Chapter Eight #2
Waning moon, she wrote next to water. Waning was a time of banishing, Rags had taught her, and good for removing spells, hexes, and curses.
She didn’t have any happy memories of ponds or pools, though.
She had grown up in Warham, where the only pond had been in the Hagswood, and was far too brackish for swimming.
It was gone now, anyway, filled in when they created the Buxton Fields Memorial Park.
There was the ocean, of course, and the river, but no one in their right mind would swim in either of those.
The ocean off Warham was for cargo ships and commercial fishing, and the river stank of shit half the time.
The upper class all fled to various quaint coastal villages in the summer months, but even before Lyssa’s family had fallen apart, they hadn’t had enough money to flee to the countryside when it got too hot in the city.
Alderic would have a personal connection to some body of water or another, though. She was sure of it. Rich boys always had boats.
She moved on to the botanicals, which also had to be gathered during the waning moon, writing down ash, rowan, ivy, boxwood, blackberry stalks.
They were all common faerie-repellants, so if Alderic had an idea for a botanical item of his own, she could use one of these for the repellant category, instead.
Staring at the words, Lyssa’s breath caught in her throat.
She actually had something for this one: the ash tree in her old backyard.
She and Eddie had climbed its branches as children, had carved their names into its trunk, had used it as a hiding place when their father was drunk and angry.
It was full of memories, sun-dappled and comforting.
It was perfect.
Her eyes stinging with the sudden threat of tears, Lyssa circled ash.
Finally, she moved on to the personal concerns.
Necessary for any of Ragnhild’s workings.
They usually used an item that had once belonged to a victim of the Hound in question—clothing, toys, a wedding ring or a favorite necklace.
Photographs worked as well. Lyssa hoped Alderic had something they could use, because she had nothing left of Eddie.
Then she remembered what Rags had said, about them both needing a personal concern, given how personal the Beast’s glyph was.
Fuck. Well, she would have to worry about that later.
With an ache in her chest, she folded up the paper and put it in her pocket.
Lyssa packed and repacked her bag, making sure she had everything she might need on their journey: bedroll, med kit, food rations, canteen, knives, bullets.
They wouldn’t be on the road much, since Lyssa could use the Gate to travel around most of Ibyrnika, but there were only certain places she could come through, and they would have to make up the difference themselves.
It wasn’t quite dawn when she left the smithy, and she was surprised to find Alderic awake and doing squats not far from where he had bedded down for the night.
His hair was tangled and had leaves in it, but his skin was surprisingly free of bug bites.
Usually when Lyssa stayed outside for too long she looked like a teenager again, riddled with red bumps.
He didn’t see her at first; Lyssa watched him for a few minutes, bemused.
“You’re up early,” she said finally.
He started violently, almost falling on his ass. “Oh, good morning. You snuck up on me.”
“What are you doing?”
“Stretching!” he cried, sinking into a lunge so deep it was a miracle his pants didn’t split. “I figured it might help.”
“Squats and lunges won’t be of much use if we get attacked,” she said, setting down her pack. “And being limber won’t keep you from getting killed.”
“Why are you so convinced that I’m going to be murdered?” he asked conversationally, dropping into another lunge. “It’s the lace, isn’t it?”
“It certainly doesn’t help.”
“I assure you, madam, that lace or no lace, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said in the tone that adults use when praising children for being barely adequate at simple tasks.
He stopped his lunges and frowned at her. “You don’t believe me.”
“Not particularly.” She crossed her arms. “How many fights have you been in?”
“Do sword fights count?” he asked after a moment of consideration.
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You know how to use a sword?”
“I used to.”
“That might actually come in handy, once we have to face the Hound-wardens.” The faerie-lovers didn’t use firearms, preferring instead the weapons favored by their “gods”—bronze swords and silver knives, bows and arrows, spears tipped with obsidian or bone.
A sword wouldn’t protect Alderic from an arrow in the chest, but at least he wouldn’t be completely defenseless.
“I have a few that I haven’t had a chance to bring to the market yet.
You can pick whichever one you’d like. But we’re still getting you a pistol. ”
“Splendid!” Another lunge.
“Have you ever used one before? A pistol, I mean.”
“Once or twice.”
