Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Too wired to try to sleep, despite the obvious logic to wait until daybreak before leaving, she slung the last of what she thought she’d need into her pack, their savings carefully wrapped in some clothes at the bottom.
Otis had more than one belted harness for the dagger, and she tugged it on, cinching it tight over her hips. The dagger was a comforting weight, and she drew it a few times, practicing the angle she’d need to access it quickly in an emergency.
When she could think of nothing else she might need, she shouldered her pack, ignoring her back’s protestations, and turned to look around the lounge. The weight of its emptiness crushed her, making it difficult to breathe.
She battled past it, forcing herself to see Otis sitting in his chair, the reassuring constant in her life no matter what else it threw at her.
She pictured Mirra chatting away, always smiling, no matter what.
She saw her childhood; the happiness, the safety, the love.
She closed her eyes and saw Fenrir, her last living friend, the protective goofball who could always make them smile.
She put her hand on the doorframe and silently thought of everything she was leaving behind. For a moment, she allowed her anguish to envelop her, feeling its infinite depth and accepting that it was now a part of her. But so was her rage, and she could either drown in it, or use it.
She sank into the anger, undiluted and pure, and it pulled her from the stupor of grief, giving her direction, purpose. Her future stretched out before her, the path clear and beckoning.
Hoiking her pack higher onto her shoulders, she strode out the front door, shutting it behind her without a backward glance.
It wasn’t long before she was limping again, the poultice having helped more than she believed possible, but her joints screamed under the weight of the pack.
She pushed on, wincing as she realised how much catching up she had to do if she was going to find Fenrir.
Usually, a lone traveller would make much better time than a group that size, but in her condition, she wondered if she’d ever catch up.
A light drizzle began to drip from the overhead canopy, and she paused to lift her hood over her head, pulling it down low over her face. Fucking perfect. Not only was she sore, tired, and hungry, but she was going to get wet too.
She left Callodosis behind, following the main road out of the woods.
Road was a generous term for the dusty tracks they used to transport the timber they harvested out of the forest, but it was the best they had.
As the hours crept by, she found herself crossing the point that took her the furthest she’d ever been from home.
She paused for a moment, hands fisted around the straps of her pack to stop them digging in so much, doubt creeping in. She swallowed hard and took another step. Now this was the furthest she’d ever been. Now this. Now this.
A smile teased at her lips; it was going to be a long walk if she kept this up.
The weak rays of the sun would just be rising above the thick canopy, but she had a while yet before they’d be strong enough for her to follow the physical trail of the Astraea.
That was okay though, the tracks were so fresh that she could still smell the mixed jumble of dozens of scents, all mingling to become powerful enough for her to make out.
Her senses weren’t human, matching that of the most sensitive artemian, although once Shifted, most of them would have been able to best her. That was where she always fell short.
A regular artemian’s skillset was dictated by the animal they could Shift into.
If their second form had particularly good hearing, that was transferable to their two-legged form.
The same was true for strength, speed, agility, sight, smell, and so on.
On two legs, Aelia could beat all of them, at everything.
She could outlift, outrun, and outjump the very best of them.
But she couldn’t Shift, and that was what mattered in Demuto. That’s how your worth was measured.
Aelia was so busy following her nose, so absorbed by her inner monologue about societal injustices, that she was utterly taken by surprise when a hulking shape leapt out at her in an indistinguishable blur and slammed her face-first into the nearest tree.
“Why are you following me?” a voice growled into her ear. Panic flooded through her. The man pressing her against the tree felt huge at her back, and in this position, she was near defenceless.
“I’m not following you,” she ground out, face smushed into the rough bark by a firm hand.
Her hood was ripped back, and an instant later, she was let go.
Aelia whirled round to face her attacker, ignoring the pain spiking through her at the sudden movement, her hand reaching for her dagger.
It took her a moment to believe what she was seeing, her mouth dropping open in disbelief as the stranger who’d fixed her water pressure stood gawping back at her.
