Page 7 of Blood & Claw

“Welcome,” Kayla greeted him, rising after putting a fresh brick of peat on the fire. “Bar the door … we don’t want any interruptions.”

Nodding, the man did as bidden, sliding the iron bar home before taking off his cloak, and unbuckling his sword and knife belt. He then hung them up and gave the space he’d just stepped into a long, assessing look.

A moment later, he screwed up his face.

Ailsa frowned.

Their shop was cramped, but clean and orderly. A large scrubbed wooden table dominated the space, with a workbench at one end. A row of shelves lined one wall, where Kayla kept her tools, pigments, and brushes, and a hearth burned brightly opposite it.

It wasn’t a king’s hall, yet it didn’t deserve a sneer.

The man’s attention flicked to Ailsa then, and his eyes narrowed. Something shifted in their depths.

She stilled under his scrutiny.

What did he see?

What everyone else in Braewall did, most likely: a strange, lanky lass with skin that was too pale, eyes that were too dark, and lips that were too red.

Nonetheless, this stranger made her hackles rise. She was always wary of those who visited after dark, anyway.

These customers weren’t superstitious farmers or masons seeking protection or prosperity sigils. They wanted marks that made them faster, stronger, and deadlier—through magic.

And Kayla never asked what for. They were just jobs, and the ones conducted after she’d shut up shop for the day paid better than most.

Sometimes, Ailsa thought they should ask more questions.

They were doing something illegal, as it was. The use of earth magic was forbidden to common folk. To make matters worse, King Niall had recently banished all druids from the fort, accusing them of being the High Queen’s spies. It was best he never learned that a former sacrificer—one of the five druidic paths—lived within the fort’s walls.

These days, they had to be more careful than ever.

Kayla cleared her throat. “What will it be then?”

The stranger turned, his gaze settling upon the small wiry woman standing before the hearth. A halo of red curls, threaded with a little silver these days, framed a strong-featured face and sharp hazel eyes. Tattoos, interlocking spirals and knots, covered her bare arms and curled up her neck. “I want a blade on the back of my hand,” he replied, his voice a rough, low drawl. “One that will make my draw even faster.”

Ailsa’s mentor nodded brusquely. “It’ll cost you twenty silver pennies.”

“Very well.”

“Up front.”

The man grimaced before digging into a large pouch at his belt. Dressed head-to-toe in dark leathers, he had the appearance of a mercenary. The weapons he’d left by the door and his fur cloak looked expensive. He then counted out the coins and handed them over.

Kayla pocketed her payment and gestured to a stool at the nearby table. “Take a seat.”

That was her apprentice’s signal to get things ready.

Meanwhile, the newcomer was staring at Ailsa again. His expression was sharp, almost calculating, as if he was trying to figure her out.

Good luck with that. Cutting her gaze away, she moved to the long bench at the back of the shop, collecting the items Kayla would need: a clean bone needle, a dish of ink—a mix of soot and woad—as well as a small hog bristle brush and some clean scraps of linen.

“Do you have a preference for the type of blade?” Kayla asked as she took a seat next to him.

“A dagger with an engraved hilt.”

“Right … any sigils on the blade?”

“One that represents speed.”