43 #2
The glow of Lyrik’s cigarette illuminated the stubble in his jaw. He puffed the last of his reed before flicking it into the darkness, then stalked between Aspen and Nicu. Slinging his arms over their shoulders, he gathered them close. “Ready to misbehave?”
“Get your arm off me,” Aspen ordered while inspecting his dark horns and crimson face paint. “What are you supposed to be?”
“A devil,” he answered. “Smooch me, and I’ll turn into a prince. Make sure to use a lot of tongue.”
“You’re confusing devils with toads.”
“Same thing if we get creative and rewrite a few classic allegories.”
“I’ll pass. Also, I thought your cock didn’t point toward women.”
“It doesn’t. Buuut,” he drew out, “for well-endowed curves, I’ll make an exception.”
“I’d rather kiss an actual devil or toad. I said, get your hands off me, or I’ll chop them off. I don’t want to be damned to hell, much less to get warts.”
Cackling, Lyrik released her. In tandem, I flexed my knuckles. Despite this quarrel with Aspen, the option of extracting the man’s intestines remained on the table.
Each of us chose a blazing lantern from the cluster on the ground, my eyes catching Aspen’s within a spark of orange light.
Swerving, I peered at the lane, hunting for signs of dissent or danger.
Aspen had infiltrated those knights in earnest with me.
She hadn’t planned to lure me into a trap, nor to put Nicu in jeopardy.
And regardless of her treachery, I believed her defense about Rhys threatening her mother, as well as the enduring guilt.
Yet. This did not absolve the rest.
I stalked into the woods with Lyrik while Aspen and Nicu brought up the rear, their free arms linking.
If the woodland vetted its inhabitants, this sector emitted a safe essence of rich earth.
Speckled mushrooms popped from the soil.
The boughs appeared larger, their limbs thickening, wide and robust enough to balance wagons.
I observed, hypnotized as Aspen impulsively flounced ahead of me, her loose mane flapping like a banner. My steps faltered. It happened the moment she threw her head back and howled like a she-wolf, the smoke of her voice sailing down the route.
Awed irritation rose within me, unraveling like twine. Nothing with this female went as anticipated.
She and Nicu climbed the branch platforms, hands clasping as they capered from one to the other. Together, they beckoned us to join. Lyrik obliged, and I found my legs doing the same.
A transformation occurred, diluting the edges of my animosity. We traversed the boughs, cavorting at opposing levels, while Nicu sang into the abyss. At one point, my gaze flung backward as I sucked in a breath of Autumn, and I sensed Aspen’s precious stare, which felt spitefully magnificent.
***
We reached a winding lane flanked by candlelit gourds, the designated path guiding us to a bonfire meadow. The melody of pan flutes, percussions, and rhythmic clapping greeted our company.
People had dressed as cats, spirits, and dragons. They spun with partners, performing a hamlet dance.
Ale, mead, and cider sloshed from tankards. Shallow buckets held apples floating in water, and cottagers plunged their faces into the depths, attempting to snare the bobbing fruit with their teeth.
The dense crowd enabled us to blend in. Aspen flipped her hood back, the foliage motifs easily mistaken for kohl sketches instead of the real thing. Her crimped locks caressed the beauty mark above her lip, while my own mouth compressed.
Swiftly, she garnered the attention of an alpha pack.
The motherfuckers—farmhands or apprentices, all her age—foamed at the mouth like bloodhounds in need of a mate.
That Aspen paid them no mind did little to pacify the roiling in my blood.
Jealousy had no place in our conflict. Yet I slid in front of the salivating shitheads and leveled a fatal glare on them.
Notably, revelers with features reminiscent of Nicu strolled about. Born souls, living among their Autumn kin. Like Jeryn, others did not possess attributes that made them physically recognizable, which only proved how well integrated everyone had become. This hard-won vision boosted my soul.
Nicu’s grin spanned his face. The instant this happened, he brought a new light to this event, a number of people stalling to take a second amorous look.
While he did not possess his father’s height, athletic muscle, or sexual allure, Nicu struck onlookers with the same charisma.
That, in addition to his refined cheekbones and approachable nature.
