Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I cringe at the crude visual. “So you’ve met him before?”
“I’ve met him.” Jarek uses his proximity to me to steal a glance over his shoulder, the tip of his nose skating across my cheek. “The last time I was here, his men picked a fight and didn’t like losing. He swore he'd have me executed if I ever came back.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Thanks to you.”
“And you’re not afraid?”
“Of what, dying? No. If it is my time, then so be it. But I will not do so for an unworthy cause.”
I’m close enough to pick out blue-silver flecks within Jarek’s otherwise steel-gray eyes. I see his conviction in them. Is he saying I’m unworthy?
Or that I am worthy?
It is impossible to read him.
Jarek shifts away after a beat to face the wall again. “What are they doing now?”
I take a long sip of my beer while surveying the twelve men. “Three have sat at the table next to Zander’s. The others are fanning out around him.”
“They’ve marked him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they have questions, and they are going to demand answers.” He seeks out Elisaf, who gives a subtle nod. He sees what’s happening too.
Instead of sitting on the bench, Isembert settles on a table, giving me a profile view of the prominent bump in his nose and broad forehead.
“Maybe he won’t remember you.” Though something to distract this lord from his keen focus on Zander would be ideal.
“I killed four of his men. He’ll remember me.” Jarek’s gaze is razor sharp as he watches from within the cover of an amorous partner. Frankly, he could sit on my lap and I wouldn’t care right now. All I care about is the situation Zander has found himself in.
A hush falls over the room as people’s curiosity—or trepidation—swells.
Zander isn’t blind to what’s happening. He sits with his hands folded in front of him, waiting, as the fire in the hearth rages. Kindling for his affinity should he need it, I remind myself. Though, in a tavern made of wood, we’re basically in a tinderbox.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” The waitress sets a fresh mug of ale in front of Zander to replace the one I dumped in his lap.
“Thank you.” His attention is locked on Isembert.
She glances at the lord.
The next moment happens in a blink, my eyes barely catching the glint of silver on her thumb before she’s dragging something across Zander’s neck.
He reacts instantly and with incredible speed, seizing her wrist and pulling it away.
But it’s too late.
My stomach drops as I recognize the merth luster, as the trickle of blood appears, and realize what she’s done—immobilized Zander’s affinity.
One of the men behind him—a guard—has moved in to press the tip of his sword against Zander’s jugular, freezing him in place.
On instinct, I move to stand.
“No.” Jarek’s arm loops around my waist before I’ve shifted an inch. “Do not do anything to draw attention to yourself. We need to see how this plays out.” His free hand settles on the dagger at his side, waiting.
Zander remains still as the men strip him of his weapons, his gaze locked on the lord, unreadable.
Where the inside of the Greasy Yak was once boisterous, now every cleared throat echoes through the space. Behind the bar, the waitress sobs as she cradles her wrist. She was likely given no choice but to comply with the lord’s instructions, yet I can’t muster pity for her.
“Norcaster has had more than its fair share of strangers filtering through its gate as of late,” Isembert announces in a baritone, the slight accent making his words sound harsh. He’s educated, though, more refined than the ox twins and probably most people here. “You are yet another. A well-armed one, at that.”
Zander’s face is a picture of ease, despite the blood trickling down his neck and the blade against his throat. “I did not realize that Norcaster had sealed its gates to weary travelers who wish to protect themselves.”
“Is that all you are? A weary traveler? With your companion at the bar, playing stranger and asking questions?” He nods toward Elisaf. “And the female warrior you came through the gate with tonight.” Isembert scans the tavern, and Jarek ducks his head, but I doubt the lord is focusing on anyone. He’s simply making his point. “Where is she?”
“Humping someone in an alleyway, if she’s lucky.”
Nervous chuckles float around the room.
Isembert smiles, but it’s not genuine. “One can’t be too careful lately, with these Ybarisans out peddling poison to kill our kind.”
Zander’s eyebrow arches. “Are you pegging me as Ybarisan?”
“Are you?”
“While I have been called a sweetheart from time to time”—his eyes cut to the treacherous waitress—“I do not believe they were referring to the scent of my blood. A Ybarisan, I most certainly am not.”
Isembert’s lips twist. “What is your name, weary traveler?”