26. Swordplay
Swordplay
Verdaberries,” Viggo explains as I sample the fruit experimentally, rolling the bead of sweet tartness over my tongue until it bursts, then, finding it pleasing, I shove the berry greedily into my mouth, eating with gusto.
Viggo nods in approval, and I smile before my gaze slides farther down the table to a glowering Cyphus. My smile vanishes and my stomach sinks. His gaze settles on me like a heavy weight, and I resist the impulse to touch my throat where I still feel the rough slide of his tongue even a day later.
“We harvest them year-round. They only grow in the Crags,” Viggo continues, his green eyes emerald bright as he elaborates. “Not only are they tasty, but they have healing properties. You can ingest them . . . or turn them into a salve for wounds. I apply it daily on Arvos to help him.”
“Really?” I muse, wondering if there is a way I can slip a jar of the stuff into my stash of belongings tucked away in the kitchen, hidden, waiting for me. It could be useful for the days ahead on my journey south.
I catch Tage glancing at me as I nibble on a thick slice of pungent, heavily seeded bread, also made from the curative verdaberries, but the moment I return his look, he averts his gaze and loses himself in conversation with Danhy, ignoring me once again.
I force myself to eat even though I’m a bubbling pot of nerves. I don’t realize how hungry I am until the food hits my stomach. It’s as though my body knows what looms ahead and seeks the fortification.
As I eat, I sit as still as possible, no grand movements or gestures, making myself as small as possible, determined to not attract attention. Last night taught me just how detrimental that can be.
I’d been foolish, lulled into complacency among them.
Forgetting myself. Forgetting them. Thinking I could bide my time and wait out these coldest months of winter.
Cyphus restored my perspective. There’s a reason that humans don’t live in the Crags.
You’re not bred for this. You won’t survive here.
As soon as the meal ends, I gather dishes and head to the kitchen alongside Viggo. I wash them quickly, knowing the sooner it’s done, the sooner Viggo will take himself to bed. The sooner they all go to bed, the sooner I will be left by myself.
It feels like forever before that happens but, in reality, it’s no different than any other night since my arrival. I try to calculate how long I’ve been here, but I’ve lost track. A week. Two.
I settle down near the fire, blanket pulled to my chin, eyes wide.
And I wait.
Every time I tell myself enough time has passed, and that I can get up, I force myself to wait a little longer, to be less eager, less anxious. There will only be one chance at this. I cannot fail.
When I can wait no more, I sit up slowly and study the great room, the far rock walls and the dark eyes of the inky tunnels that lead to the dens. Satisfied I’m alone and everyone is in bed, I slip quietly into the kitchen and retrieve the pack of supplies I stashed.
Returning to the main room, I move on the balls of my feet and snatch the fur blanket from the bench. I will wrap it around myself as I travel. If it served as sufficient protection for the animal that once wore it as a hide, it would serve me.
I creep across the cavernous great room. My every sound seems magnified in the echoing space. I continually glance over my shoulder. The moment I step into the tunnel leading out into the Crags, I exhale. Almost out. Almost free.
Already it’s colder, the whistle of wind louder. And dark. So dark. The kind of dark that awaits you in death. I can’t even make out my own hand before my face.
I shuffle along cautiously, gritting my teeth as I adjust the fur more fully over me. If I could wait for winter to subside, I would, but last night confirmed it.
It’s time.
Whatever danger waits out in the Crags pales in comparison to the memory of waking up with Cyphus over me . . . licking me.
I stretch out a hand, skimming the rough, bumpy wall to my right. The cold solidness beneath my palm is a comfort, grounding me, guiding me toward the outside world. Toward life . . . a future away from monsters that think of me as a meal.
“Leaving us?”
I stiffen for a fraction of a second at the sound of the voice, digesting it, turning the deep timbred words over in my head, identifying the speaker. Tage.
He speaks again. “I warned you my wrath will not be something you wish to face when I catch you.”
I swallow back the irrational urge to scream and . . . run.
I don’t turn. I don’t look over my shoulder. I don’t waste a moment.
Panic shoots through me as I dart ahead into the dark, clumsy beneath the heavy fur, my pack of supplies bumping at my hip.
Of course, it’s nothing to stop me. He with his wrath and immeasurable strength.
The hand that clamps down on my shoulder exerts the barest pressure, but it’s enough. Enough to stop me and spin me around.
Facing him in the dark feeds my panic. Sightless, I’ve never felt my vulnerability so keenly, never tasted the sour edge of fear quite like this before.