At court, his features attracted people more than it dissuaded them.
Other times, they discreetly shuffled away, not wishing to offend his family.
Yet in this moment, he embodied his parents, the hereditary magnetism undeniable.
When others let go of their prejudices, they gravitated to him like plants to the sun.
But unlike his father, the attention Nicu drew hardly fazed him.
Within moments, smitten males and females approached to introduce themselves, fawning over his costume and laughing at his jubilant comments.
In particular, the gentlemen’s flirtations produced a tick in Lyrik’s jaw.
While Aspen and I enjoyed seeing Nicu surrounded, the alchemist looked ready to hurl them across the meadow.
To compensate, he scanned the masses until locating a male whose lucid yellow eyes found him as well.
Without looking back, and without a by-your-leave, Lyrik threaded through the crowd.
He cut a direct path, then stole the man’s pint and tipped the contents down his throat, his eyes never leaving this nameless conquest.
Against Nicu’s unique beauty, the stranger could not compare. However, tell that to my friend, who noticed Lyrik’s departure. Glancing from his admirers, Nicu located the philandering bastard just as he brushed his mouth against the other male’s ear, likely murmuring something debauched.
My liege’s breath seized as if someone had wrapped a hand around his throat. He faltered, his merriment dimming like a snuffed candle wick as he watched the interaction with a startled, crestfallen expression.
Aspen glowered at the rogue’s display. Then she whirled on Nicu. “I need a partner. Dance with me.”
Dragging him from the group to the bonfire, she proceeded to lift his spirits. As they laughed and bounced in a circle, I propped myself against an oak tree, ignoring the come-hither glances of every maiden, my cursed attention held hostage by the jut of Aspen’s hips.
The more she gyrated that ass, the more I doubted alcohol would solve the problem. With each effort to seek visual refuge, my attention slow-crawled back to her forsaken body, awash in decadent flames and a blazing, drunken moon.
The music pounded, a dissonance of instruments. A legion of emotions warred inside me, sharp and tender, guilty and selfish, anguished and enraptured. I could not reconcile them.
“You look like a lost man,” someone observed.
My head swung toward the source of that tenor.
Long silver hair poured down his shoulders, stringy and wafting of cinders.
His essence struck quickly. Humble aura, recently depleted in some fashion, yet resilient.
Someone who rebounded despite his misfortunes, who knew a hard day’s labor, with the calloused hands of an ethical tradesman. An honest worker.
By “lost,” I deliberated his meaning. “When loss touches you once, it remains forever.”
“It does,” the man agreed while balancing a pint, soot clogging his fingernails like black crescents. “And yet we move on.”
I watched him amble off toward an oval dirt track abutting a small hill, which rose far from the dance circle. Although the man had been mumbling more to himself than anyone else, the comment stuck like sap.
At the same time, a group in my periphery regarded the figure in question. One person hollered to another over the din, “Smith Gaius has been working himself to the bone.”
“It ain’t right, what happened to the forge’s stock.”
“Still, he’s managed. Tonight will be a fine fuck-you to the thieves.”
I listened while contemplating the rails lining the track, as well as the man’s outline ducking into a nearby pavilion. It brought to mind a detail I’d forgotten about Reaper’s Fest. I would have lingered on this longer, but another spectacle drew my notice.
Amid the frolicking bodies, Nicu floundered. He staggered in place, locating Lyrik and his consort beneath a tree, their mouths locked in a fervent kiss.
Grimacing, I swerved to find my friend’s tremulous eyes bearing witness to the scene.
As far as I knew, not once had Lyrik made an advance toward Nicu.
Yet their relationship held untold meaning for my friend, and so I straightened, prepared to go to him.
Either that, or I would cleave that philandering cocksucker in half and be executed for murder.
But then…
In the bonfire’s hot glare, Nicu’s wilting features transformed from apocalyptic, to disillusioned, to steely.
The stunning metamorphosis caused Nicu to stand taller.
With unflappable resilience, he wheeled away to integrate himself with another rambunctious group, the face paint concealing his Royal pedigree, should the rare soul suspect him.
