Kaitlyn
To my eternal surprise, we’re welcomed warmly by the innkeeper, a cheerful, rotund warlock with a bald patch, ruddy cheeks, and a maroon apron, who shows us to a comfortable nook with a sitting area and a fire burning brightly in the hearth before bustling away to get our supper.
“Have you known Warden long?” I ask as I warm my bottom next to the fire, stretching my legs to get the circulation going.
“Warden?” Linton is inspecting the brocade on the edge of the heavy curtain hanging on the door frame of the seating nook. It’s hooked back but can obviously be dropped for privacy.
“The centaur?”
“The Brag.”
I feel my brow furrow.
“Warden is a Brag.” Linton looks up from his inspection. “And he is the gaoler of the Shadow-Keep.”
It takes me a beat to understand the word Brag is the name of the monster, not something Warden does. Even though the huge centaur looked like he’d do anything except brag.
“Were you…in the Shadow-Keep?” I ask.
Linton shakes like he’s been hit. Scales fall from his wings and cover the floor around him. Before he can answer, the innkeeper appears with a tray, and Linton stumbles back away from him before recovering himself with a growl, a knife appearing in his hand.
“Oh, Mister Linton,” the innkeeper says, shaking his head and chuckling as if he hasn’t nearly been scalped by a mothman.
Linton wrinkles his nose, sniffs, and stows the knife away again, but he watches the innkeeper like a hawk (moth) as he crosses the nook and puts the tray down on a low table next to the fire.
“Do you have any luggage, Madame?” he asks me.
“No,” I say quietly. “We left in a hurry.”
“My wife might have some alternative attire to your wedding dress,” he says with an easy smile. “She’s an excellent seamstress and could easily make something to fit.”
I try not to meet Linton’s eye.
“That’s very kind of you, but we’re not married,” I say emphatically.
The innkeeper chortles to himself. For whatever reason, he doesn’t believe me.
“And I don’t have any coin to pay for clothing,” I add, hoping that might dissuade him.
“Mister Linton will pay,” the innkeeper says happily, not even looking at Linton.
My Bluecap growls under his breath.
“No, it’s fine,” I say rapidly. “I don’t need anything, really. What I have on will do.”
“I will pay,” Linton rasps. “Get my female clothing,” he adds, pulling another knife out and flipping it into the air as if he’s juggling a ball.
He catches it and balances it tip first on a finger.
The innkeeper chuckles again and leaves us alone.
“You don’t have to buy me clothes. I have…had coin. I left it at the bakery,” I say pointedly.
“You seemed like you wanted them.” Linton’s eyes rake over me from my feet to my head. “And I’d like to see you in…clothes.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, not quite understanding the flood of heat which blasts through me, pooling in my core.
Do I have a thing for dangerous monsters? It’s not like I’ve had time to even think about a relationship. And after what happened with the Faerie Lord who enslaved me…it’s not something I’ve even contemplated. Plus most warlocks aren’t interested in humans in any event.
It’s been a relief not to be leered over every time I set foot outside the bakery.
To be anonymous, ignored even. Humans are considered the lowest of the low in the Yeavering pecking order and it certainly benefitted me when the last thing I wanted having escaped from Lord Guyzance, the Faerie Lord, was notoriety.
Linton’s nostrils flare, but he puts the dagger away and opens his wings briefly before stalking over to where the food has been left.
“This is for you. Food and drink.” He lifts the metal dome off one of the plates and peers at the contents.
“What about you?” I ask as he twists his mouth strangely before putting out a clawed finger to poke the food. “Are you not having anything?”
“I don’t,” he says, cocking his head on one side as he lifts the pitcher which presumably contains water. “I feed. I do not eat.” He looks over at me. “You should eat. I will watch.”
So far, so weird. But in lifting the dome, he’s released a scent into the room which has my stomach growling.
Linton’s wings flare.
“Why do you make that noise?”
“I’m hungry.” I put my hand over my stomach. “It happens. I thought you knew about humans.”
“I do.” Linton flings himself into one of the chairs. “So I know you need to eat and make odd noises when you do not.”
His antennae are raised again, as if he’s listening for more odd noises which makes me rather self-conscious. So I sit, uncover the dish again, and breathe in the aroma from a hearty stew which is paired with some chunks of homemade bread.
I pick up a spoon and dive in. The stew is delicious, aromatic and flavoursome, and I’m unable to help the groan of delight as the taste bursts over my tongue.
Linton leans forward.
“Is it poisoned?” he asks.
“No!” I grab the bowl in case he has any thoughts of removing it. “It is far from poisoned. Is that what you do? Put poison in food to kill people?”
Linton leans back, moth-manspreading in a way I didn’t even think was possible.
“Why would I do that, when I have my knives?” he says, as if I’ve suggested he cut off his wings.
“I don’t know.” I spoon some more stew into my mouth and savour it. “Perhaps because you’re an assassin.”
Linton flips one of his knives in the air and catches it, before stowing it away under a wing.
“There may not be honour in what I do, but I have standards,” he says imperiously.
I do my level best not to choke into my food. I don’t think he has any idea how funny he is. And I’m getting the impression Linton is even on the same planet as the rest of us.
So I continue to eat my stew and sneak a glance at him occasionally, only to find he’s watching me intently, every movement of my spoon, ever swallow, every piece of bread I pull apart.
It’s as creepy as hell, but because he is unintentionally funny, because other than telling me I am his, he has done nothing save for watching, in an equally weird way, I quite like it.