Last Ride of the Umbra Fae

10. Ryder

10

Ryder

T he ambush had been a success, and I was a piece of shit for agreeing to it, but we’d had to make my identity believable. The first thing End’s Wrath did afterward was stalk toward me, uncaring of the pile of bodies I’d had to kill to get to his daughter. He was heaving with menacing anger, the power of Ama still emanating off his body; in the gods’ ancient language, ama meant “dark.”

End’s Wrath looked me up and down, trying to rip apart any walls I had built up, but they had been strengthened by decades of training—decades of being ripped down and torn apart myself. I stood my ground, cracked my neck, and squared my shoulders. Having a few inches of height on the old man was nice because I could still see Vessa staring at me over the top of his head. Blood caked her mouth, chest, and everything below. She was a beautiful mess.

“Find anything you like, End’s Wrath?” I sneered, dropping my glare to his.

“Never have. Probably never will,” was all he said before shoving past me.

Smart move, old man.

It wasn’t long until dawn broke across the horizon and we were ready to leave. There was no reason to move the bodies; we left them as a sign of death for anyone who dared to follow.

We rode for hours in silence. I think the fire had done something to Vessa, unraveling a numbing darkness, sending her into some sort of daze—maybe a nightmare she couldn’t escape. Whatever it was, she had been triggered. She glanced my way with a suspicious glower. I knew I had to make things right after showering her in death.

I rode up beside her, both our horses keeping a steady gait. The sound of their hooves had become soothing as gravel was crushed beneath them.

“Demons are a funny thing,” I said, easing up on the reins as I leaned back slightly.

“So you consider yourself a funny guy?” She was vexed, refusing to look my way.

A low chuckle rumbled in my chest. Looking straight ahead, I caught her bird’s silhouette flying half a mile ahead.

“Maybe.”

There was a long pause before she hid a smirk, a comfortable silence; or I was just a horny, crazed idiot in the presence of a beautiful woman.

“They’re unwanted guests. They show up whenever the fuck they want. Sometimes, it’s hard to make them leave,” I said, sneaking a glance from beneath the brim of my hat. I was a fool to allow my heart to jump like it did, already caught in her stare.

“How do you make them leave?” she asked, a tone less guarded than before as she rubbed her hand over the sore parts of her neck that bore dried, crusted blood.

“You don’t. You just make friends with them,” I said, tossing her a vial of the only thing that might help at this moment.

She caught it in her gloved hands, looked down, and smiled.

Another glance from beneath her black cowboy hat, and I might just fucking perish.

“That should help with some of those inner demons.”