Chapter Two
A rran dropped the lifeless body of the hunter to the ground. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but knew it was the most likely outcome. Elsie was always going to be the hardest to persuade. Hopefully, the rest of her crew would see sense.
The young one who controlled the plants dropped his attack immediately. The pale, wormlike roots were slinking back into the soil around him. Apart from this, the boy appeared strangely unfazed, staring Arran down calmly instead of backing away.
Logan, by contrast, was shuffling backward on his arse, pathetically cradling his limp wrist while his panicked eyes flipped back and forth between the Wulver and Elsie’s corpse.
‘Get out of here,’ Arran snarled at him, ‘and I will let you live.’
‘Fuck,’ Logan hissed, scrambling to his feet. ‘Fucking fuck. Come on, Weed. Fuck.’
He grabbed one of the rucksacks, launching another at Weed’s feet. When the boy didn’t move, he nearly screamed. ‘Did you fucking hear me? Move your shit, Weed!’
Weed shook his head slowly. ‘Can’t do that, Logan. He killed Elsie.’
‘That’s why we’re going to fucking leave! ’
Arran adjusted his stance, preparing for another possible attack. But surely the kid wasn’t stupid enough to try again? Even though Elsie had landed a couple of hits, there was no way Weed could hope to fare any better than she had.
Arran growled to mask a groan as the stab wound in his side flared with pain.
‘Fuck,’ Logan hissed again, backing off. ‘Suit yourself. Fuck. ’
The hunter stumbled away, slipping halfway down the slope in his terror. Weed remained in place, unnervingly relaxed. Arran’s claws twitched. What the hell was he playing at?
‘I am not joking,’ Arran said evenly, and with as menacing a rumble as he could muster. ‘If you do not leave, I shall kill you too.’
Weed shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. I’m yours to do what you want with.’
Was he… was Weed smiling? The glint in his eye and coy curve to his mouth put Arran completely on edge. Did the kid have other magic tricks up his sleeve?
He tensed when Weed held out his arms, expecting another assault. But instead, the boy simply pulled his sleeves up, revealing the twisted rope tattoos that encircled each wrist.
‘Magical bindings, these are,’ Weed said brightly, like he was discussing the weather. ‘I’m cursed to serve whoever owns me. That’s you now, wolfie.’
Arran’s eyes narrowed, hunting for a spark of deception in Weed’s outwardly honest face. ‘No.’
Weed chuckled—it had a vicious quality to it. Like he was enjoying this fucked up explanation. ‘’Fraid so. You just killed my master, see? That means ownership passes to you. I’m all yours. ’ He twirled a finger through his auburn hair, affecting a sickly sweet tone. ‘Whether you want me or not.’
Arran looked from Weed to Elsie’s body. Her methods had been ruthless, and he wouldn’t put it past her to have enslaved a person to do her bidding. Or, of course, the boy could be lying to save his own skin. Perhaps he didn’t like the thought of continuing to travel in Logan’s company. The man seemed brutish even from a distance.
Well, fine. Let him prove it.
‘You’ll follow my instructions?’ Arran asked, cocking his head in doubt.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then dig a grave. I will watch you.’
Arran folded his arms, resisting the urge to clutch at his stomach. Elsie’s knife blade was only steel—the wound would heal in a few hours. The graze to his arm was another matter. The bite of silver left a stinging, raw sensation over the cut, like his flesh was burning. Arran was grateful it wasn’t too deep. He would clean and bandage it when he was able.
‘As you command,’ Weed drawled, waving a hand.
Arran leapt back as the ground began to open in front of him. Moving under the force of thousands of squirming roots, the soil peeled away from itself. The roots carried the loose earth up over a newly formed edge and heaped it next to the growing hole in the ground.
‘Deep enough?’ Weed asked, once it was about six feet deep.
‘That wasn’t digging.’
Weed shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘So I get a little leeway for creative interpretation. If you wanted manual labour you should have specified that I use a shovel.’
Arran grunted. ‘I suspect you would have only had your plants do the digging for you, instead.’ He looked over Elsie’s body, patting her pockets and coming up empty for a wallet. ‘Did she have any family?’
Another lazy shrug from Weed. ‘Why should I care?’
‘Answer me.’ Arran grit his teeth. ‘Please.’
Weed snickered. ‘There you go, a nice direct order. Yes, she had a cousin she hated and some distant relatives I don’t know much about. No siblings or kids.’
‘Friends? Anyone she was close with?’
‘Not that I’d know. Other hunters, maybe. I wouldn’t worry. Doubt anyone would miss her enough to come after you.’
Arran huffed through his nose. ‘I’m not worried. But her kin should be informed.’ He began rifling through Elsie’s pack and came up with a sleeping bag. It would do.
‘Why’d you care? She’s not your problem any more.’ Weed watched with fascination as Arran carefully zipped Elsie’s body into the sleeping bag.
Arran gestured to the backpack. ‘Is anything in here yours?’
‘Of course not.’
He laid Elsie’s body gently into the grave, then placed her entire pack, crossbow, and bolts on top. He nodded to Weed. ‘Cover it up. Please.’
