Chapter Four
Sunbeam Smiles
As the hunt unfolded, Stormsby spoke of little else but the Kingsmen.
Word had it that they’d stationed guards at every road in and out of Stormsby.
It seemed like hyperbole at first; a dozen men to guard several different routes, interview the people of Stormsby, and somehow still have time to lounge around my tavern day and night?
It should have been impossible, but it was beginning to feel as though they’d doubled in number.
There was always someone looking for a drink, a hot meal, always soiled sheets and clothes spilling out of the baskets at the end of each hallway, and Dagda save me, the smell.
Whiskey and sweat and feet.
I’d grown up alongside one teenaged boy, and that had been torture enough — I’m not sure which god I’d pissed off to end up serving a dozen more.
Sorcha’s hands were red and raw from endless laundry, my back and knees ached with every hour spent on my feet, and my chest was cold and hollow with the careful caging of my Flame. It was becoming too much.
And as it turned out, I was not losing my bloody mind.
All came to light one afternoon, when Sorcha and I were changing the soldier’s bedding for the fifth time in as many days.
I’d been wrestling either end of a clean white sheet, static dragging at my clothes and teasing fine golden hairs into my face as I stretched awkwardly over the bed to tuck in one corner, only for the other end to pop free.
I sprawled facedown on the bed and groaned into the mattress. I would burn these beds to cinders if I had to change one more sheet this week, honestly. My magic swirled quietly, likely perking up at the thought of finally being unleashed.
At the sound of a creak in the doorway, I propped myself up on my elbows and loosed a long sigh of relief.
“I could use a hand, love.”
“Thought you’d never ask, darling.”
That drawling brogue was not Sorcha’s.
The other three corners of the sheet popped free as I rolled, heart lurching while the Flame in my chest hissed like a doused firepit. I struggled upright and sprang to my feet. The Captain stood in the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk fighting to claim the scarred edge of his lips.
Instinct tugged behind my navel, and I shrank back a step before I could stop myself.
I was certain he noticed by the way his brow twitched up, but if he’d wanted to comment he didn’t get a chance.
A rather young Kingsman appeared in the slight gap in the doorway, peering around the Captain into the room and eyeing me with open, innocent interest.
Without taking his eyes off me, the Captain stepped aside to let him in – and then followed.
Calm, I thought desperately, unsure whether I was warning myself or my Flame.
I’d yet to understand why my Flame was so reactive around him, but I had been very careful to avoid another close call.
Breakfast was self-service only since the incident in the dining hall, and I was diligent about keeping the width of the bar between myself and the Captain at all times.
Getting trapped in a cramped little bedroom with him was the last thing I needed.
“Is there something you need, Captain?”
He grinned, and my Flame writhed. Stop.
Already on edge, I just about jumped out of my skin when the boy spoke up at my side by the half-made bed.
“The Captain was just showing me to my room,” said the young lad brightly, then jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “Nicholas. You must be Rosie?”
“Rosaleen,” I returned automatically, eyes drawing magnetically back to the Captain as though he might lunge across the room when I wasn’t watching. But then the boy’s words processed and my head whipped around. “I’m sorry, how have we not met?”
Nicholas had crossed to the tiny round window, and glanced distractedly over his shoulder.
“Hm? Oh! I don’t reckon we’ve had the opportunity Miss Rosie, I’ve never been to Storsmby. Lovely village, though.”
I whirled on the Captain, one hand flying out to indicate the young soldier, my voice low and simmering.
“Has this one just arrived?”
He cocked a dark brow.
“Yes,” he said slowly, dragging each letter out in a way that made me grind my teeth — like I was a simpleton, missing something entirely obvious.
“I don’t have another room for him,” I said, just as slow and patronising.
“He’s from the Owl platoon,” he said, like that should mean anything to me. When I just glared at him, he frowned and added; “He’s on the evening patrol?”
I shrugged with my whole body, arms flying up with my shoulders.
The Captain closed his eyes, swore beneath his breath.
“Fucking Fischer.”
Even without context, my teeth curled back from my lips at the mere mention.
Fucking Fischer indeed. He had been making a nuisance of himself, prowling around Sorcha with such subtlety that there was no solid complaint for me to bring to his Captain.