They both half shouted some garbled version of “what the fuck are you doing here?” at exactly the same moment, the words incoherent over one another, but the sentiment unmistakable.
Aelia glared at him as a slow smile spread across his face.
“If you wanted to get me alone in the woods again, you only had to ask,” he said, grinning.
Aelia shoved his shoulder, hard. It was like punching a rock.
She fought the urge to shake her hand against the fresh wave of pain she’d created for herself, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“You didn’t need to shove me so hard,” she complained, rubbing at her cheek. She wondered if she had an imprint of the bark on her face.
“I didn’t know it was you.” The smile leaked from his face, and for a moment she thought he looked genuinely contrite. “Your hood was up, and the rain masked your scent. Are you hurt?”
Great, of course he could smell her. Gods only knew what a man like him Shifted into. She genuinely couldn’t imagine any living creature more animalistic than the towering hunk of muscle in front of her.
She threw her hood back over her head, glaring at him the whole time, choosing to ignore his question.
“So you’re in the habit of throwing everyone who happens to walk behind you into trees?” she said, not giving him time to answer before she cut in. “Not that I find that hard to believe, after you broke into my house and made yourself at home. How did you even know where I lived anyway?”
Something flickered over his face, too quick for her to register.
“I asked someone in the village when I was carrying you back.” He ignored her answering scowl. “And I didn’t break in. The door wasn’t locked.”
“And that gives you the right to just waltz in and start sticking your nose into everything, does it?” she said, voice rising to a near shout.
His expression darkened. Good, she was getting to him.
“I carried you up gods knows how many stairs, tended to your wounds, and fixed a few things while I was waiting to make sure you weren’t going to stop breathing.
So can you stop acting like I broke in and ransacked the place?
” Something changed in his eyes, making their brown depths seem suddenly darker, crueller.
It struck a chord deep within her, an ancient instinct that warned her to be careful. He must have noticed her fear because, with what seemed like a real effort, he controlled his expression, the darkness in his eyes clearing a moment later.
A bit freaked out, she took a step back. His arm lifted towards her, his face regretful for a fraction of a second before he clenched his jaw and let his arm drop to his side.
She replayed his words, eyes narrowing.
“What do you mean you fixed a few things?” She knew about the water filter… what else had he been nosing around?
“Does it matter?” He turned and stalked off to the other side of the track, pulling his own pack from where he’d stashed it behind a tree. “I wanted to make sure you were ok, I had nothing to do whilst I waited, and I thought I was being helpful. I misjudged the situation, I’m sorry.”
Her retort died on her lips. He was right, what did it matter now?
“Never mind,” she said, not caring how ungracious she sounded.
He wasn’t the white knight in the story, he was the oaf who’d grabbed onto her with his great big sausage fingers and stopped her from getting to Otis in time.
Only when she looked down at his hands, she was proven wrong.
His hands were huge, sure, but his fingers were long and tanned, the veins branching up into the tense muscles of his forearm.
Something clenched low in her stomach at the sight of them, and when she finally returned her gaze to his, a strange light in his eyes made her wonder if he knew what she’d been thinking.
“You’re right, it doesn’t matter,” she snapped, hoping he didn’t notice the colour she could feel stealing into her cheeks. “Let’s just go our separate ways and forget all about it.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer, trying to hide her embarrassment as she turned and strode up the road with as much dignity as she could muster, limp aside.
After a few meters, she puffed out her cheeks in a sigh, trying to dispel the last of her awkwardness, when she heard a twig snap behind her.
Peering over her shoulder mid-stride, her frown slammed back into place.
“What are you doing?” she said, half turning to walk sideways, not wanting to waste any more time.
He shrugged, his pack shifting on his shoulders. “Walking.”
She wanted to throttle him.
“Can’t you hang back a bit?”
“Can’t you? I’ve already spent enough time trying to do the right thing, it’s your turn. You can hang back and wait if you like, but I’m not stopping.”