Chapter 10
TEN
Plastic water bottles slosh and jerk against the walls of the cart, a rocky fence threatening to topple and crush me.
The slick black rope is firm around my wrist. It unspools up to the metal hook on the edge of the cart.
I must’ve been dumped here sometime during my fever sleep, and it’s been long enough for the dirt of the forest floor to be left behind, and now the cart rattles like it’s going over a rutted road.
Every time I wake up enough for my eyes to open, I hear the unit around me, the clatter of other carts, the huff of a hairless steed pulling the weight, the odd murmur spoken softly in the dark.
I don’t see anything. The torches are out.
That means I don’t see him.
The cold warrior could be right next me on the other side of the cart, matching the pace of the steed, or he could be gone, deeper into the unit, far away from me.
I wouldn’t know.
I only know that now, even in the fog of this sleep, this constant fucking fatigue that scrambles my mind, the pain is gone.
No ache, no dizziness, shooting sharp pains, no nothing.
Not even my back or shoulder hurts with the rocky quakes of the cart bumping over a weathered road.
It goes like that for so long, in and out, here and away, until my consciousness starts to stick around longer, then longer, then I’m awake, but utterly beat.
Darkness carries on, the cart keeps moving.
I swear I hear things, a slapping noise way up above, like something wet smacking together in the sky, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
Then, finally, the cart starts to slow, a shout comes from ahead, which I guess is the general barking orders down at her unit of warriors, and chatter picks back up again.
Torches lift.
My eyes squint against the attack of the light.
As the glare softens, I see nothing above me. No branches bobbing against the lift of the icy breeze, no sturdy boughs or stubborn, dead leaves—because there are no trees.
Teeth gritted, I brace myself for the strike of aches that reach all the way into my insides and turn my stomach—and I force myself to sit up against the wall of the crate.
But no pain comes.
I forget my surroundings for a beat, one healthy and strong heartbeat in my chest, a chest that isn’t raspy or sore or tight, and I just… sit.
I test my shoulder.
I roll it back, once, slow and slight, then again, stronger, more width. It moves unhindered.
Under the glare of torchlight, I wrestle back the layers from my shoulder, a sweater, a jacket and a top—and I am struck silent by the sight of it.
My brow knits, my mouth parts, and for a beat, I just stare at the smooth curve of my skin. No knife wound, no bruising. Just pale and freckled skin.
I don’t know what that powder is, the stuff he forced down my throat, but he told me it would heal me.
I just never thought it would literally vanish every one of my injuries from existence, undo it all like none of it ever happened, and all I would do is sleep through it.
That’s what I’m left with, sleep. It lingers with a blanket of grogginess draped over me, but no wounds or pain.
That’s a good trade.
Even if it came at the hand of a demon.
My teeth bare at the reminder of him, of them, and I tuck myself up in the corner of the cart, wedged between the giant plastic water bottles, some of them large block containers, others are water cooler refills.
I peer over the wooden edge of the cart…
And find the faint greenish hue of winter eyes.
So he was there, beside the cart, all that time, walking alongside me.
On the other side of him, she keeps pace, the female with icy hair now a rope down her back, dishevelled by winds that must have passed a while ago.
Maybe I slept through the winds.
There is only the gentlest of breezes here.
Here…
I drag my gaze from his and look around the glow of crimson light, how it dances and splinters off a glacier land.
I’ve been here before…
At least, I’ve been to a place like it, maybe not exactly this one. But my dad took me, years back when I was still too young to decide I didn’t want to visit him and his new family in Canada.
Hot springs.
At the end of the torchlight’s reach, a rush of crystal blue waters passes by with the churning sound of a river. But between the river and the cart, there are pockets of steaming waters, circled by soft rocks and boulders.
I feel the heat in the air, like a soft mist, a welcome warmth in the bite of winter—but it’s a winter chill I don’t feel as sharply anymore.
My mind flickers back to the oil I covered myself in, rubbed into my skin, something that became a barrier of protection against the cold.
I wonder how long it’ll last—and the thought is jerked out of my mind the moment that the cart halts on the gravel path.
I arch my neck to look all the way up the unit to the general. She dismounts her steed at the final pool, shrouded in the steady mist of steam.
She’s the first to dismount. The moment her boots touch the rocky ground, more follow—until the neat line of the unit is dispersing.