Privy to the scene, Aspen beamed as Nicu found a new diversion. She hesitated, then crossed over to me and peeked over the rim of my ale. Wordlessly, I handed it to her, overwhelmed as she sucked down the drink and wiped that duplicitous mouth with her arm.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Aire—”
My head snapped from her lips to those beguiling pupils. “I told you. Do not say my name.”
She winced. “Okay, more than fair. But it’s a special night for Nicu. Stay mad at me all you want, hate me as much as I hate myself, but at least make an effort to enjoy yourself for his sake.”
“And do not presume to lecture me on how to behave in his company.”
“Then join the revels! Or are you going to stand guard all night?”
My growl thinned. “One of us has to protect him.”
Aspen reeled back as if I’d slapped her. “You son of a bitch. I’m guilty of a lot of things, but I’d never hurt that boy!”
“Yet you’d manipulate everyone else!” I gritted. “You would dishonor their trust! You would break me in half!”
We shouted at one another, the music blaring over our screams. My throat stung, the words as brittle as flint. Aspen’s pupils glistened. Then she made the mistake of reaching out to touch me.
I jerked back, a hiss skating across my tongue. “I cannot take my eyes off you. Even now, I cannot. For fuck’s sake, why? Why do I subject myself, even when it’s a torment to look at you? Why?”
Aspen shook her head. “I ask myself that question a lot too.”
A horn resounded. The music faded as the crowd turned in waves toward the modest dais and pavilion. A line of cottagers stood on the platform, along with the man from earlier, their arrival drawing cheers.
“Neighbors and friends of Autumn! Welcome to Reaper’s Fest!
” a woman with dark skin called out. “Our valiant contenders have stepped forward. For the souls who’ve yet to make their choice, this is your final call.
” After cycling her arm once, she pointed at the attendees.
“Who among this festive gathering is feeling brave tonight? By will of the Seasons and our beloved Crown, which of you dares to enter the track?”
The commotion amplified. Thatchers, builders, and farmers hooted as the man I’d conversed with stepped forward. In his hands, he balanced a wooden slab.
“Tonight’s prize,” the woman boomed. “A custom shield donated by Smith Gaius, forged in defiance of the wretched thieves who pilfered from his stock. With the grace of Autumn, may our setbacks always become our strengths!”
My flesh chilled. The shield’s face had been engraved with a detail my tapered eyes failed to identify.
But Aspen’s didn’t. Her gaze narrowed on the weapon, then blanched to a sickly pallor.
I sidestepped nearer and murmured, “What do you see?”
“What do you feel?” she replied.
Likely, the same thing. A link between that weapon and the ones she discovered in the camp, including the closer glimpse she took of Dame Muriel’s sickle.
An engraved fox. A blacksmith’s signature.
Seasons almighty. We veered toward one another.
“The villages,” we said in unison.
That explained the disguises. It also explained the power imbalance of farming tools as makeshift weapons versus army defenses.
The knights hadn’t plotted to ambush their own brethren. They intended to slaughter innocent villages throughout Autumn. To strike where it would torture Princess Briar and Queen Avalea the most. To pare down the citizenry at large.
Such raids would instill widespread fear and panic. Most especially, Rhys’s unit sought out hamlets with born souls living freely. It threatened to reverse the clan’s progress and influence the populace to scapegoat born souls for provoking havoc.
Of all the fucking diabolism. Even if the knights wielded stolen arms from the blacksmith, tradesfolk would not single out people carrying sickles and cleavers. They wouldn’t foresee a massacre. Neither would surviving witnesses be able to pinpoint their attackers to the Crown.
The only way to verify this required getting our hands on that shield. Ambition tightened Aspen’s features. While she might have lied for eons, I’d learned some honest things about her. Thus, I knew that scheming look.
My gaze whipped once more to the oval dirt track. Upon longer inspection, ropes and torches marked off the outer perimeter, three parallel lanes with their own central rails stretched across the divide, ale barrels stood near the border, and a host of cottagers waited along the perimeter.
Another fact had escaped me since hunting Aspen from the castle. The latest addition to these bonfire revels, a new event established by Poet and Briar, to be enjoyed in every corner of this kingdom.
Jousting tournaments.