Page 42 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
Dead?
If there was any chance of them dying, what chance did she have? So much for crossing busy streets. This was more like being blindfolded on a rush-hour freeway. That was why he avoided promising her she wouldn’t die. It was obvious now. She was glad she had demanded the second piece of art up front. Maybe she would demand a third, though what she really wanted at that moment was steel-tipped boots to kick his shins.
Quin led her out of the maze.Find weapons.Great advice that was. She didn’t see any lying around. And wrestle a sword from Dalagorn? Or even Quin? Not likely. She wouldn’t even know how to use one anyway. The only weapon she had ever used—
“Get to your starting position,” Glennis ordered, though a shade kinder than the others.
Once there, Bristol didn’t wait for the horn to blow. She ran fast, despite shouts calling her back. Her neck at stake—her rules. Through the middle entrance. Right. Left. This time when she leapt over a sandpit, she cleared it. But at the next turn, a pole shot out from a hedge, jamming into her belly. She bent over, gasping for breath, a flash of pain burning under her ribs, but then managed to wrench the pole free from the shrubs, gripping it in both hands. She had some tricks, too. She continued to run, forgetting the sun and the sudden wind that was blowing leaves and dust into her eyes. Right. Left. Second exit in circle. She was gaining more ground this time, but then Tyghan stepped out of a blind. She thrust the pole into his side, catching him by surprise, then swung again, hitting his forearm and sending him reeling back into the bushes. But it was a short victory because he instantly emerged again, now with a stick in his hand, too.
They struck out at each other, the clash of sticks vibrating in the air, the fierce jolts stinging her bare hands and pulsing through her arms. His strikes were far stronger than Cat’s, who she used to practice with, and he beat her backward step by step. His blows were relentless and methodical, like he was playing with her and letting her wear herself out—and she was. Her muscles burned, and her irritation surged.Of course he’s playing with me.He towered over her, and all those muscles in his arms weren’t there just for looks. He was twice her size, and he could probably send her sailing out of the maze with one strike if he wanted to.
But there were ways . . . if she could just get around him . . . disable him long enough to slip past. She wasn’t above hitting him anywhere that would do the job. Winning was all that mattered, not how you got the win. She aimed low, jabbing her stick toward his crotch, but only managed to graze his thigh. He scowled, and his next strike came harder. She tried to adjust her grip so she would have a longer reach, but he was too close now, and his blows were coming faster. She spun, lunging backward as she freed the grip of one hand, then swung toward his head. She hoped to stun him, maybe even draw blood. It was a risky move, since now she had a weaker defense against his advances. She almost made contact with his skull, but she wasn’t watching his feet—a stupid mistake—and one of his boots hooked around her knee, and she fell backward. The stick flew from her hand as she landed flat on her back with a loudoomph.
Tyghan pressed the end of his pole to her throat, firmly pinning her. The horn blew. Dead again. He stared down at her, his chest still heaving from the fight, mulling her fate, then said, “Your father taught you sticks.” It was part question, part statement, and maybe part surprise.
She nodded gingerly.
He lifted the pole from her neck and tossed it aside. “Not well enough.” He reached down to give her a hand up. A sheen of moisture glistened across his face, which gave her some satisfaction. His victory didn’t come without at least a little sweat. She took his offered hand, his grip firm as he pulled her to her feet, but he didn’t let go. He looked at her injuries, first the bloody scrape on her forearm and then her shredded trouser leg flecked with blood. His eyes met hers, that same uncertain question in them, like he knew something dreadful about her.
He released her hand. “Olivia will take care of your arm and leg,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Or you could,” she replied, still wondering if he was capable of any magic besides surly disappearances. Surely as ruler of a whole nation poised for war, he could do more than blink out of sight. She was almost certain he had healed her lip on her first night there.
He looked back over his shoulder and rolled past her question. “Be ready at dusk. I’ll take you into the city to find your trows.”
Your trows.Like she was wasting his time on a fool’s errand.
“I can go on my own if it’s too much trouble.”
He snorted and kept walking.
CHAPTER 30
Not a pixie.
The snake’s tongue flicked to life.
Nor a sprite. Oh, but how he loved wood sprites. Ssso easy.
The golden serpent shivered free of the frame that held the hallway mirror, its carved wooden details transforming to scale and flesh. He slithered silently behind the intruder, his shimmering movement ghostly across the black marble floor. He eyed the large figure, disheartened that he’d been forbidden from eating creatures a long time ago. Still, the thought was something to hold on to.Just one bite.He missed the succulent juices in his mouth, the bulge in his belly.
He took note of the creature’s path, where it gazed, what it touched, because it was the snake’s task to report everything, even the inconsequential. The creature wandered aimlessly, its head cocked to the side, moving forward in starts and stops.A confused rabbit, the snake thought, his mouth aching with want.
And then the creature called out, “Cat?”
The serpent’s tongue flicked out with hope.
Cat? Where?
Oh, how he’d love to caress a nice juicy cat.
But the creature had tricked him. There was no scent of cat, no matter how many times he tasted the air. The only thing he craved more in that moment, craved above all else, was a masked ferret. A very specific one that had long mocked him, always scampering out of his reach. Even if he couldn’t eat him, one day he would catch the wily beast and embrace him so tightly, his little vermin eyes would pop out. That would be almost as satisfying as feeling him squirm in his belly.Ssssomeday.
Bristol’s heart skipped as the faint words rose and fell.
. . .the rose is full blown . . .
Searching for the source, she meandered down hallways that finally led to a closed door. It was Cat singing, she was almost certain, and it made her bolder.
