Page 169 of Blade of the Nightking

He rolled the parchment up and slid it back into his pack.

“Don't drink from the spring,” he said without looking at me.

It hadn't even occurred to me to do such a thing. The gold flashing through the water was warning enough. Still, curiosity got the better of me.

“Why not?”

He gave me a look. “Because I said so.”

I ground my teeth.

His eyes lifted to the patches of sky visible through the leaves above. Whatever he saw there seemed to displease him.

“We need to hurry.”

Without another word, he started forward again, following the spring as it wound through the trees. I hurried after him, practically jogging to keep up.

“Is the Vein inside the spring?” I asked, breathless.

“Beneath it.”

“Are all Veins underground?”

“No.”

My patience thinned with every clipped reply.

“Well then what—ow!” I slapped at the stinging bite. Something zipped away from me quickly.

It looked like an oversized insect. The creature hovered several feet away, its wings beating so rapidly they were little more than a translucent blur.

Rìan halted beside me as the thing drifted closer. It wasn't an insect at all—but some kind of tiny faerie. No larger than my hand, its slender, androgynous body was green and mottled, the color of leaves dappled by sunlight. Wisps of red hair hung around its head like trailing lichen, its enormous black eyes dominating its delicate face. It chirped softly.

Something in my chest melted. “Oh.”

It chirped again and flew closer, examining me with obvious curiosity. It looked almost childlike, so earnest and innocent that I found myself smiling at it. Without thinking, I held out my hand. To my delight, it seemed to accept the invitation. It floated lower, its tiny feet stretching toward my palm as though it intended to perch there. It grinned, exposing needle-sharp teeth that gleamed, stained dark with blood.

My blood.

Perhaps adorable had been a premature assessment.

The creature threw back its head, and a furious buzzing rolled from its throat, filling the clearing—far too loud for something so small.

Before I could react, Rìan's hands clapped together around it.

“No!”

He pulled his hands apart. Bright green ichor streaked his palms, and between them hung the creature's broken remains, its delicate wings crumpled like those of a crushed moth. With a look of disgust, Rìan flicked the corpse away between his thumb and forefinger.

“Blood midge,” he grunted, already turning away.

I gaped at him, horrified. “You killed her!”

He started walking again. “Blood-sucking little pests.”

I hurried after him, appalled. “How could you?”

“I think what you mean to say is thank you.”