18. She’s My Prey
18
SHE’S MY PREY
GAbrIEL
B lessed burning suns, I found her.
Long locks of curls frame her face, her tanned skin is paler than the last time I saw her, and her Mark is glowing an incriminating blue. She’s hurrying through the crowd, moving away from me. Her cloak is pulled tight, hiding those curves I’d glimpsed before everything went to hell.
Hundreds of people stand between me and my prey, but now that I’ve seen her, I won’t lose her again. I pull my hood over my head and press my back against the wall to avoid her notice so I don’t spook her. The action doesn’t seem necessary. She seems distracted, bumping into several people and moving against the crowd.
What could she be so focused on?
Intrigued, I keep my head down and follow her out of the White Market. She’s heading east, away from the famous gardens.
Interesting.
Keeping my gaze locked on my mark, I make my way through the crowd. Unlike my prey, I’m careful to move slowly and not attract attention. The last thing I need is for King Andreas to hear that one of his Hunters disrupted Mora’s Giving Festival.
Since most of Myreth’s villages and hamlets are too small to reliably have a gods-blessed to be Given each year, their Giving Celebrations tend to be much smaller affairs. Dinner with family, sometimes a party in the town square.
This isn’t the case in the five provincial capitals or in Rosebridge, where the population size ensures there are multiple gods-blessed prepared to serve the gods each year.
The northern cities of Rosebridge, Moorn, and Van have their Festivals during the first half of the giving season. A few weeks later, the southern cities, Mora, Woodmarket, and Tretfall, host their celebrations.
Each city is provided with a stipend from the crown to help fund their celebration. Once, I heard King Andreas say this was because he believed the festivals helped foster the people’s goodwill.
I’m confident that’s not the whole truth, since nothing the king says and does can be taken at face value. He always has an ulterior motive, even behind something as innocuous as a yearly celebration. I’ve been around enough Giving Festivals to know the truth—the king uses them to keep Myreth’s population placated.
Give people a day where alcohol flows freely, and they’ll forget that most of the time, their bellies aren’t full. Allow them to party from dawn until dusk, and they’re more likely to forgive you when you drag away their brother or sister, mother or father, to be executed for the smallest cause. Play music for them, and they’ll be more likely to ignore the fact that surviving is more difficult than ever.
Most people think the king is merely a bloodthirsty monarch, but he’s much more than that. He’s cunning and spiteful, and he would never do anything without an ulterior motive.
Thinking about the king makes my head pound and my back ache. My fists clench at my sides, and red tinges my vision. Drawing in a deep breath, I force myself to move on. The king isn’t here. I’m a Hunter, and I have a job that requires all my focus.
Now that Wren is nearing the edge of the crowd, her movements are slowing. I’m trailing far enough behind her that I don’t think she sees me, but I keep my distance, nonetheless.
She looks over her shoulder, and I duck beneath an awning, hiding in the shadows. She tenses. Did she see me? I dip my head just in case, but her gaze flies right past me over to the platform in the middle of the White Market.
I follow her line of sight, exhaling when I see what caught her attention. The three gods-blessed have been joined by their families. They’re not hugging, since Marked Ones belong to the gods and distance must be kept, but they seem happy.
When I return my gaze to the little bird, I catch a glimpse of a wistful look in her eyes. She wipes a finger under her eye before shuddering and turning away from the crowd, continuing down the street without looking back.
“Where are you going?” I murmur, leaving the shadows once again.
I would’ve thought she’d run straight for the gates, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I should just push through the crowd, tie her up, and throw her over my shoulder, but I don’t. Not yet.
Something about the Given has ensnared my attention. It’s not just the fact that she saved my life when she had no reason to do so. Her tenacity and strength have me wanting to know more about her.
To my knowledge, Wren Nightingale is the first Marked One to evade capture for this long in over three decades. Not to mention the bravery—and stupidity—it must have taken to enter Mora during the giving season. Most people on the run avoid cities like they’re the plague, and here she is, walking around with her Mark on full display.
I can’t help but wonder what she plans to do next. Following her around for a few more hours can’t hurt. Not now that I’ve found her.
We leave the White Market behind, and the crowd thins. The air smells less like sweat and unwashed bodies, and soon, tension slips out of the Given’s shoulders. She slows to a stroll as she moves past merchants, and I remain a fair distance behind her.
She doesn’t seem to notice me stalking her, but then again, she doesn’t seem to notice much at all. Several vendors shout, trying to get her attention, but she ignores them until she reaches a stall at the other end of the street.
The merchant is a balding, older man. At first glance, I can’t tell what he’s selling. She must want whatever he’s offering because she reaches into her cloak and produces a coin. He rolls it through his fingers and says something to her before handing her some change, along with something else I can’t see. She murmurs a reply and then drops down next to his table.
What in Esyn’s name is she doing?
I don’t want to spook Wren and end up chasing her through the streets, so I browse the stall two tables down from her.
Hundreds of rings are nestled in display cases, sparkling in the afternoon light. Slender silver and gold bands sit next to large rings that bear the weight of glistening gems. Emeralds, sapphires, opals, rubies. They’re all here.
“Shopping for a lucky young man or lady?” The shopkeeper, an older woman with navy blue hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, smiles at me. Her eyes twinkle as she gestures to a row of rings. “A handsome fellow such as yourself must have someone special at home.”
I shake my head, stuffing my hands into my pockets. By nature of our line of work, the life of a Hunter is one of solitude. Moving around the kingdom chasing runaways isn’t conducive to romantic relationships. The first and only time I tried to have something real was several years ago, and it ended very poorly.
