Page 2 of Feral Guardian
“Andyouare?” he asks in broken common.
“Fynren guard,” I say, leaning down into his space. “Sasha Petrov. Don’t make me ask again.”
He fiddles with the strings of his coin purse. “He’ll be at the Last Slab. Tavern in town.”
“Where?” I ask, my patience thinning.
He scowls and holds out his hand, palm up. I press a small bronze coin into it.
“Take the main road in, then turn right at the fountain. You’ll find it.”
I walk away from the frigid docks, frost glittering on the dark wood in the morning sun. I follow the portman’s direction to the main road, little more than a muddy causeway. Shanties line the street from the port up to the center of the city. The ramshackle buildings smell of death and decay.
Nol’Ther has been here already, I see.
The fountain at the center is out of commission, possibly because the time of year doesn’t call for it. A chilled wind blows along the crooked cobblestone streets surrounded by three-story buildings. They’re all gambling halls or whorehouses. This is what Yelesna considers to be most important and worthy of paved roads.
Seter is not my country, and I’ve never been gladder for it.
I turn right, my armor clanking as I move through the alleys. Women reach out and touch my arms, whispering secrets and promising seduction as I move. But my mind is resolved.
Sasha Petrov.
I reach the Last Slab, a flea-infested slimehole. A man with sweat stains under his arms actively masturbates against the front window as he looks in. It’s naught but seven in the morning…
I grumble behind my helm and push open the door. Sound and smell assault me all at once. It’s sour, humid, hot, and loud. Discordantmusic plays in the corner. A woman with red lips gropes the metal cup at my crotch, trying to get at my goods.
I push her hand away with a grunted, “No,” and she curses at me in Seterian.
A woman behind the bar makes eye contact with me, or at least my helm, and I approach her. “Sasha Petr—”
“He’s in the suite, fucking,” she says, cutting me off.
My lip curls back at her interruption and the demon tickles the surface of my skin.
I rub my thumb against the armor covering my forearm, covering the runic marks that hold my monster back. I comfort myself with the knowledge that I control when it can be set free by these marks. Only I can unleash the demon’s power.
“I need to speak with him,” I say.
“The carriage is parked around back. The driver, Sven, shouldn’t be too drunk,” the bartender says, filling up the glass she just haphazardly cleaned with sour-smelling beer.
The threads of my thinning patience snap a little more and the demon bares his vicious teeth at me.
Unacceptable for my princess. Do something, my angry demon whispers.
“Nottoo drunk? Does Sasha know whom this carriage is to escort?” I ask.
The bartender shrugs. “I don’t fucking know.”
I growl and turn away from her to prevent calamity. The demon paces under my skin, begging to rip her head off—a very unreasonable act compared to her slight. It’s not her fault that Sasha is fucking, or that he left a drunk carriage driver out back.
I remind myself that the demon is me, and I am the demon. I am in control.
I breathe through the anger. I’ve been anxious to reunite with Lilianna, that’s all. The nearer the date of my departure, the harder the demon has been to control. Now, within a day’s ride of her, I’m struggling to keep my curse in check.
Suddenly, my skin prickles with unease. I look in the direction the sense tells me. Trask is sitting at a table with unsavory-looking men, cloaked with hoods drawn. He’s speaking in hushed whispers.
I tromp across the hall, passing gamblers and whores as I make my way to Trask’s table. He spots me before I make it to him and straightens up, then waves away his “friends.” I grab the shoulder of one of the fleeing men and push him back into the chair.
