Page 6 of Changelings
Imogen put more space between them as the manticore struggled to his feet.
Chestnut came barreling up on her left side, letting out a threatening bray to back up Shadow’s warning barks. The manticore winced from the cacophony of noise, especially when the goats began to join in, bleating ferociously. Those triangular ears with little black tufts on the tips flattened against his head.
“Miss—maiden—please—” he implored, clapping his big paws over his ears.
Imogen let it go on a little longer, just so he knew she wasn’talonein the woods. None of her herd were easy morsels to pick off.
Finally, she set her hand on Chestnut’s withers. “Enough,” she said. The ornery donkey got in one more long, resounding bray before finally quieting, although she swung her long ears back and forth for good measure.
With a click of her tongue, she told Chestnut to get the herd moving. The donkey huffed, ears swiveling, before starting down the path. It took a few nips and hoof stamps, but she got the herd going again.
Imogen stayed behind with Shadow to ensure everyone got safely past the big manticore, who looked like he seriously regretted whatever choices he’d made last night.
“You were beside the path,” she explained. “The animals meant no harm.”
“No, I’m sure they didn’t,” he hurried to say, still rubbing his head. “This wasn’t—I don’t—I don’t usually sleep by paths.”
Imogen only nodded. It wasn’t any of her business where he did or didn’t usually sleep.
“What I mean to say is—I just don’t want you thinking that I’m the kind to dothis—” He gestured wildly at the forest. He opened his big mouth to say more, but as they both watched, asingle long feather slipped free of his wing, fluttering the short distance to the ground.
“Enket at inan,” he whispered, his voice almost…reverent. “It’s true…”
His strange gaze fixed on the fallen feather, and she sensed some shift in him, the big man going almost preternaturally still.
Taking her chance at escape, Imogen cleared her throat. “Right. Well, we’ll be on our way, then.” Clicking her tongue again, she and Shadow turned to follow the goats.
“Wait—this isn’t—what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t!” she called, walking faster.
“Please wait, I—ack!Kud.”
The sounds of scrabbling and foreign curses and finally a long, steady stream of pissing on leaves echoed behind her. Imogen rolled her eyes.
She and the herd soon left the boundary of her land and then the forest itself behind, following the path onto a wider packed-earth road. Full on their snack of acorns, the goats seemed content to follow Chestnut as she led the way through the countryside, not tempted by the fresh green shoots lining the road.
Despite the quick pace she set, they’d likely still be late. Damn. She hated being late. It brought more reasons to be talked at.
Imogen’s hand flew to her temple—had she stood there that whole time with her face showing?—and her fingers touched the shorter hair framing her cheeks. She took a breath, relieved. Although it wasn’t fashionable, Imogen fastidiously kept a long fringe of hair around her face, to help hide the obvious red stain birthmark that stretched from her left temple, down across her left cheek, to her nose.
She knew her dark hair could only do so much—the birthmark was large, and the older she grew, the darker itbecame. As a child, it’d been a lighter pink, but now that she was almost thirty, it’d become ruddy, almost wine-dark when her blood was high.
Imogen had tried every cream, every salve. She’d scrubbed rough towels, sand, even dirt across it to try and rub it away. Nothing helped, nothing faded it.
Her sister Neomi had once gotten her a little pot of cosmetics in Dundúran, but all it did was make the rest of Imogen’s face sickly pale—especially compared to her otherwise tanned complexion.
“It’s only a birthmark,”Neomi would often say. And while that was true, Neomi’s skin was perfect, unblemished. She’d always been bright and beautiful. Everyone liked Neomi.
The only one who’d understood Imogen and her mark was their father. He’d had one too, although it was further up his head. Until his hair had begun to thin, he’d mostly been able to hide the majority of it. Still, he knew what it was to bear such a difference.
“It’s just a little more of your color showing, sweetheart,”he’d say.
“It’s your temper showing, more like,”her mother would add.
Imogen did have a temper, that was also true. But only when provoked.
The problem was, growing up with something as obvious as a great red handprint across her face, Imogen had been provokeda lot. Children often didn’t know the harm in what they said, but that didn’t make what they said any less harmful. Her younger years had been full of jeers and jokes and torment.
