9. Renard
Renard
I wake with the taste of her on my tongue.
The dream clings to me like sweat on a hard-worked summer afternoon, except I cannot quite scrape this from my skin in the same way. It lingers in the back of my throat, in my chest, lower still in a persistent throb of lustful discomfort.
Gods, help me.
It began as something sweet and tender—a pale body beneath mine, cool as snow-covered stone that warmed beneath my hands.
She had no face, and yet I knew her. Knew where to look, where to kiss, how to find her mouth as if I had done it a hundred times before.
And the sounds she made—every soft, yearning, desperate whimper burrowed into my heart and made me wild with need that I answered only too enthusiastically.
Beneath the blankets, I shift my uncomfortably hard cock in my breeches.
It’s been too long since I’ve indulged my lustful side. Rather, it’s been too long since I’ve been able to give it more than a passing thought.
In the dream, there was a part of me that suspected something wasn’t quite right, and then, as if I’d conjured the nightmare by acknowledging my unease, my dream woman changed.
It didn’t happen all at once, and certainly not in any way that made sense—as is the way of dreams. I didn’t stop making love to her even when bones began to push through sweat-slicked skin in slow, terrible increments.
Antlers—gods, antlers?—curled from her brow like new branches in spring.
Her body softened beneath my hands, then sagged, then started to liquify in a way no living flesh should, at least until it putrefies.
I can still feel it—the way her flesh yielded beneath my fingertips and tongue. The heat of skin-on-skin friction turning to something damp and foul even as I…
I sit bolt upright with a sharp inhale, the remnants of the dream snapping apart like frayed thread. A violent shudder wracks my body, and nausea rises until I suck in a breath of dawn that’s painful with cold.
The snow-choked forest greets me in its gray morning stillness.
Casting my eyes about, I comfort myself with the reality around me.
There are no writhing bones, no faceless woman.
No black mold creeping up my arms or soft, rotting flesh beneath my legs.
It’s only cold air and the faint, dying glow of last night’s fire, smoldering beneath a dusting of gray ash that looks lavender in the nascent light of dawn.
I stay there for a long moment, breathing hard, staring at nothing.
I haven’t dreamt of a woman since my wife died, and before that, I seldom dreamt of any woman but her.
It is easier, I suspect, to believe it’s simply my body remembering what it has gone without for years, even if the sensations of the dream linger stubbornly in the cold light of day.
I exhale slowly and force myself to take stock of something more grounding and immediate—my aching, aging body.
Carefully, I roll my shoulder, listening to the soft pops of my joints.
The pain is still there, but it no longer feels like something chewing through bone.
My leg aches when I shift it, but it does not threaten to give out entirely.
The stiffness is familiar, and dare I say, manageable.
With Vireth’s expert bandaging and nursing, I seem to be healing faster than even when I was fresh out of squiring.
Damn fae magic—if only it could break a curse and ease a famine.
I huff out a quiet breath. So, her strange little brews and herb-studded meals have done something, at least. I glance toward the edge of the clearing and am unsurprised to find her awake, already finishing her morning care.
She’s washed and is dressed in a different set of clothes—a quilted waistcoat over a clean white blouse, breeches, and those well-made, blood-stained boots.
Boots stained with my blood—as though I could ever forget the debt of honor I owe her.
She stands near the remnants of the fire, her back half-turned to me, adjusting something at her shoulder. Her hair has been gathered up in a way I have not yet seen—twisted into a thick plait and wound atop her head, with several strands pulled forward to frame her pink-cheeked face.
She doesn’t look well-rested. There is a stiffness to her posture that I recognize as a poor night’s sleep, or mayhap no sleep at all.
When she turns slightly, I catch a glimpse of her expression and it’s tighter than usual.
I wager she will be much less inclined toward the petty squabbling that has been entertaining us both over the last few days.
Something in me stirs—concern, perhaps—but I tamp it down. We are not… that. At least, not yet. Not that I would wish for anything other than to repay my debt of honor, use her guidance to find the Blight Mother, and do what must be done so I can finally go home.
“Good morning,” I say, pushing myself upright.
She glances at me, and for a brief moment, something unreadable flickers in her gaze before it smooths into something more familiar.
“If you can call it that,” she replies. “Were you aware that you snore?”