The soil piled back in, leaving a low mound. Blades of grass crawled over it, spreading a natural carpet that blended with the rest of the ground. Arran had kept back Elsie’s knife, the one she’d stabbed him with. This he stuck into the earth at the grave’s head. Hopefully she would find it to be a fitting marker.
‘There was some useful stuff in that bag,’ Weed said, arching an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t peg you for the wasteful sort.’
‘I don’t steal from the dead.’
Arran rose from the graveside, ignoring the incredulous look being thrown his way. He nodded at the last of the hunters’ packs which Logan had flung at Weed. ‘Take that for yourself. I free you from service to me.’
Weed snorted. ‘You what?’
‘I free you. I give you to yourself. Whatever it is that is required to break your bond to me.’ Arran turned to leave. ‘Go away.’
‘Ah.’ He heard Weed’s footsteps retreating. ‘See, that’s one of those problematic instructions. Here I am, going away. Definitely following orders. Yup. As far as I can. Within my limits. Oh look, you’re about fifty feet away and now I’ve gotta start moving toward you again…’
Arran was ready to ignore his prattling and continue walking, but Weed’s voice kept at a steady distance, matching his pace.
‘See? This is as far away as I can go. End of the rope. You might as well be pulling me. Fun fact: there are some other orders that are also de facto worthless. You can’t tell me to kill you, for instance. Or to kill myself. Bit of a built-in failsafe so I can’t trick you into saying some unwise words. Because otherwise, trust me, I’d be running rings around you with all the possible loopholes I could spring through…’
Kill me now, Arran thought sardonically. Weed’s voice was bright and grating, and showed no sign of slowing down. Arran glanced over his shoulder and confirmed that yes, for every step he took, Weed appeared compelled to do the same. He’d picked up the backpack, at least.
‘Stop,’ Arran said, drawing to a halt. ‘What do I need to say to free you?’
Weed halted as ordered and smiled sweetly. ‘Not possible, oh master of mine.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Arran scratched his chin. ‘I command you to be free.’
Weed crossed his arms and raised his eyes to the sky. ‘Got a thick one here, I see.’
Arran rubbed thumb and forefinger along the bridge of his nose, holding his temper. He was tired and in pain, and running out of patience for Weed’s games. ‘What kind of instructions do you respond to?’
‘Clear and decisive commands,’ Weed replied, twirling a stalk of grass between his fingers. For someone supposedly doomed to servitude, he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by it.
‘Then I command you to leave me alone,’ Arran growled. ‘Walk yourself to the very edge of the island and then kindly drop over the edge of it.’
He began to walk and instantly heard Weed’s footsteps resume as well.
‘Oh, I would love to oblige,’ Weed said, with what sounded like a skip in his step to keep up with Arran’s long strides. ‘But I simply can’t.’
Arran held in a sigh and stopped again. ‘What fool would bind a creature as annoying as yourself in such unwaveringly close proximity?’
‘The old hunter, Bryce,’ Weed replied in a sing-song voice. ‘Bound me as a favour to a boggart some eighty years ago. Then when Elsie killed him, she got me as a bonus reward.’ He spoke so casually, it was as if he wasn’t recounting his own enslavement at all.
Arran squinted closer and pulled in a quick breath through his nose to confirm his earlier appraisal. Weed smelled perfectly human. There was a whiff of magic about him, faintly metallic, like blood in the air, though not enough to suggest he was wearing a glamour to disguise his face. But no human should have a face that young after eighty years.
Arran beckoned him closer. ‘All right, you can stop dragging on the end of your chain. What manner of creature are you?’
Weed sauntered right up to him, so uncomfortably close that Arran had to look straight down his snout. Weed was already on the short side, maybe a little under five and a half feet, and the gauntness of his frame gave his appearance a very fragile, breakable quality.
‘I was fae,’ Weed replied, sticking a finger into Arran’s chest. ‘Just like you.’
Arran plucked Weed’s hand away and stepped back. Interesting, he thought. And troublesome. ‘What did you do to get yourself trapped in this situation?’
‘ Do? I did nothing! ’ Weed’s vivid green eyes were the very picture of wronged innocence. ‘Minding my own business. I had a little patch of woodland to call my own, plenty of trees to keep me busy. I was a dryad, if you couldn’t guess.’
Arran regarded him with suspicion. ‘Do you have to tell me the truth?’
Weed’s grin spread wide. ‘Now, how would you know if I was answering that honestly?’
He had a point.
‘I see you’re good at sidestepping questions. Very fae of you.’ Arran ignored the smug look on Weed’s face and resumed walking in the direction of home. Weed skipped along behind him.
Arran wasn’t the least bit thrilled with this situation, nor with the thought of bringing a stranger into his home—and an untrustworthy fae, of all things. But short of tying Weed to a rock, Arran didn’t have an immediate solution. And as tempting as the rock option felt, he wasn’t going to leave Weed to waste away in the wilderness.
He had a heavy feeling that he would come to regret this decision.