6. Bea
BEA
When I wake, my cheek is pressed against the cold scree of the riverbed, my hair drifting in the current. For a moment, I cannot place why I’m here. This isn’t my bed, nor do I have any memory of falling asleep.
The smell of copper meets my nose, and all at once, it comes back to me. The woman, Kenna. Her husband. His attack.
I scramble to sit, ducking my head and raising my arms on instinct, but nothing happens. Tentatively, I crack open my eyes, my shoulders relaxing when I find I am blessedly alone in my valley.
The man is gone.
And so is Kenna.
A smile of triumph twists my lips as I stand and hobble to the shallow part of the river, though it doesn’t last long. A jolt of agony shoots through my head, and I wince. As slowly as I can, I lower myself down, letting the cool water wrap around my body to take the edge off my pain.
My tongue is as dry as tree bark, and a dull ache throbs at the base of my skull and in my temple.
I twist, taking stock of my injuries. My ribs are tender from where the man must have kicked me after I fell unconscious, but it’s mild compared to what I’ve experienced before, and a small price for the woman's safety.
I lie back on the rocks, letting the sun warm my face, my torso and legs still submerged, and revel in my victory. Hours pass, my dragon dancing overhead, and I’m grateful that there are few deaths. More grateful that none are unexplained.
My eyelids grow heavy and are beginning to close when my dragon’s head swings to the left, a blast of fire shooting from her mouth as if in warning.
Before I have time to even sit up, to look in the direction of whatever she's alerting me to, she disappears beyond the ridge.
A sense of rage fills the valley, hot and pointed as a newly forged blade.
The birds caw as they leap into the air and dart away, and the fish duck into their holes.
The glen goes completely, eerily silent.
Even the air feels wrong, the sun’s rays somehow unable to combat the icy chill creeping up my arms.
My skin turns to gooseflesh as I slowly stand, unease settling on my shoulders. What could possibly cause my dragon to react so strongly?
Is the husband returning to try to finish what he started?
Fear slides through my blood, but it isn’t for myself. It’s for Kenna. He hadn’t caught me, but if he does? I’ll be forced to tell him exactly where she went, no matter how much I don't want to.
But would he return so soon? Maybe it’s not him at all. Maybe this is someone or something else entirely. I hope it is. I will gladly take another beating over giving Kenna’s location away.
Unless… What if the husband wasn’t the he the muse was speaking of at all? What if he is still out there?
I hold my hands out in front of me, hoping the blood stains might scare away whoever it is that’s coming.
Because they are coming.
I feel it with every step closer they take. It’s in the thickness of the air. The way it presses against my skin, so hard, it’s difficult to breathe. A buzzing pulls at my skin, demanding I pay attention.
Hatred seeps into my bones. A pounding wrath that makes my heart race and my lungs constrict.
“Who's out there?" I call, but there's no answer, only the most intense silence I've ever experienced.
There's a weight to it—a promise of something to come, and whatever it is, I don’t think it will be pleasant.
I infuse as much confidence into my voice as I can.
If someone has come for their pound of flesh, I refuse to make it easy on them.
“If it's the answer to a question you seek, you need only ask it,” I say, purposefully leaving out the part about catching me. My voice shakes, betraying me, and frustration swirls in my chest. I learned near the beginning of my sentence that showing my fear makes things worse. That it is only kindling for a man’s fury, and yet, the rage in the air is so potent, I’m unable to stop it. Whoever is coming wants to hurt me.
I’m more certain of it than the fact that I’m cursed.
But why?
I wait, but whoever’s watching doesn’t speak, and the tight, dense silence causes the overwhelming urge to flee to skitter through my entire being.
It’s a feeling I’m not used to. I’m no stranger to people hating me, but I’ve accepted it.
Have even accepted the attacks that come along with it.
People do wild things in their grief, but this feels like more.
“Anything at all,” I say again, fighting to keep my voice steady. I peer through the birch and rowan trees that surround the river, searching for anything that might indicate what, or who, is watching me. Is it even human? Or could it be an animal?
My first instinct was that it was rage I was feeling, but could it be hunger?
For a moment, I almost hope that’s it. That an animal will leap from the forest and end this curse.
I know I cannot die, but if I'm devoured by a wolf or a bear?
How would I live then, dismembered and digested?
Would only my consciousness remain here, tethered to this shore?
