Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 152616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 610(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 610(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Neither Mickie nor Finn had mentioned anyone watching over the Hyhborn, so I didn’t think anyone else was inside that barn. I waited a few moments and then prowled around the corner. I made it to the doors, not at all surprised to see that they weren’t locked.
Mickie wasn’t the brightest of men.
Telling myself yet again that this was a huge mistake, I slid my gloved fingers between the doors. I hesitated and then slowly inched them open, wincing as the hinges creaked more loudly than the floor of my quarters did. I tensed, half expecting someone to come barreling toward me.
No one did.
A fine layer of sweat dotted my forehead as I squeezed between the opening and then forced the door closed behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I ran my hands over the doors as I scanned the shadowy two front stalls of the center aisle. I found the latch and threw it, realizing that the dull light was coming from the back.
I proceeded down the aisle, asking myself another valid question. What in the whole wide realm was I going to do with the Hyhborn? If he was unconscious, I doubted I could move him. Probably should’ve thought of that before I embarked on the journey.
I didn’t think I had ever wanted to punch myself more than I did at that moment.
I neared the end of the aisle. My heart was now like a child’s rubber ball, bouncing off my ribs. The lamplight spilled out weakly from a stall to my left. Holding my breath, I reached the edge and looked inside.
My entire body went rigid as I stared into the stall, wanting to deny what I was seeing.
A man was stretched out on a wooden table. Stripped to the waist. Spikes a milky-white color were thrust deep into his forearms and his thighs, and one jutted out of the center of his bare chest, maybe an inch or two from where his heart would be. I knew what they were made of even though I’d only ever heard of them. Lunea was the only object able to pierce the skin of a Hyhborn, and it was forbidden for any lowborn to be in possession of it, but I was betting the blades were another thing traded on the shadow market.
Sickened, I lifted my gaze to where his head was turned to the side. Shoulder-length golden-brown hair shielded his face.
A strange sensation went through me— a whoosh as I walked forward, barely able to feel my legs as I looked down at his chest. He breathed, but barely. I didn’t see how, with all the blood coursing from the wounds. So much red. Crimson streaked his chest, flowing in rivers that followed the . . . the rather defined lines of his chest and stomach. His pants were made of some sort of soft leather, and they hung low enough on his hips that I could see the slabs of muscles on either side of his hips and—
Okay, what in the world was I doing, staring that intensely at a man while he lay unconscious, impaled to a wooden table?
There was something wrong with me.
There were lots of varied things wrong with me.
“H-Hello,” I croaked, then winced at the sound of my voice.
There was no response.
I didn’t even know why I expected one, with those sorts of wounds. Nor could I really understand how the Hyhborn could still be breathing. Still bleeding. Yes, they were nearly indestructible compared to mortals, but this . . . this was a lot.
The toe of my boot brushed something on the floor. I glanced down, jaw clenching. A bucket. Small buckets, actually. I lifted my gaze to the table. Narrow canals carved into the wood collected the blood running from him, funneling it to the buckets below.
“Gods,” I rasped, stomach churning as I stared at the buckets. The blood would be sold to be used in bone magic, as would other parts of the Hyhborn. I honestly couldn’t say if any of that stuff actually worked when wielded by a conjurer, but as long as people believed in potions and spells, there would be a demand.
Tearing my gaze from the buckets, I figured I needed to somehow wake him. I stared at the spike in his chest.
Intuition told me what I needed to do. Remove the spikes, starting with the one in his chest. I swallowed again, throat dry as I glanced up. His head was still turned away from me, but now that I was closer, I could see there was a discoloration in his skin along the side of his neck. I peered closer— no, not a discoloration. A . . . a pattern in his skin, one that resembled a vine. It was a russet brown instead of the sandy hue of the rest of his flesh, and there was something about the trailing, almost swirling design that struck a chord of familiarity in me, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen such a thing.