Page 6 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Not before he lifts his head and glares at me, his square chin clenched. Aw, fuck. I hit a man who resembles a god with my little sister.

A flock of startled birds obscure sight lines with a flap of wings. The already slippery ground goes liquid, throwing me off balance.

Twenty-five points. My gut weakens.

The wind swells again, not to tear us apart, but to bind us together in danger and darkness.

He’s staring at me like he’s not sure whether to use his ax on me or not, and this one gleams with the unmistakable shine of real, honed steel.

Chapter 2

Helene

Ihit the man, sparks flying where our skin meets, and heat flashes up my arms where the feathers of his cloak brush my skin. The collision jolts through my bones despite the inches separating us.

Yeah. Audra is right.

He’s got to be close to seven feet tall and blocks the slim space between the leatherworker’s tents, one selling pouches and belts and another with lines of drinking horns.

Dread knocks against my ribs. I ran over Leif-fucking-Erikson.

I inhale sharply through my nose, and the scent of him brands itself inside. Mint. Salt. Musk.

“What are you, made of iron?” The snark snaps out of me before I clamp down on the words. “You’re a wall of muscle.”

I hadn’t noticed the man, but now that we’ve collided, he’s impossible to miss. And worth more points.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean...the chair got away from me. Are you okay?" I ask.

Wild, dirty blond hair flies in mad waves around his face, peppered through with intricate braids from his temples. War paint streaks intimidating lines across golden skin, emphasizing dark eyes. Against the stark white of the feathered collar, he’s a study of contrasts.

Cloak feathers brush my arm—black, sharp-edged, wrong for daylight—and I’m already blurting out a follow-up apology when his eyes catch mine. They’re steady and perceptive, and the words die in my throat.

I take a massive step in the opposite direction, the seams of my costume creaking. I’m not about to judge his outfit. At least his is realistic. Too realistic. The ax is honed enough to cut a thought.

I don’t know him. But my body reacts like I do.

Something in my chest stumbles, recognition without a memory, and for a beat the festival disappears, even Audra in her chair.

“You’re one of the performers, aren’t you?” I ask. “For the feast at the end of the night. Or one of the rowers on the longship?”

It makes sense, but the trickle of nerves devolves into something else. Something dark. Hot.

I edge myself between him and my sister on instinct. Surprise is a lightning strike when the man laughs.

“Where are you going, little Shieldmaiden?” The rough words come out almost sweet. He stands taller, and my legs tremble.

Deep voice, the kind designed to quiver even the most stubborn parts of a woman.

And the tone, more than a little condescending.

The last tendrils of fear disappear, but the resulting emotion is a mixed bag at a thrift store and I’m not positive what I’ve got. Irritation, sure. Frustration. Repentance. And lust?

Good to know things haven’t shut up shop at the ripe age of twenty-eight, although the years of celibacy have made me eligible for a nunnery.

I glance down at the axe again, then back up to his eyes to find him already watching me with amusement.

His expression shouldn’t undo me, but it does—intense, unsettling, the kind of stare like a claim.