It would be better, I think. My consciousness could not be attacked.
Maybe if it were just my soul, I could fly above the valley with my dragon.
Maybe…I’d be free.
I picture my bones picked clean and scattered among the heather. And yet, as the feeling intensifies, I know it isn’t an animal.
Men are the only creatures capable of a hatred so bone-chilling.
I shiver as I squint into the shadows.
“Tell me who’s there. What do you want?” I ask, raising my chin. I refuse to look weak.
And I will not be prey.
He’s close now—his rage pulsing angrily against my skin to the rhythm of a heartbeat.
I clench my fists, so very tired of being hunted, and something snaps within me.
It’s one thing for someone to come here to enact whatever revenge on me they think is owed for washing their loved one’s clothing, but another altogether to toy with me.
I’d rather face what’s coming and move forward.
Not stand here waiting for whoever’s out there to find their courage and get whatever cruelty they’re planning over with. My own fury flares in my chest.
“Stop being a coward, and face me!” I shout, spinning in a circle, scanning the valley.
There is a beat of complete silence, weighted and foreboding.
And then one of the shadows thickens. My stomach twists as it morphs from a vague smear of darkness to a large, broad-shouldered man. He stops, just far enough inside the shadows that I can't fully make out his features.
It’s terrifying, the way I can sense him watching me. Examining me like he’s searching for weaknesses. Assessing for vulnerabilities.
I stand taller and try to do the same. The man is tall, with thick, corded arms and a muscular chest, and even without seeing his face, I know his jaw is set into a hard, tight line. The shadow steps closer, and the details sharpen.
My breath hitches. The man is striking, his imperfections making him appear almost otherworldly.
It is clear his nose was broken at some point and never set, the bridge slightly crooked, and a faint scar runs from his right eyebrow into his hairline.
He’s tan, as if he spends most of his time outdoors, and thick waves of brown hair fall into his eyes.
A dark tartan kilt is wrapped around his waist, deep greens and thin stripes of blood-red, belted at the waist and falling in pleats to his knees. Over it, he wears a fitted wool tunic, reinforced with leather at the shoulders, forearms, and wrists.
The clothes of a warrior. A Dìdeanair.
Dàn are inked on his arms—more than I’ve ever seen before. One peeks from his tunic at his chest, and another jumps with the pulse in his neck.
True fear flickers in my chest. There are very few people in this kingdom who have that much magic. Magic that could actually hurt me. Make me wish for death even more fervently than I do now.
“Who are you?” I ask, but the stranger doesn’t answer, only his eyes moving, trailing down my body from head to feet.
I fight the urge to squirm beneath the man’s furious gaze. He remains deadly still, as if daring me to challenge him. Answer me! I want to scream, but the darkness in his eyes stops me cold.
“I have nothing for you to take,” I suppress a shiver as his hatred sharpens to a point, aimed directly at my chest.
The man doesn't turn away. Doesn’t move at all. He’s still studying me, his forest-green eyes heating my skin as they bore into me, but what he's looking for, I don't know.
His angular jaw bunches, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles.
“Whoever’s clothes I washed, I cannot take it back,” I say. My voice comes out weaker each time I speak, and while I hate it, the weakness I sense in my tone, I can’t seem to stop it. Why isn’t he answering me? What could this man possibly want?
He finally moves.
Fear pounds like an axe in my chest, and my sense of dread and danger grow larger than my dragon’s wings as the man stalks forward, purposeful, his plaid swishing with every step, boots crunching on the rocks.
Absolute loathing radiates off him in waves as his eyes meet mine, his teeth clenching so tight, I wonder if they will crack under the pressure. The emotion doesn’t feel vague, but targeted. Sharp and aimed directly at me, and I take an involuntary step back.
The man’s hand shoots to his hip where a long, glinting dagger sits in a leather holster, and the air is stolen from my lungs. I search the man’s face for any hint of recognition. Did I wash the clothes of someone he loved recently? I don’t think so. His features are wholly unfamiliar.
His fingers hover just above his weapon, but he stops himself from grabbing it, instead clenching his hand into a fist—a movement that doesn’t feel like hesitation but control. As if the impulse to draw blood is something that has been trained out of him.
“Are you her?” he asks, finally speaking. His voice is deep. Strong, and the roughness of it rumbles through my bones almost painfully.