13. Verena #2
I'm not sure the telepathy goes both ways, or else I would send a string of creative cussing back at the asshole faerie. I don't remember his name, nor would I want to—and I definitely don't want him talking in my head just because of how pissed off I am.
Ignoring the goosebumps on my arms from hearing the Faerie of Wrath, I stride toward the four men.
Time to find out if this plain shoemaker knew how to throw a punch.
The tense maid is glaring at Haircut. "Ingrid is the one who deserves your apology. Take one step closer, and I'll ruin a lot more than just your tunic."
Ingrid, the blond, swallows hard. "It's really okay, Anika. Sir, I'm sorry about your—"
"Not you," he slurs drunkenly, gesturing at the supermodel. "You. Come on now, get on your knees and apologize for being so cruel to a paying custom—"
Haircut doesn't get to finish that word before my fist connects with the back of his head, sending him toppling to the ground.
My brief stint as a knight in shining armor ends when the impact registers through my knuckles. It's the first time I've really punched someone before, and I curse like a sailor, shaking out my hand.
"Ow! What the hell is your skull made out of, cement?" I demand.
Another one of the men shouts, barreling toward me. I try to pivot out of the way like I once learned to in one of the many self-defense classes I've taken over the last decade, but he tackles me.
We both crash hard to the cobblestones. Soon, I'm wrestling with this booze-scented motherfucker, trying to avoid his fists.
Vaguely, I'm aware that the other men in this alley are shouting, crying out as if in pain—but I'm too distracted to see why until I knee this guy hard in the balls and shove him off of me.
As I sit up, it hits me.
A smell like peach juice mixed with strawberries. There's some lime somewhere in there, too. It's so strong and sudden that my mouth waters, my gaze honing in on where Haircut is now gripping a laceration on his shoulder.
"You bitch!" he shouts.
Two of his friends, one clutching his crotch from my efforts and the other sporting cuts on his arms and shoulders, race out of the alley. The fourth man is unconscious on the ground, a lump forming on his head as blood trickles from a slash on his side.
That sight makes my throat constrict sharply.
Anika holds a dripping dagger, standing defensively in front of a wide-eyed Ingrid.
"Leave. I won't say it again. And if you ever return to this tavern, be prepared for worse than a few scars to remember me by."
Haircut curses her out some more, but runs after the other two.
My attention is somehow back on the bleeding, unconscious man. Despite the late evening starting to darken this alley, his blood is striking as it drips into the cracks between cobblestones. The scent of it keeps teasing my nose.
It kind of smells like…peach cobbler. My stomach hollows with desperation.
No. Fuck off, appetite. I'm not a monster.
"Um…sir, are you okay?"
I realize I'm the sir that Ingrid is addressing. Getting to my feet, I grimace at the pang in my hand.
Ingrid notices. "Mind if I take a look?"
"Nah, don't worry about it. I'm just a wuss, so—"
"You are not," she argues, gently taking the shoemaker’s hand to check it.
It looks fine, but I'm pretty sure my actual hand will be one big bruise later. Ingrid is petite enough to blink up at me shyly.
"You're brave. A lot braver than any other men in the tavern who saw what was going on and didn't do a thing about it. T-thank you. I… I'd like to repay you in some way, someday."
Is she blushing?
Aww. She totally is. What a cutie.
"Someday? Just kiss him now and get it over with," Anika huffs, but I can tell she's teasing. She stashes the dagger back in the concealed pocket of her dress.
I smile at Ingrid as I pull my hand away, hoping this shoemaker’s face can pull off a nice rejection.
"You have no idea how flattered I am, especially since you look like that," I indicate her killer curves and angelic face, "while I look like a nothing sandwich right now—but I'm way too old for you, and I'm very much only physically attracted to men."
Her blue eyes round with surprise, her voice lowering to a whisper.
"Oh! Um, then…I have a cousin you should meet. He only likes men, too. Perhaps you'll be just his type."
I don't have time to explain how exactly opposite his type I am, because peach invades my senses again. My attention is pulled sharply down to the man on the ground.
I don't want to look at that trickling red, but the burning in my throat and the emptiness of my stomach are starting to make my head spin. All I can hear for a second is that drip, drip, drip.
"Sir?" Anika asks slowly.
It takes serious effort to look up. I have to swallow twice to get the words out.
"Do either of you know someone named Merrick?"
Anika's dark gaze flicks quickly between the unconscious man and me, like she's picking up on how hard it is for me to focus right now.
"Merrick is my uncle," she says.
Eyes on the supermodel. No more looking down.
"Is he at this tavern tonight, by any chance? I'd love to talk to him. It's kind of urgent."
"Urgent, how? What is this about?" she asks warily, as protective of her uncle as she is of Ingrid.
"The queen sent me to ask if he's interested in being chamberlain of Isenmere Castle again."
Anika exchanges a look with Ingrid, looks me over once more, and finally nods.
"All right. He's upstairs. If you come inside to wait, I'll see if he has any interest in talking to someone sent from Her Majesty."
There's a serious dose of theatrical sarcasm in those last two words. But if she's not a fan of the real queen, we'll get along—because same.
Ingrid holds the door open for me, but she's swaying. Everything is swaying. Peach scent permeates my brain until the words tumble out of the shoemaker’s mouth before I can stop it.
"You two go ahead. I'll get this creep out of here so he doesn't cause trouble for you when he wakes up, but I'll hurry back and wait to see Merrick."
Ingrid flashes a grateful smile at me before she goes into the tavern. Anika's sharp attention moves once more between the unconscious guy and me. She seems to decide she doesn't give a rat's ass about this jerk, anyway, and follows Ingrid inside.
Trying my best not to think too hard about what I'm about to do, I crouch beside the passed-out man. I watch the shoemaker’s fingers slip through the warm blood dripping from his side, viscous and heavy with the scent that's making my head pound.
Just one taste.
A very small one.
I did make a promise to Eris, after all.