Lyssa found a tree at a suitable distance from Alderic and carved an X into the trunk with her knife. When she returned, she loaded her pistol and handed it to him. The first thing he did was look down the barrel, and she smacked him on the back of the head.
“Don’t point it at your face!”
“Sorry.”
She rolled her eyes. “Try to hit the tree I just marked.”
He stood up straight. Rolled his neck and shoulders.
“Any time, now,” Lyssa said impatiently.
He raised his arm and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.
“Squeeze harder.”
He obeyed. The blast seemed to surprise him, and he staggered from the recoil. The tree remained unscathed.
Lyssa sighed. “I thought you said you’d used one of those before.”
“I said once or twice,” he reminded her, then winced. “Quite a while ago, at that.”
She took the pistol from him. Nudged his shins with her boot.
“Widen your stance. Shoulder-length apart. Like this.” She showed him, and he copied her.
Then she placed the pistol back into his hand, adjusting the line of his arm and the way his fingers were holding the grip itself. “Okay, try again.”
He did, and hit the X dead in the center.
She clapped him on the back. “Much better!”
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked, the corner of his lip quirking up.
“Not yet.”
The kitchen window slammed open and Rags stuck her head out. “Who is firing guns in my woods before sunrise?” she shouted.
“I’m making sure Al won’t get murdered by Hound-wardens,” Lyssa shouted back.
“Oh. Carry on, then!” The witch’s head disappeared from the window.
Lyssa took back her pistol and holstered it. “Now, I want you to punch me.”
Alderic shook his head so hard the leaves fell out of his hair. “Absolutely not. I refuse to hit—”
“I told you before, I’m not a lady. Besides, if Honoria comes after us, she’ll have no qualms about hurting you.
I want you to have a little experience with hand-to-hand, in case you can’t get to your sword or pistol in time.
Here, put up your fists like this”—she moved into a fighting stance—“and try to hit me.”
He raised his hands and almost immediately lowered them, clearly distraught at the idea. “But I don’t—”
Lyssa struck, punching him right in the nose. Alderic reeled back, clutching at his face as blood began to stream from both nostrils.
“Lesson one,” she said as he swore in what sounded like three different languages. “Keep your hands up.”
His nose was already turning purple. He wiped it on the back of his hand, smearing bright blood on his pale skin, and got back into the stance she had shown him, his hands firmly guarding his face this time. “I really don’t want to hit you.” His voice sounded congested from the swelling.
“You have to stop with that bullshit. It’s insulting.”
“It’s not because you’re a woman,” he insisted. “I don’t want to hit anyone.”
“Well, you only have to hit me once and we’ll stop.”
“Only once?”
“Just to prove that you won’t jeopardize this whole thing if we get attacked,” she said.
He dropped his hands, then raised them quickly when she started to move toward him. “What do you mean?”
“If what Rags said is true, then I need you to be not-dead in order to make a sword that can kill the Beast. And I definitely need you to be not-dead in order for you to lead me to the monster’s den. Show me that if something goes south, you won’t get slaughtered.”
“I won’t get slaughtered,” he insisted.
“Prove it.”
His face set with determination. For a moment it seemed like he wasn’t going to do anything other than shift his weight from foot to foot, but when Lyssa moved to strike him again, he lashed out, catching her chin with the heel of his hand.
Her head snapped back and she staggered, her vision going white for a moment.
There was a cackle from the porch—Nadia and Rags were on the swing, looking delighted.
“Sorry!” Al cried, putting up his hands in surrender.
“Very good,” she growled through gritted teeth. Adrenaline was sparking in her veins now, and despite what she had told him, she raised her fists again.
“But you said—”
“I don’t care what I said.” She advanced, closing the distance between them swiftly.
She wasn’t sure what happened; one moment she was getting ready to hit Alderic in his stupid, panicked face, and the next her legs had been swept out from under her and she was flat on her back, wheezing for breath. The cackling from the porch rose to shrieks of laughter.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” Alderic said. “You looked like you were going to hit me again, and I … well, I…”
“He tossed you like a sack of chicken feed!” Ragnhild howled.
Lyssa glared up at him. His stupid face was racked with guilt and concern, and he held out a hand to help her up. She grabbed it and yanked him to the ground, flipping him so that she was straddling him, her knife pressed to his throat beneath the layers of his cravat.