr couldn’t get his top lip to stop sneering, as if it had settled into a permanent, disgusted disapproval. He watched her wave prettily at a commoner in simple clothes while he stood with his arms crossed, watching from the space between things.
He hated this. He hated her. He hated himself.
Navigating Farehold with the distinctly foreign features of Sulgrave fae made it difficult to remain inconspicuous. Tyr didn’t struggle, as he could always slip undetected to be one with the air, but it would leave the rather peculiar sight of a saddled horse sauntering unattended. Instead, he hung backwhile Dwyn closed her approach on a man tilling a garden, feigning the need for directions. Moments later, a papery husk remained where the healthy peasant had been. She’d expressed certainty that she would need at least three stolen lives under her belt before she’d be ready to enter town. She left the garden and let herself into the farmhouse. There was a brief shout of confusion at the intruder, followed by a second, louder voice who called out in terror. Then silence.
He didn’t enjoy watching her do it, both because it was wrong, and because it was frustrating that she’d found a way to drain and channel blood long before anyone in the Blood Pact. It was a secret she would not share.
She returned a few moments later. “I’m ready.”
He fought an unwinnable war with his expression. It was impossible not to glare at her. “Get in, get the supplies, get out.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. And keep yourself scarce. No one wants to see you.”
“Fortunately, staying out of sight is my gift.”
She painted her face with existential exhaustion. “I’m aware, phantom.”
Dwyn insisted that their plan was both simple and foolproof, which had made him uncomfortable. “Foolproof” was the sort of word you used when you were ready for the universe to make a fool out of you. She’d explained that she would use her first borrowed blood to call upon the power to shape-shift, wielding the gift to disguise her features so that she could pass for a Farehold commoner—someone pretty enough by Farehold standards, but with the rounded eyes of the southern kingdom, pinkish skin, and colorless hair. Next, she’d spend her second stolen life using the gift of persuasion to get a vendor to fill a sack with traveling supplies without requiring coin in return. The third was her margin for error. She never knew if she’d need to call on an additional ability, she said, and didn’t want to risk pitting her back against the wall and needing to draw on her own blood.
“Because that’s how you die?” he asked.
She pursed her lips. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”
“I’ll be here,” he said quietly as she turned to go.
“Please don’t be. I won’t need you once I have supplies and a tracker’s power.”
A growl colored his words. “Are you implying that I need you more than you need me?”
“How sweet, to hear the dog learn to speak. You followed me here from Sulgrave. That’s some flattering obsessive behavior, Tyr. Iknowyou need me more than I need you, because I don’t need you at all.” He heard the change in her pitch before he saw her shift. The woman’s voice belonged to someone else. Her hair lost its nightlike quality, rippling into something hay-colored and wavy. Rosy, freckled cheeks and rain-blue eyes looked back at him.
“Then get rid of me,” he said to the strange face Dwyn wore.
“Don’t you think I’ve been trying? Off with you. You’re bothering me, and you’re going to draw attention. Let the master work.” Dwyn, wearing the face of the blond stranger, lifted her hood as she entered Henares on foot in search of a manufacturer.
Hostility throbbed within him. He did need her, and he loathed it. She’d unlocked the secrets of blood magic and made it look so damn easy, like siphoning water from a spigot, redirecting it from its intended source to her. She was a parasite, but a dreadfully clever one. Even if he could have killed her, he wouldn’t. He needed her alive to teach him how to access her abilities.
If it weren’t for the motherfucking bond.
He’d love to torture it out of her. He’d fantasized about strapping her to a chair and playing with a variety of tools and weapons until that psychopathic bitch loosened her lips. He still might. He thought perhaps his demonstration with withstanding the fire was the first time she could see that he might be able to take pain without flinching. He hoped it made her worry. It should. Maybe he could cut her open andpick her apart and withstand what it would do to him.
But no. She had no interest in sharing—and why would she? Spying had proven useless. He’d seen her flex her witchcraft countless times and had no inclination as to how she was doing it. He’d followed her. He’d stalked her. He’d despised her. He’d attempted to copy her. And none of it had worked.
For now, they remained at a stalemate.
The sounds of grass crunching underfoot faded as he watched her walk away. His mind drifted to the game of hearts she played with the princess, and his shoulders slumped at the thought. Cutting was easy. Hacking, slashing, and being violent for the sake of violence, thoughtless, sloppy, and required little by way of cunning or intelligence. Perhaps this was the real lesson Dwyn was teaching him without even trying. Maybe she needed to possess a royal heart for the power she craved. And maybe if he had any hope of learning her secrets, he’d have to find a way to win hers.
***
