12. Fickle Bitch
Lyra twirled jasmine between her fingers. She had plucked it when they walked through the small gate and into the village square.
It was very similar to the village he had kidnapped her from. Stone buildings, cobblestone lanes, and thatched roofs. But it didn’t smell, or perhaps she was getting used to it. She brought the flower up to her nose again and inhaled. It was light and airy, exactly as the book had described it.
She flicked her attention to Wilder to see him staring sidelong at her before looking straight ahead again.
He had been stoic the entire time. But she could feel his eyes on her more often than not.
Her accidental use of power had shaken him to his core. She figured he was probably thinking of the best way to kill her right about now. Glancing down, she watched as he flexed his hand open before squeezing it back into a fist.
Yep. He wanted to kill her.
Surely he knew she hadn’t meant to use it against him. She hadn’t used it to free herself or even to save herself from the humans.
Lyra didn’t want to be a monster. Didn’t want to destroy this place or any place.
She missed the water, of course, but did not want to ruin the land so that she could return. No matter how much she yearned for the sea, she couldn’t fathom laying waste to this place, with its lovely plants and tiny birds.
Clenching her jaw, she staunched the pull of the power within her. This was how it would start.
The magic was addictive. And she had worked her entire life to never use it.
Her stomach pitched, and her lungs tightened when a flash of the accident speared through her mind. It would corrupt her in the worst of ways, turning her into the same monsters she rebelled against.
A strange bird cawed from the large tree in the center of the square. No—not a bird, a person. They materialized beside the tree and walked towards them.
Wilder squared his shoulders and picked up the pace, embracing the shadow and clapping it on the back once.
“Look who finally graced us with their presence,” a masculine voice teased.
He was Lyra’s size, much shorter than Wilder, but broad through the shoulders and legs.
Like a walking wall, she mused to herself.
His accent was unique, too. Not the polished accent she had grown accustomed to from Wilder, but something—wild.
Quick, but also like his tongue, was too wide for his mouth.
“Orders aren’t always easy to follow, and I’m sure you saw exactly what I had to put up with,” Wilder replied and shot her a look.
“Otto, this is Princess Lyra.”
Otto removed the cloak that shadowed him.
Lyra was struck mute.
White skin, white hair, and gray-colored eyes, like the dark gray seas underneath the moon’s glow. But beyond his physical appearance was vast wisdom.
An all-seeing kind of wisdom that peered at her from cloud-colored eyes.
Lyra wanted to wrap her arms around herself, to hide from his gaze.
“Pleasure, Princess—or should I call you Legs, too?” Otto replied and tilted his head.
The words annoyed her, and before she could stop herself, she lashed out.
“It’s Lyra or Your Highness. I don’t care which you prefer.”
Wilder pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Otto only grinned and addressed Wilder.
“The others are at the tavern, awaiting your orders. Even though I already told them what they would be.”
Wilder merely nodded and gestured with his hand.
Lyra’s stomach growled, and she reluctantly followed. Not that she had a choice. But she had hoped the tavern would mean food.
“I got you a plate already—Lyra,” Otto threw over his shoulder at her with a wink.
Flames danced in the tall lanterns on either side of the narrow street. A small breeze snaked through the buildings, rustling the broadleaf ivy that clung to the crumbling stone walls.
It was nice here, cozy even. It was a place she would like to sit outside with a book. She rather liked that idea.
In Atlantis, her reading had always been confined to her room or the stuffy library with its nearly murderous attendants. She briefly wondered what libraries in the mortal realm would look like—or in the Wilds.
Lyra was so caught up in her daydreams that she didn’t even notice the building they stepped into or the uncomfortable silence that greeted them.
Humans knew of the elves, but it seemed their appearance wasn’t always accepted.
The evidence of that truth was made apparent by the boar of a woman by the window, shrewdly analyzing each step.
Diners at the sparse tables split their attention between them and the two other people crowded around a far back table.
Some didn’t even dare to take a bite of their food until they had passed.
Wood creaked underneath her feet. It was everywhere: the walls, the ceiling, even a winding staircase at the far left of the room. All the same grayish wood. There was nothing of the sort in Atlantis. She studied each groove before meeting the penetrating stare of the humans.
Lyra made it a point to stare at each and every one who glared at her until they looked away. They knew the others were elvish.
Would they know what she was, too?
