Page 71 of A Chill in the Flame
Tyr struggled to control his breathing. He hated Dwyn, sure, but had to hand it to her: she was perceptive. Not a moment went by where he didn’t want to see her dead.
“I’m trying to keep my body count lower than yours. In the meantime”—he gestured to the ground—“can you not do things like this in the house?”
Dwyn scrunched her nose disapprovingly. Perhaps she didn’t find much pleasure in eyeing the fallen. “They’re as light as paper. You should be able to carry them into the woods without an issue.”
“If they’re so light, you do it.”
She sighed and made a point of turning her back on the mummified husks of the husband and wife who’d owned the farm home they now occupied. They’d answered the door with a mixture of confusion and skepticism, but Dwyn had given them no time to feel fear or pain. She’d placed her hands on them and sapped them just as she had on the icy, western shores of Sulgrave so many decades prior. Ithad unnerved him to see then but only bothered him to see it now.
Tyr felt a surge of irritation as she moved toward the fire to warm herself.
“You’re really just going to leave them?”
She looked over her shoulder at the husks. “They won’t smell, if that’s your fear,” she assured him. “Their blood and flesh and the normal elements of rot don’t pose a problem when they’ve been drained. It just”—she made a small, explosive gesture with her fingers as she finished her sentence—“evaporates.”
He was pretty sure he caught her moving to warm herself by the hearth as he carried the belated countryfolk out the door to bury them in the garden. He may have abandoned the Reds long ago, but his noble sense of decency had nothing to do with the church and its moral code. Maybe that was why, even as he muttered last rites to the fresh-turned earthy mounds that were a happy husband and wife only minutes ago, he knew Dwyn would continue to have the upper hand. Her absence of a moral compass allowed her to play chess while he remained confined to checkers.
He returned to the house exhausted and covered in dirt to the homey smells of jam and eggs. Fresh bread sat atop the kitchen table, buttered knife abandoned halfway through its task. A still-hot skillet sizzled on the window sill.
“Do you need help with washing?” Dwyn asked, making a gesture with her hand to indicate that she’d be willing to call whatever water he might need from the trough.
He picked up the sandwich with earthy hands and bit into it. His eyes lifted appreciatively. “I’m shocked you cooked dinner for me.”
“I didn’t,” she said between bites, speaking with her mouth still full. “I cooked for me. There just happened to be enough food for two.” She made a disgusted face as she watched him, eyeing the dirt that smudged his body. “I can’t believe you’re holding that sandwich with your hands aftertouching dead bodies.”
He didn’t want to let the amusement tug his mouth up at the corners but couldn’t help it. “You were the one who killed them. You’re the reason the bodies were dead in the first place.”
She shrugged, returning to her final bites. “Fair enough.”
Tyr looked around for the water pitcher but landed on the assorted jars and bottles of wines, ales, and spirits in the corner. “Is the only fresh water for their farm animals?” He’d made sure that Knight had enough to eat and drink before he’d taken care of himself.
Of course, riding Knight had meant sharing a saddle with Dwyn, which had been equal parts terrible and amusing. He enjoyed causing her displeasure, which made it a win to hear her bitch every time she brushed against him or felt his chest against her back on the horse.
“They have a well,” she said.
“And?” he asked. “Will you be doing the honors?”
She brushed the crumbs off her hands. “No. I’m in the mood for wine. Go pump the well yourself.” Dwyn fetched one of the tall green bottles and found a small silver cup. He watched as she poured the wine in, swirled it once, and inhaled the full-bodied scent before drinking it.
“Kill the farmers, eat their food, but then sniff their wine to be sure it’s up to your standards?”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t take his bait. If he hadn’t continued staring at her expectantly, there’s a chance she wouldn’t have said anything at all. Finally, with another appreciative sip of the rich, red liquid, she said, “I can do this without you, Tyr. I’ve just absorbed the life I’ll need for whatever ability I might require to find Ophir. You’re the one who can’t move forward without me. You wouldn’t know where to go, where to look, or how to even begin to find the princess. I’m only keeping you around because…” Her voice trailed off with distinct hints of sadness.
He leaned back in his chair, wetting his lips. The glass ofwater called to him, but something else was on his mind. Her shift in tone had scratched his mind with a thirst greater than the need for a cool drink. “Can I ask you something?”
“I’m sure you will anyway,” she said, taking a generous swallow of the wine. She tipped the green bottle up once more and refilled her silver cup.
He made a speculative face, eyeing her as if studying a caged animal. He’d spent years hunting her. Once he’d found her, she’d uniquely positioned herself so that catching her would be disadvantageous. Now that he was only an arm’s length away, he wasn’t sure if he even looked at a woman or if she was another creature entirely. Her heart did not seem to tick with the mechanisms that wound within the chests of men and fae. “Are you genuinely sad that Ophir doesn’t like you at the moment? Or are you just upset that your plan to manipulate her isn’t going smoothly?”
She looked with icy calculation. “I like her.”
He stared back. “That’s not what I asked.”
She tilted her head slowly. “I want her to like me.”
“Now I’m wondering one of two things. Either you’re being intentionally vague because you’re a narcissist who’s disappointed everyone isn’t playing by her rules, or you’re not emotionally intelligent enough to understand your own feelings.”
“Two things. Go fuck yourself, and know that I hate you.”
