Safire growled, then aimed the second knife—trying for a blow that would immobilize, but not kill—and threw it.
In a blink, the girl was gone. The steel thunked into the plaster.
She reappeared a heartbeat later, standing once more before Safire.
It was unnatural. No one could move like that.
“Demon,” she murmured, stepping back.
Was this why she carried no weapons? Because she could dodge any blow?
“There’s no need to be unkind.” The Death Dancer’s mouth bent up at the side as she moved toward Safire. “Now what’s behind that scarf you don’t want me to see?”
Safire took another step back, but those quick fingers snagged her sandskarf. The girl tugged it free, revealing Safire’s face.
Those green eyes went wide. “You.” Her voice became a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
Putting a stop to this,thought Safire. She drew a third knife and pressed its honed tip into the hollow of the girl’s throat. Those nimble hands went palm up as Safire backed her into the wall beneath the window, her knee pinned between the girl’s legs, ensuring she couldn’t escape again.
Safire was just about to rap the hilt hard against her temple and watch her drop when there was a sharp prick of pain in her neck. Like a scorpion sting.
Safire blinked.
She saw the thorn of the scarp thistle dart—gripped in the girl’s hand—too late.
A heartbeat later, the room rocked. The Death Dancer’s mouth—twisting into a cruel smile now—blurred before her.
Safire’s legs started to tremble. Her fingers—suddenly unable to grip—slipped from her knife, which fell to the floor. Before her legs gave out completely, an arm came around her waist, holding her upright.
The room spun. The Death Dancer ducked beneath Safire’s arm, looping it around her shoulder.
“You drugged me,” Safire realized, the sentence fuzzy in her mouth.
The last words she heard before the world faded were, “Aye, princess.”
A Becoming
One morning, Crow found the fisherman’s daughter high up the cliffs, far from the footpaths, picking berries. He watched her gather handful after handful of the small dark orbs, dropping them into her basket—except for when she dropped them into her mouth.
Crow had never known hunger. Watching her made him curious.
“What does it taste like?”
Her eyes snapped to him. “You’ve never eaten one?”
He’d never eaten anything. Why would he need to?
He didn’t tell her this.
She picked a plump dark berry and held it up. “Open your mouth.”
He did. As she slid the berry in, her fingers brushed his lips. The juice of the berry, the touch of her skin... it was like a spell. Changing him. Where he’d once been content, an aching need now gnawed at his insides.
He tried to banish it. But this new feeling persisted, snapping and growling like a wolf cub. Getting louder and fiercer inside him.
Was this hunger?
It unsettled him. He left her there in the cliffs, with her basketful of berries, wanting to escape it. But weeks later—or was it months?—the need drove him back.