Otto plopped down on a spindly chair on the opposite side of a stained and rough wooden table. The two people gathered around it didn’t startle at his presence or even look at him at all. Their attention was trained on her and the deathly quiet prince behind her.
“Took you long enough,” a feminine voice purred from beside Otto. She leaned back in her chair. Her molten golden eyes never left Wilder’s face.
Wilder nodded and pulled out a chair for Lyra before taking the one next to it. She stood there dumbfounded, staring at it. Had he done that on purpose to confuse her, or was it some kind of elvish tradition? She tried not to care but wound up annoyed.
“I am perfectly capable of pulling out my chair,” she hissed under her breath.
Their eyes turned to her, and her back stiffened. Wilder rested an elbow on the arm of the chair and brushed a long finger over his lips.
“I am aware. Now sit.”
Their gazes stayed locked in battle before she finally plopped down in the chair with an annoyed flourish.
The elf on the other side of Lyra pulled his bowl closer and away from her.
She wanted to snort. She wasn’t an animal that would steal his food.
Otto pushed a bowl across the table and nodded to her. “This is for you.”
Lyra looked at the chipped blue bowl and the steaming soup inside before looking at Wilder. Not for permission, of course, but for safety. She had never consumed prepared mortal food before.
Wilder met her stare before giving her a quick dip of his chin. “It’s just stew.”
“Got her trained already? That was quick,” the man beside her chuckled, shoveling in another mouthful of the stew.
Lyra froze with her hand wrapped around the spoon. She gripped it tightly in her hand, deciding if she had the strength to stab him with the pointed end.
“Don’t, Ridge,” Wilder ordered, clenching his hands into fists.
Now that he knew what she was capable of, he seemed wary of her. But the elf—Ridge—didn’t heed his warning.
“She doesn’t seem dangerous for her kind, does she, Maelys?”
Ridge leered at her, his brown eyes the color of the tree bark they had passed through on their journey here.
It occurred to her then that how she was seeing them in the mortal realm wouldn’t be how they looked in the Elvish realm once they had crossed the veil into magic.
She wondered if they would look similar to this or if they would resemble the land from which they were from.
“She seems kind of tame.”
Lyra lashed out, stabbing at his hand with the pointy end of the spoon. Ridge snatched it from her and waved it with a taunt in front of her. She seethed, curling her empty hand into a fist.
She felt heavy eyes upon her skin and looked to see the female—Maelys, studying her before looking at Wilder.
“Quite tame, actually. I wouldn’t have missed.”
Lyra met her stare head-on and let a remnant of the monster show. She bared her teeth at Maelys.
It didn’t do the trick. If anything, it had made her look foolish. Maelys snorted and then returned her attention to Wilder.
“What caused the delay?” She spoke clearly, but something about her phrasing led Lyra to believe that wasn’t what she was asking.
“Lyra encountered ruffians,” Otto answered for them. “And some issues with her new legs.”
He took a bite of the stew and then raised his spoon, insinuating Lyra should do the same. Ridge set her spoon back down beside her bowl, and she flinched. He leveled her with a look that doubled as a warning: lash out again, and I’m keeping it.
“Exhaustion and hunger will make everything worse for you,” Otto said. “Your new legs will require you to eat and rest.”
Otto seemed older than the rest of them. She wasn’t sure if it was because he was or if his gifts led him to be perceived that way. He was a seer, but she didn’t know about the other two.
Lyra scooped some of the broth and meat chunks onto the spoon before taking a bite. It was some kind of game, by the taste of it. But she was surprised that it tasted so good. Meat, carrots, and corn with a melding of spices. Interesting. She didn’t think she would like human food.
It was quiet at their table, quiet enough that Lyra could hear the disgruntled murmurings of the surrounding mortals. In particular, a man with a large bushy beard seemed very upset that there were elves in his presence.
“Elves in our dining hall. It’s a travesty!” His voice rose loud enough for Lyra to hear him. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see the man beside the disgruntled one grab him by the collar.
“Pipe down,” he hissed, shooting a terrified expression their way. “That is Wilder Vale. The prince.”
The bearded man ducked his head and averted his gaze. “The swordsman?” His question was met with furious nods.
It appeared Wilder’s name held weight here.
“Are we leaving first thing in the morning?” Maelys asked, loud enough for all to hear.
Wilder grunted in response.