24
Aspen
Minutes later, we crossed a bridge arching over a stream.
Because one of the planks needed reinforcement, it bowed higher than the rest. Twisting, Aire extended his hand, offering to help me step over the riser.
Coming from him, the gentlemanly motion felt sexier than from the average male, the gesture stirring in my navel like honey, as if I were some chaste maiden from a storybook.
As I took his hand, fireflies danced across my knuckles. Aire’s eyelids fell heavy, his digits curling over my own as he guided me forward.
I shouldn’t have been caught off guard by these courtly habits. Yet after feeling that same hand lodged deep inside my cunt, the wet groove rippling around his fingers while I climaxed, every attentive courtesy seemed more intimate.
After we traversed the bridge, Aire delayed releasing me until we reached a staircase coiling around the spine of an oak.
The farther we climbed, the more I noticed.
Frameworks. Scrollwork. Joinery. Every fastening had been shaped from lumber, each one exposed like ornamentation.
The builders of this enclave had been proud of their craft.
The steps leveled out to a deck. As we passed a tool shed, instruments peeked through a gaping shutter. Rakes. Brooms. Clippers. Despite a few ramshackle areas, this stranger had done a decent job keeping up the place.
“The cabins up ahead should be fine for you,” Lyrik called over his shoulder. “This way.”
Nope. Not this way.
Not when Aire stopped beside an open door, and I plowed into him, and Nicu plowed into me. Frowning, the knight stalked inside the cabin with us trailing after him.
“Hey!” Lyrik charged after us. “What the fuck? That’s off limits.”
Based on the chamber’s contents, I grasped why.
Shelves lined every wall, each one packed with glass beakers, mortars and pestles, and polished sieves.
Jars of powder. Oily fluids. Pots and tubes.
In the stomach of an oven, a pot-bellied cauldron dangled from a hook, with a metallic scent wafting from the rim.
Aire paused in the room’s center, his profile glowering. “You’re a toxin brewer.“
The rogue met him halfway and pointed around. “One: Don’t touch a fucking thing. Two: Show respect. I’m a chemical sorcerer, and everything in this room is fair game. You see unlawful ingredients or volatile substances anywhere?”
“Only the batches of sulfur.” I motioned to the container in question. “And about two dozen other specimens a person can use to weaponize nature.”
“Fine, I’ll amend my statement. Call me an alchemist. It’s classier.”
“Another term would be explosives expert,” Aire reproached.
Lyrik cocked his head and gave the soldier a vapid look. “Yeah? Tell me, knight. What’s it like to walk on water?”
“This explains your hostage impulses when we got here,” I observed. “And that story about having a legit business.”
“Not apologizing for either. I don’t want vagabonds on my turf or touching my stuff.”
Lyrik sauntered in front of a hutch loaded with bubbling decanters, effectively blocking Nicu’s approach.
“When the odd traveler grows the balls to venture past the enclave border, they get a hankering for free shit and try looting my stash. Occasional uninvited guests are as good as Autumn. Others, not so much. Strictly speaking, after having one too many experiences with the latter, I’m less hospitable these days.
I protect my own, and when somebody—” he gave Nicu a once-over, “—comes along humming a ditty about thieves, I tend to get edgy.”
Nicu bit his lip, masking an impish smirk. So now he thought it was funny.
In any case, it made sense why Lyrik called him a songbird earlier. Nicu had strayed while Aire and I got into a needless argument. Wandering off, our friend must have carried a tune while detouring into Lyrik’s waiting arms.
“When I take commissions, I do it outside these walls,” the rogue continued. “Easy enough when the majority shuns this place.”
“What sort of people?” Aire interrogated.
Lyrik’s features pulled as taut as a cable. “Get to the point, knight.”
“Commoners would not be able to patronize your skills. Perhaps the gentry, then. Or nobles living in outlying estates.”
“Maybe even a few soldiers?” I threw in, because glibness sounded less circumspect. Coming from Aire, the inquisition stood to reason. Coming from me, I had to pull things off more casually, as if I was more interested in fucking these soldiers instead of committing espionage.
The rogue’s eyes jumped between us. “Even peasants can dig up money when they want something badly enough. Poaching, stealing, bribing. The ones with fewer scruples or more desperation always come through with a fat purse. I don’t ask questions.
And no, there ain’t no troops in these parts.
