Page 63 of Red Demon
She held it tight in her hands. “I will need to sleep soon. Promise me you won’t try to slip a dagger to my throat or otherwise try to kill me. I’d rather not wake up to you dead.”
“That’s confident of you.”
“Yes.” I wasn’t sure what to make of her face, other than it was softer than what I expected—solemn.
My stomach rumbled. Clamping my eyes tight, I fell back on my pillow. “I promise.” The words tasted acidic. “You’ve taken the rest from me, but you can’t take my honor. If I say I’m not going to try to kill you again, I won’t.”
I reached for the bowl again.
She knelt beside me with the stew, clinking the spoon against the Asri ceramic as she raised it, angling it toward my mouth.
Wincing, I sat up straighter, gesturing to take the bowl myself. I grabbed the spoon and ate with equal parts relish and guilt, pursing my eyes shut. It had been years since I ate wild game. Ash and Galen would be mortified. My mind whirled at the explosion of flavor, so like my mother’s venison stew I couldn’t bear it. When I’d drained my bowl, she was ready with more.
The thank-you died on my tongue again.
“Who did I take from you?” There was no mockery or guile in the question I could find. She appeared earnest.
“You want their names or a count?” I studied her, searching for any reaction or guilt, but her expression remained blank: bewildered, which angered me more. “Cause I’ve lost count. Lost some names too, if we go far enough back. But there was no one you took from me who wasn’t a good person. My taam Galen—he was … everything.” My voice broke.
Faruhar’s brow furrowed.
“Why did you kill him?” I asked, simmering with anger.
Faruhar hesitated, her eyes clouding. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. What the fuck does that even mean?”
In response, she turned away, then walked to the other side of the small cabin. She stoked the fire, scrubbed her hands with aggressive force. When she saw I was taking slow bites myself, she served up a bowl for herself, sitting back on the mat in the far corner of the room.
I finished the last of my stew in uneasy silence. I flexed my uninjured arm, eager to stretch and move again, and felt less pain than I did before. With a few quick breaths, I shifted my splinted legs sideways and off the grassy floor. My ribs protested as I sat forward. With a determined push, I heaved my body up, leveraging uneven stones on the wall for grip.
“Idiot,” she hissed at me, rising up from her mat.
One leg protested with a vengeance. I gritted my teeth and fell back, my face contorting with pain at the impact back onto the straw. Eyes closed, I took heavy breaths.
Faruhar leaned over me with furrowed brows. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t mend broken bones in two days. There’s just Azaprofin in your stew.”
“What’s that?” I asked between breaths that did not want to slow.
She nodded back to the chopping board of leafy vegetables, then back to the fire. “A painkiller in those greens. Your splints should be tight enough to allow you to move with help, but you’ll rebreak those legs if you fall on them. Ask for help if you need it.”
I leaned heavy against the wall, the reality of my vulnerability a crumbling landslide. “Is there a bathroom in this place?”
She rose from her spot by the fire and grabbed a bucket, her lithe figure casting shadows in the dim light. I looked away, mortified.
“Is there?” I looked up to the jagged ceiling. “I’m going to need to sit for this.”
Her eyes flickered. She stooped down to my level, wearing a grave expression. “We could head down a level to a broken part of the Underground. It’s pitch black down there, and doesn’t smell like the deadly fungus grew back just yet. That being said, I’m not sure the plumbing works since Oria would normally power that.”
I groaned.
“From the look on your face, you’d rather die.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Then let’s get you up the stairs then. I’m hoping the rain has let up at least.”
“Stairs? You’re joking,” I said, but her face said otherwise.
