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“You are so ugly.” Sixteen stared hard at Nerron as though she wanted him to see it in her mirror-eyes. “This whole world is so ugly. I hope they make it prettier when they come back.”
She put her hand on Nerron’s chest. Oh damn, that hurt. He shoved her back, but she grabbed his arm, and his skin erupted in silver blisters.
“What are you doing? Let him go!” The Pup grabbed her by her shoulders. Sixteen looked at him like a chastised child.
Seventeen stared at Nerron’s arm. He seemed surprised that he hadn’t turned all silver. Ha! Goyl skin, you mirror-spawn!
Nerron didn’t turn his back on them until he reached his horse.
Yes, go, Stoneface, Seventeen’s eyes teased him. Before I do a better job than my sister. Milk-face won’t be able to protect you.
No. But he’d tried.
And the rain would keep falling, and soon the Bastard would be feeding them to his cooking fire.
Nerron kept his eyes on the Mirrorlings as he swung himself up into the saddle.
The Pup didn’t try to hold him back, but when Nerron looked around, Will was still staring after him.
They soon moved on. Nerron followed them as soon as they were out of sight. The Pup was leaving a clear enough trail.
Yes, he’d tried to protect the boy, but he’d also let the boy’s guardians chase him off like a mangy dog. He would have to remind himself of that the next time the jade threatened to make him all sentimental again.
Forgotten
Why had Donnersmarck assumed it would happen at night? The sun was high in the sky when the stag came. The Fairy was asleep under her web, the horses were grazing under the trees, and the coach box was empty. Chithira preferred his moth guise during the day.
He would not let it happen. That had been Donnersmarck’s mantra since the child-eater had let him go. He would defeat it. After all, he was used to fighting, and it wasn’t even the first time his enemy was inside him. Every soldier had to battle his weaker self. His weaker self had brought Donnersmarck to his knees, trembling. He had screamed it away, he had outrun it, he had drowned it in the blood of others. And he had always defeated it. But what had come with him from the Bluebeard’s house did not leave any time for screaming.
The stag surged forth with the same violence with which it had been planted into him. Even the pain was similar. It felt as if the antlers that had to
rn into his chest were now breaking out from inside him, and before Donnersmarck knew what he was doing, he was bellowing into the forest while his name became as meaningless as the uniform he’d once worn.
He scraped the skin off his new antlers and looked at the dark web that hung between the trees as though the night had dropped its dress. The stag who’d once had a name knew who was sleeping beneath it, though he’d forgotten everything else. She was the thread that connected him to everything he’d once been. He took that one memory of her with him as he disappeared between the trees.
The Lost Son
Why did their hideout have to be a basement? John tried to manage the panic he still felt underground by reminding himself of the iron cell he’d spent the past week in. Or had it been two? Time escaped so quickly.
The barred window let in some daylight, but the rooms reeked of turpentine and oil paints. Their hideout was the workshop of an icon painter. Probably not a very successful one, if he had to work in a cellar on artwork that required light.
Their liberators were again discussing possible escape routes from the city. John didn’t speak Varangian, but they kept switching to Albian, since one of them seemed to be from there. What John gleaned from these bits of conversation didn’t really help alleviate his nausea caused by being underground and breathing turpentine. The Tzar had apparently put the entire city on high alert, and without a special permit there was no way in or out of Moskva. There were searches, roadblocks...
They were going to shoot him!
No matter how many times he’d thought it and no matter that he’d always gotten away alive, John quickly felt the usual symptoms setting in: shortness of breath, racing heart, cold sweats. The Dwarf doctor who’d been brought in to check on his cellmate made no secret of what he thought of his “symptoms.” The looks he gave him made John wish the Thumbling-blight on his stubby neck. Dwarfs... The Goyl had procured most of the raw materials for his weapons from Dwarfs. Even in Albion, Dwarfs were the most important suppliers of such materials, and John had spent endless hours haggling over prices and delivery schedules. Dwarfs ran more mines than Lotharaine and Albion combined, and they had a network of trading posts in even the most remote colonies. “Rich as a Dwarf” was a well-used phrase in this world. The Dwarfs liked to point out that, unlike the riches of humans, their wealth was not based on the slave trade. Still, John didn’t like them, even if two of them had just helped to free him.
John was very flattered that the Walrus had risked his best spy in his first attempt to rescue him. Orlando Tennant had been mostly unconscious after they’d thrown him in the cell, but John had at least learned his name. Tennant’s Caledonian accent had made him very homesick. He wanted to go home.
There’s a loaded word, John!
He snuck a glance at the straw mattresses strewn across the paint-splattered floor. Yes, there he was. The Dwarf doctor’s other patient.
Say it, John. Your son.
Jacob was conscious and very impatient with the doctor, just the way he’d been as a child. The urge to stare at him was so strong, but John was worried the Wolfling might notice his unusual interest. The shifter hadn’t been too happy about saving a man who’d brought about Albion’s victory over Varangia. In this country, even the traitors were patriots. On the other hand, Wolflings always looked like they were about to devour you.
Jacob could barely stay upright, but he tried. Slapped away the hand that tried to keep him on the mattress. Squabbled with the Wolfling, who wouldn’t let him leave. After all these years, why did it still feel to John as though he’d held his son in his arms only days before?