I had, however, threatened to poison his ale twice already. He’d continued to drink it in excess.
When the Captain opened his eyes, the hesitant look he shot me was entirely unfamiliar.
Gone was the intensity, the cockiness. He raked a hand through his hair, and I noticed for the first time just how exhausted he looked.
His green eyes were glassy and ringed with dark circles, the black beard far thicker and more unruly than I’d seen it so far.
“Look, it’s ah– the thing is– fuck. This is Fischer’s fucking job.” He was stammering, tripping over the words that normally rolled like velvet in that distinctly Northern brogue. I crossed my arms, waiting, and he nodded grimly. “Alright. Fischer is my deputy.”
I shrugged again. “And?”
“And–” He blew out a breath, licked his lips. Was he nervous? “We’ve had to spread the hunt into round-the-clock shifts, with two platoons. Mine, by day. Fischer’s, by night.”
I stared in disbelief. The Captain hurried on.
“He was told to inform you–”
I held up a hand. “You’ve invited double the soldiers to my inn.”
He nodded, slow and tense. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was as wary of my reaction as I was of his general presence.
Good. He should be. My disbelief simmered slowly and began to fume.
“No.”
“Rosaleen–” He groaned, pinched at the bridge of his nose.
“No. Absolutely not, this is not what I agreed to!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words strained through his teeth. “It’s done.”
“Then un-fucking-do it!”
Even with my Flame locked down, my skin crawled with heat.
Exhaustion had worn me down and my anger boiled over too easily, steaming and spilling, any tenuous hold on my own emotions burned away until there was nothing stopping me from shrieking at this man.
A man I had no business shrieking at. A man who hunted monsters.
Whose King drove so many of my kin into hiding, whose brothers-in-arms had struck such fear into my own brother’s heart that he abandoned all he’d ever known.
Who now lived in my home and watched me far too closely.
We stared at each other, neither of us moving but for the rapid rise and fall of my chest with every heaving breath.
Until the boy, forgotten by the window up to now, edged into view. Nicholas started when my eyes fell on him, and gave a weak, flickering smile. He glanced nervously between me and his Captain.
“I’ll just, er —”
“Go meet the lads downstairs, Nick. Buy a round, on me.”
He gave an audible sigh of relief, and as I watched him sidle out the door I was entirely aware that the Captain’s eyes remained fixed on me.
Only when the boy’s rapid footfall faded down the hallway did I meet his gaze again.
Unreadable as ever, but unwavering, steeled for whatever it was he wanted to say, whatever excuse —
“I’m sorry, Rosie.”
Sorry?
Surprise gripped me so hard I forgot to correct him. For a moment, the earnesty of his apology threw me off. But when he said nothing more, the irritation began to creep back in. What good did sorry do me?
I crossed my arms.
“Sorry doesn’t grow me an extra pair of hands, Captain.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll arrange for additional compensation –”
“Nor can I buy an extra pair of hands. How about you arrange for your men to behave like men? How about you teach your little boys to pick up after themselves?” I fumed. “To wash their own uniforms, if I’m to be changing their sheets everyday? I’m not a fucking laundress!”
My palms stung with the bite of my nails, and my face was burning.
“You’re upset–”
“I’m furious.”
“Yes, I see that.” He had the nerve to allow the slightest quirk of his lips, and the good sense to flatten the smirk before it took hold.
“Oh don’t you dare. Don’t you dare reduce my extremely justified anger to – to –”
The words fell out over each other in a rush until tight, seething fury roped around my throat so I could barely get the full sentence out.
I had to stop and drag in a breath, my chest heaving with the effort.
I wanted to scream, but was worried I might cry instead.
I did that, when I was angry enough. When I was little, my mother often said it was the strain of holding my Flame in place.
Holding it back, when all it wanted was to erupt from my chest and light up my palms, a fiery, protective barrier between myself and whatever it was that caused me such distress.
Usually Magnus when I was young, riling me up on purpose to coax out my Flame until eventually I became better at containing it than even he or my father were.
But Magnus was long gone, and still the tell-tale heat pricked at my eyes, at the back of my throat. I closed my eyes, took another shuddering breath –
And felt it seize up when an angry lick of flame enveloped my heart.
Calm, calm, calm.
My eyes flew open.