I knock his hand from my shoulder. The move unbalances me, and I fall back against the icy damp of the tunnel wall.
I can’t see him but I hear his angry breath. I taste his fury on the air. I feel him in front of me, a throbbing presence overflowing the narrow passageway, eating up all the space—around him, between us.
Knowing he’s there but not seeing him is the worst. My imagination fills in the gaps of what my eyes cannot see. I envision him as Cyphus was: all sneering lips and ravenous dragon eyes. Tage plays the part of a human, but he’s not.
I swallow down a whimper at the memory, determined to hide my fear as though revealing it will plant horrible ideas in his mind, the same kind of ideas that live inside Cyphus.
“Just let me go.” I hate the plea in my voice, but I carry on anyway.
That’s what I do. Carry on. Keep going. Endure.
“You don’t want me here. You haven’t wanted me here from the start.
You can just let me slip away. Forget that I exist. I won’t be your problem anymore.
” Because I know he thinks of me as a problem.
I’ve observed the tension in the pride, the struggles.
He doesn’t need the complication of me here . . . inside.
I wish I could see his face to gauge his thoughts. There’s a subtle shift in the beat of silence between us, the barest scuff of rock. My panic climbs a step.
He’s moved closer.
“The others don’t have to know.” My voice quivers past my lips.
“In the morning, I’ll just be gone. You’ll never hear from me again.
I won’t cause any problems for you and your kind.
” That much is true. Even if I gain visibility, I’m not going to rush into the world proclaiming dragons still exist. No one would want to believe it anyway.
Humankind has enough to worry about. They would reject my words as the ravings of a madwoman and I’d probably end up in an asylum for my efforts.
His hand finds me, and I let out a small cry like the warbling of a startled bird.
I fight him, twisting and resisting as he seizes my hand and drags me back to the cave.
“No, no, no.” I choke on a sob, imagining what awaits me. My imagination doesn’t have to work hard.
Death.
My inevitable death awaits me here.
As we burst into the flickering light of the cave, all good sense leaves me.
I fight like an animal caught in a trap, ready to gnaw off my own leg to escape.
That’s what I am. Wild and terrified and desperate, battling for my life against someone so much bigger, stronger .
. . a body conditioned to dominate and kill.
I lose the fur blanket in my struggles, panting and sobbing and cursing.
I slap him.
The crack echoes through the cavernous space.
We both freeze, shocked, locked together, staring at each other with wild eyes, my handprint livid red on his cheek, my palm stinging with needles from the contact.
A long whistle stretches on the air followed by, “Well, well. She has teeth.”
Tage drags his attention from me. I follow the direction of his gaze to Danhy, who wears an expression of vindication, like I just proved a point, as though I’m the family pet who, as predicted, turned and bit the master’s hand.
They’re all here, hair rumpled from sleep, sentinels arrived, ready to mete out the necessary discipline—except for Arvos, of course. Their gazes scan the scene, missing nothing. Not me and Tage locked in struggle. Not my bag of supplies or blanket, evidence of my attempt at escape.
Viggo looks shocked.
Danhy smug.
Cyphus . . .
Well. Cyphus looks almost jealous, as though Tage has stolen his favorite toy.
“I told you she can’t be trusted. What are you going to do with her now?” Danhy demands.
Viggo nods slowly, regret in his green eyes, and I hate that. Hate that I’ve somehow disappointed him.
I turn to face Tage, ready for him to condemn me.
“All of you . . . to bed,” he commands.
I don’t know what I expected from him, but it isn’t this.
The others don’t expect it either. They don’t accept it.
“Tage,” Danhy begins slowly, tentatively, but she doesn’t get a chance to finish.
“What are you going to do with her?” Cyphus demands, and there’s nothing deferential in his hard tone. I’ve never heard any of the others speak to Tage in such an insolent manner. “She should be punished. If you haven’t the stomach, turn her over to me.”
Turn her over to me.
I flinch. My imagination doesn’t need to work hard to envision what that might look like. My knees start to shake, threatening to buckle, blasted with the memory of his body pinning me down. Rancid breath. Rough tongue. Ugly words.
Tage’s arms around me keep me upright. He looks coldly at Cyphus. “That’s for me to decide.”
“It concerns all of us!”
Danhy and Viggo swap uneasy looks.
Tage’s arms loosen around me, and I manage to stay upright. With one hand wrapped around my wrist, he steps out from my side.