Page 33 of White Raven

“You are a monster,” I seethed, his grip hard enough to strain my sentiment.

“Really?” He scoffed. “We’re standing in a house where the owner tried to eat you, and you’re calling me the monster.” He shook his head. Dropping his hand, he clutched my arm, hauling me for the door.

Stepping out into the dusky light, our feet came to a halt on the porch. A wheeze clipped the back of my throat in terror.

Mounted on black horses, six men in dark cloaks and hoods were grouped in front of the house. The riders on each end carried fiery torches. The flames cast them in a ruddy glow, muddying any definition in their faces but highlighting the deadly scythes each bore on their back. What looked like a crimson J was embroidered on their cloaks.

The enormous horses they were riding had sleek inky coats and obsidian eyes which didn’t even reflect in the blaze, as if they were made to blend into the shadows and never be seen. Veins and muscles popped under their skin, rendering them frightening and menacing instead of beautiful and graceful like the horses from Silvervale. They were bigger than any horses I had ever seen. One of the stallions opened its mouth in a bray, baring its teeth. The other beasts followed in succession, stomping their feet and neighing. My heart slammed in my chest, and I jerked back with a gasp.

Huginn-Muninn.

They had fangs.

Top and bottom, the four-pointed daggers snapped at us, saliva dripping from their mouths to the dry dirt below.

“Well, well . . . look what we have here. A Night Raven and a Day Raven.” The man in the middle spoke, his voice deep, but it had a nasal inflection. “Just curious where you think you’re going? We just got here.”

“I might not even share you with the rest.” The man’s words came back to me. “I will need to hurry before they arrive.”

The rest had arrived.

“Livestock isn’t supposed to run away, right?” one of the torch-holders said to his friends. He sounded younger, with an unsettling giddiness to his tone.

“No. They certainly don’t.” The middle man spoke again. “Not from us.”

“Take the knife from the back of my belt.” So low I almost missed it, the Northerner mumbled to me, his gaze not leaving the group. “Slowly.”

Dread slithered down my spine, knowing what it meant. The danger we were in, if he wanted me to wield a weapon.

Leaning closer, my body pressed into his, trying to hide my movements, appearing like a fragile scared girl, huddling into my man for protection. My hand slowly slipped up his leg, feeling his muscles flex at my touch. Somewhere in the back of my stupid brain, I recognized the heat coming off his skin, the tautness of his well-shaped ass. Then instantly felt disgusted at my intrusive thoughts, especially in our current situation. I slipped the blade out from his belt, but kept it hidden behind him.

“Did Nyre cut out your tongue already?” The man in the middle sat back in his saddle, the bottom of his scruffy jaw showing, a deep white scar slicing across his chin.

“I didn’t find anything you’ve said so far worth responding to.” The Northerner pushed out his shoulders to let me hide more behind him.

A whistle came from another rider. “Damn, brothers, the livestock is giving us some sass.” The woman’s voice darted my head to her. The outline of her figure gave nothing away of her sex, her body just as wide and tall as the rest of them.

“Not very smart,” the younger man replied. “It’s like you have no idea who you are speaking to, but I know that can’t possibly be true.”

“I know exactly who you are,” the Northerner seethed.

“Awww . . . see? Our reputation precedes us, brothers,” the younger one quipped.

One figure was set slightly behind the rest. It was a spot someone in a lower position would take, but for some reason my attention flickered to him, instinct telling me he was the actual leader. His silence exuded dominance, the aura around him clinging to the shadows, like his soul was empty of anything but darkness. His hood fell low enough to show only his scaly lips, but I could feel his eyes on me. Watching everything. Observing the smallest things.

“They killed our brother.” His voice was craggy and broken, as if some of his vocal cords were missing, sending chills down my spine. “I can see and smell his blood from here.”

“Did you?” The man in the middle tilted his head at us, showing off more of his face, his pallid skin full of cuts and sores. “Did you murder our brother?”

“Seemed only fair, since he was trying to chop us up into pieces for stew,” the Northerner replied dryly.

“Well, technically he said he wanted to make me into pie. You were going to be ordinary stew.”

My companion curved his head to me, blinking in bewilderment.

“What?” I shrugged my shoulder. “Pie is way better than stew.”

“Få dem.” The shredded voice of the man in back croaked out roughly.