” He slanted his head. “Though, if you’re a knight protecting the Royal Son, I’d wager you’re on the higher side of the ranks. In which case, you’d know this.”
“I do,” Aire replied without missing a beat. “But I don’t know you.”
Lyrik nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”
After giving the chamber a thorough inspection, Aire gravitated through the open door.
Outside, the wind rustled his hair as those hawk eyes patrolled the area.
The knight’s departure might have seemed rude, except for two things.
One, none of us gave a shit about insulting someone who’d held a knife to Nicu’s throat.
Two, Aire was still listening to the conversation.
Actually, three things. He was also keeping watch for us. Although we deemed it safe to hide among these trees, we didn’t know the full lore of this place, so the inclination to stand post gave the soldier purpose.
I turned from the sight. “How long have you been here?”
Lyrik leaned one hip against a table. “A while.”
“That would make you how old?”
“Twenty-one.”
From the ledge, Aire called out, “Are you of Autumn?”
The rogue crossed his arms. “What do you think?”
“We think you have the temperament of Summer, the skill of Winter, and a name of Spring,” I listed.
“It’s Lyrik with a k,” he corrected. “Only sounds like I’m named after music. But since when do names have to correspond with our birth Season?”
I hoisted my shoulder. “With everything else about you, it’s just a funny coincidence.”
“That’s me. A funny coincidence.”
This was putting it mildly. The longer I studied him, the more familiar this mercurial rogue seemed, though I’d never forget a face like this one.
Also, The Lost Treehouses didn’t let just anyone bunk in its borders.
According to lore, if this place didn’t want a person to stay, it made sure to let the intruder know, and not always the benevolent way.
So presumably, the enclave approved of Lyrik.
Despite his noxious occupation, he’d passed some kind of test here.
The rest of us still needed to earn that right.
Returning inside the chamber, Aire filled the doorway to capacity. “You have Autumn roots, yet that doesn’t round out your lineage.”
Lyrik squinted at the knight. His hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. “Where are my manners? I’m the host. We shouldn’t be talking about me.” He leered my way, locks of unkempt dark hair scraping across his jaw. “What’s your story, wood nymph?”
“Bitch. Wood nymph,” I recited with bland expression. “If you think calling me names that aren’t mine is going to have an effect, you’re targeting the wrong axe wielder. My list of past-life monikers is as long as my list of kills. Try and label me. See how much of a fuck I give.”
“Long list of kills, eh? I didn’t know assassins came in your buxom size, much less wore so many interesting tattoos.” Lyrik flapped his hand up and down my form. “No offense about your size, by the way. Hips and tits are a good look on you.”
Just then, the squatter caught sight of Aire’s scowl. “Sorry, knight. I’m not ogling your wife, if that’s what the death-glare is about.”
“We’re not married,” Aire and I protested in unison.
Lyrik clipped his gaze between us. “Sure. All right. My mistake.”
“Despite the hood, lots of people ogle my curves,” I said. “Just don’t expect reciprocation. I have higher standards than squatters.”
“No worries. I have higher standards than females.”
Ah. So his tastes leaned elsewhere. With his olive complexion and scruffy black hair, I pitied the village women who fawned over this morally grey stranger. I spoke their flirty language and wagered the poor things invested in his wares more to catch his eye than his business.
Lyrik hadn’t glanced once at Nicu, who’d been inspecting the room. However, when the squatter turned, he knew where to find my friend, strutting toward him without a hitch.
While Nicu studied a jar containing a fizzy substance, Lyrik slouched against the neighboring table, glasses clinking as he picked the vessel from its shelf and unplugged the cap.
“One of my favorites. Purely for atmosphere, but when the liquid meets the air, smoke rises, changes color—,” he met Nicu’s gaze “—and lights up the room.”
Vapors danced from the rim and turned pink. Engrossed, Nicu swiped his finger through the tendrils, making them quiver.
“It’s blushing,” he exclaimed.
“Nifty, huh?” the rogue murmured.
Nicu watched the haze, while Lyrik watched him. My eyes flickered between them until the force of a typhoon pushed against my back.
I glanced sideways just as Aire’s gaze swerved from mine. While he reconsidered the scenery beyond this room, the knight’s fingers clenched the strap of one scabbard in a tight grip.
Meanwhile, the chamber flushed a deep, heated color.