Since then, I’ve realized that I don’t need a romantic partner. I’m doing fine on my own. I have Mist for companionship, and on long nights when rising needs are too much to ignore, I have my hand to help me along. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to keep me going.
Besides, if there’s one thing my lonely childhood taught me, it’s that families, especially fathers, aren’t all that great.
“No one?” The vendor gasps, placing a hand over her heart dramatically. “You poor thing.”
I grimace at the sympathy in her voice but don’t bother correcting her. It’s not worth my time, and besides, movement flickers in the corner of my eye. Wren stands, thanking the vendor before hurrying down the street.
“Your rings are beautiful,” I tell the woman in front of me before following my prey.
I approach the table where Wren had stopped, my brows raising. A painted globe takes up a prominent location on the wooden surface, which must’ve been blocked by the merchant’s body earlier. Several folded pieces of paper sit nearby. A quick glance reveals that they’re maps.
My brows raise, and I can’t help but be impressed with the little bird’s train of thought. It seems she’s planning on evading me for quite some time; little does she know, her map won’t be of much use to her.
I’m about to pass by the stall when I notice a large golden dog sitting beside the table. Its tail wags furiously, and a pink tongue hangs out of its mouth as it stares at me. Birdie was in such a hurry to flee the White Market, but she stuck around to pet a dog.
Soft-hearted, compassionate woman.
I scratch the dog behind the ears, keeping an eye on Wren. She’s almost at the end of the street. Stepping away from the cartographer and his dog, I tap my fingers against my thighs. Wren turns right, slipping down another busy street.
Returning my hands to my pockets, I follow her. It’s time for the little bird’s last flight. By the end of tonight, I’ll have her in possession, and we’ll be heading back to Grenbloom.
* * *
“What the fuck are you doing here, Birdie?” I mutter, staring up at the wooden sign hanging above the door she entered moments ago. A cup and a pair of dice are etched onto it, right next to the dancing figure of a scantily clad woman.
This isn’t the kind of place I would expect a delicate little bird like her to stop for dinner, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about her after stalking her all day, it’s that she’s nothing like the others I’ve hunted.
She stopped a few hours ago to study her map, but instead of leaving the city, she took several side streets, petting any dogs and cats we passed on their heads. She strolled past the Moran Gardens, led me through a few residential streets, and ended up here.
A faint yellow glow filters through the grimy tavern window, and the muted sounds of conversation and music fill the air as I tug on my hood.
I push open the door, the aroma of ale, baked bread, and sweat hitting me all at once. The tavern is packed to the brim, which isn’t a surprise on a night like tonight. The air is hazy with smoke from the numerous candles spread throughout the room.
Laughing men sit at wooden tables, sipping from jugs of frothing ale. Women dressed in minimal amounts of clothing move around the tables, delivering food and drinks. Most of the building’s occupants are wearing fake Marks. A fiddler is in the corner near the blazing hearth, supplying the evening’s entertainment.
“Welcome to The Marble Horse, sir,” a dark-haired woman with lush terracotta skin says, sliding up next to me. Her ample breasts are moments away from tumbling out of her dress, and she bats her dark eyelashes in my direction. “What are you looking for on this fine evening? Food? Drink? Some company, perhaps?”
She twirls a coil of inky hair through her fingers, her meaning clear. What is it with people today? First, the jeweler. Now, her. Gods have mercy on me, I don’t have time to deal with this.
“Just a drink,” I tell her.
She pouts, her painted lips a stark red in the flickering candlelight. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I assure her I do, even though I already know I won’t be using her services. It’s not that I have any problem with sex workers—at another time, I likely would’ve taken her up on the offer.
It’s been far too long since I’ve been with anyone, something my cock is more than happy to remind me of. But this isn’t a moment for pleasure. I’m working.
I head to the bar and slip onto a stool, catching the bartender’s eye.
“Ale?” he asks.
I nod, and moments later, a frothy tankard is sliding down the wooden counter towards me. I grab it, slapping a coin onto the counter in payment, and lift the mug to my lips. The ale is refreshing, and I drink as I turn in my seat, taking in the tavern.
My eyes find the Given immediately. She’s sitting by herself in a booth by the fire. There’s only one way into her seat.
Her hood is pulled over her hair, and her cloak is drawn tight around her. She’s nibbling on a slice of bread. Those violet eyes are darting around the tavern, and there’s a tension in her posture that I hadn’t noticed before.
Maybe she isn’t as relaxed as I’d initially assumed.
When her gaze drops back to the table, I decide I’ve played with her long enough. She’s tasted freedom, and it’s time to bring her home. Whatever reason she has for evading her Giving Ceremony, she’s going to have to suck it up and deal with it. The gods demand her service, whether she wants to give it to them or not.
Standing, I drain my tankard before crossing the tavern. Every table is occupied, and there’s barely any room to move. It takes some time to make my way through the crowd.
A woman is grinding on a man’s lap, and based on the placement of his hand, I’d say he’s far more interested in her than the cards he’s holding. At the next table, an older gentleman is blowing thick rings of smoke out of his pipe while his two male companions explore each other’s mouths with their tongues. Across from them, a woman is laughing as her partner slips his hand beneath the hem of her dress, his fingers dancing up her thigh.
I ignore them all, keeping my gaze locked on my prey. I slide into her booth, block her exit with my body, and set my empty tankard down with a resounding boom.
“Found you.”