“I do not!”
“You do,” she says. “It’s unbearable. Like a hibernating bear, or perhaps a dying boar.”
I grunt an incredulous sound. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
“Mm, I cannot think why. Perhaps it has something to do with the sword. Take it to bed with you, do you?”
“Absolutely not! Any woman who’s shared my bed came of her own free will—not through threat of violence. And I’ll have you know, I’ve certainly never had any complaints about my sword,” I snap, cheeks heating. “’Twould go against a knight’s honor.”
Vireth casts a pitying look my way.
“I thought you were a knight no longer,” she says, but there is less bite to it than usual.
That, more than anything, unsettles me. I wonder what transpired in the night to shift her mood so. I rise carefully, testing my weight on my leg and am heartened when it holds. It throbs a bit, but it is well enough.
“Well,” I say, rolling my shoulder once more. “I appear to be among the living.”
“Try not to sound so incredibly grateful about it,” she mutters, and I catch the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
That’s better.
She hands me a piece of bread and one of the last apples from her pack without ceremony.
I accept both with a murmured thanks and settle near the embers of the fire to eat.
The bread is a bit stale, the apple softening at the edges, but after the rough night and frigid morning, it might as well be a feast.
She sets the kettle over the coals again, adding water and a handful of herbs that smell pungent and medicinal.
“For your leg,” she says shortly. “It is important to keep the festering at bay.”
“I am beginning to suspect you enjoy poisoning me in small, controlled doses.”
“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” she replies.
I chuckle at that, because there is no doubt in my mind that she means what she says. It’s vaguely threatening, but only because it was stated as a fact as opposed to the boastfulness of ego. And I’m beginning to suspect I have a growing fascination with powerful women.
“That’s comforting. But then, who would keep you company on your journey?” I tease.
“I don’t need company.”
“Ah, just as I did not need any help crossing through the Verge.”
She glares at me, nostrils flaring. I’m looking forward to her acidic reply, but she snaps her mouth shut and swirls the herbal tea in the kettle.
Nibblebones reappears at that very moment, chittering energetically and darting into the clearing like a streak of white and green mottled fur. She bounds between Vireth’s feet, then immediately turns toward me with unsettling enthusiasm.
“Oh no,” I say, fearful of whatever grotesque gift she means to offer. “Absolutely not. I have only just woken…”
She drops something into my lap and I cannot hide my grimace as I look down.
It is not half-rotted meat this time, thank the gods. Rather, it is a small, tarnished object—bronze, by the look of it. I tilt it closely toward the sunlight and take in the looping knotwork design, greened with age and flecked with bits of dirt. It appears to be some kind of ancient cloak pin.
“Well,” I say, blinking slowly. “This is… unexpected.” Nibblebones chitters proudly, blinking up at me with her overlarge dark eyes. Perhaps it is the exhaustion or maybe even the fact that she likely favors me more than Vireth does, but I’m beginning to find her endearing.
Vireth glances over, then huffs softly. “A grave good, most likely.”
I fight to keep the distaste from my countenance, lest I offend the animal again. “Ah. That might be somehow worse than rancid frog meat,” I murmur. “The resting places of the dead should remain undisturbed. And I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what such a gift means from a corpse weasel.”
“It means we’re getting closer to the village,” she says. “There are old burial grounds scattered along the foothills.”
“Of course there are.” Burial grounds filled with all the fae and humans who probably ran afoul of the terrifying beasts of this forest.
Nibblebones squeaks impatiently, clearly waiting for my appraisal. I turn the pin over in my fingers, then incline my head toward the creature. “My thanks once again, Mistress Bones. A generous gift.”
She preens, clearly delighted, before darting off again into the trees.
I smile, uncertain why I am so pleased with this turn of events. “I am beginning to think she likes me.”
“You accepted her offering,” Vireth says. “In fact, you ate it. Of course you earned her favor.”
“I do hope it’s not a pattern of behavior. A single lump of rotting frog flesh is one thing, but I don’t know if I could stomach another.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Her gifts range from the abhorrent to the exquisite and there’s no telling which you’ll get at any given time. I will admit, she has an uncanny ability to predetermine what will be of use in your future, so I’d hold onto the pin if I were you.”