Making camp here, I guess.
I’m not unhappy about that.
Even with that protective oil moisturising my skin, the warmth of the hot springs is soft on my cheeks, a caress of comfort.
I look at the cold warrior, just a reach away from the cart—but he makes no move to get me out of my little prison.
Still, he stands with the frosty-haired female, talking in a barbed murmur.
Another fae has joined them, the one whose lazy grin is made up of slightly yellow, sharp teeth.
My gaze lingers over his shark-like bite.
I have seen him before in the unit, but I didn’t notice that. Every single tooth in his grin is sharp, pointed—and he’s the only fae I’ve seen with that kind of bite. Most of them have sharp teeth from the canines back.
Not this one.
He could bite of a chunk out of my thigh like it’s nothing more than a block of butter.
I’m immediately cringed against the thought.
My hands find the meat of my thighs—and hold.
Just hold.
Like it’ll protect me from him, or at least stamp out the ugly thoughts from my mind.
It’s my own imagination, my own paranoia that I let get the better of me sometimes.
So I force my attention to the clanging and clattering and creaking noise that starts down the springs.
Two captives have climbed a cart, and they begin unloading massive pots and saucepans.
The bone of my chin digs into my knees, and I just stay here, watching the camp expand.
Fae move like a swarm over rocks. The warriors head out in order, in groups, finding their spots between the hot springs or along the riverbank, some closer to the carts up on the trail, others disappearing into the treeline.
The captives splinter off for their chores.
I notice they don’t go for the first carts, where the throne-like chair is strapped to the edges, and rows of canvas bags are tied down, which I suspect are the packed tents.
Maybe there isn’t enough room here for that major setup, or we’re not stopping long enough for the full camp to be made.
Whatever the reason, it doesn’t affect the lull that has rippled over the fae, satchels and backpacks tossed to the rocks, boots kicked off, bums dropping to the ground, and some—
My eyes widen.
Some are starting to strip off their leathers.
Like… all of their leathers… to the bare skin.
Not interested in seeing the naked body of a monster, thanks.
I hug my knees tighter and look down at the ankle of my boots. The new socks are exposed and still padded firm over the elastic hems of my sweatpants, not a thread out of place.
I consider the seams with too much concentration before a pale hand reaches over the side of the cart for the metal hook.
My gaze cuts to the side.
Effortlessly, his fingers weave through the tied rope, quicker than the first time he had to untie me. This braid is much less intricate, so it’s only moments before the tether falls with a slap to my legs.
The cold warrior gestures me up.
A sigh sags my shoulders before I roll my weight onto my boots—and that’s as far as I get before he’s reached over the edge of the cart and looped his arm around my waist.
The fright jolts in me, a grunt that’s fast to silence as he hoists me out of the cart and sets me down.
My boots thud down on the gravel—and the moment they do, his arm is gone.
For a heartbeat, I just… stand here.
Gazes are dragging all over me, head to toe, some cold, some too close.
I shrink back from the stares.
My retreat comes with a slight step closer to the cold one, as though he’s a shield, but really, he’s just the least monstrous beast towards me, specifically, in a swarm of evil.
The icy haired female turns her back on us, and her plaited hair lashes behind her like a whip.
She treads for the nearest hot spring, prancing from one boulder to another, like there’s an edge of delight she finds in it.
The shark fae follows, the one with yellowish teeth that’s sharper than a fistful of knives, but his steps don’t glide like hers did, he just walks directly to the steamy pool.
The cold fae steals the rope, firm, into his grip, then drags me along with them. He moves slower than the others, and I know it must be for my benefit, my uneasy and calculated steps from rock to boulder.
I’m not as surefooted as they are.
He makes that concession for me, keeps a patience that I’m sure is as taut as an overstretched violin string ready to snap.
But it holds and—as my boots come down on the flat rock that’s like a ledge overhanging at the shore of the pool—the female has already made herself comfortable on a curved boulder, and the shark one has started to peel off his leathers.
I don’t get a moment to consider a spot to sit on the rocks before the warrior turns on me.
I stagger back a step, but the heel of my boot thuds into a rock, and I have nowhere else to go but to fall on my ass.
I blink up at him, wide-eyed.
His gaze is firm and very fucking readable.
There’s a warning in it, one that bolts my muscles to my spine—and not a second later, his fingertips press into my middle.