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She was right, of course.
She carried on reading. He carried on listening. Slowly, he drifted into what felt like the most restful sleep he’d had in days.
He dreamed that Jules kissed him on the head and brushed back his hair, perhaps in a way mortals often did to each other. He hardly knew where he’d conjured such a fantasy from.
But conjured it, he had, and it was a dream that would come back to haunt him, night after night, with harder, deeper kisses, that burned through him in a way no fever had ever done.
Julianawokeonthemossy ground to the smell of meat frying. She looked up and discovered Owen nearby, bent over a campfire, a tall, broad-shouldered woman crouched on a nearby log in a shredded tunic. Her short silver hair was streaked with mud, her feet were bare, her neck red, but she was beaming from ear to ear as she sank her teeth into what looked like a piece of fried squirrel.
“Mornin’,” she said, making eye contact with Juliana. “Thanks for your help last night. Want a bit of squirrel?”
Juliana would have preferred pheasant smothered in blackberries and butter, or a hot bread roll stuffed with fruit, or a creamy blue-veined cheese and a slice of honey-apple.
But she was famished, and not about to turn down the offer of a free meal.
“Please.”
Saoirse speared a piece from her husband’s pan using a nearby twig, and passed it over. Juliana tore into it so fast she barely even noticed the bitter, unsavoury taste.
“Steady on, girl. Don’t choke,” said Owen, chuckling. “That would be an appalling end to your tale.”
Juliana imagined Alia committing it to poetry.
There once was a mortal named Jules
Who turned out to be a bit of a fool
Though she longed to be a knight
She’d didn’t turn out all right—
She choked to death on a squirrel.
Alia’s would doubtless be much better, if she ever got the chance to compose it.
Suddenly, Juliana didn’t feel so hungry any more. She swallowed the last piece with some difficulty.
“There’s more where that came from,” Saoirse offered.
Juliana knew she’d need more to give her energy on the journey, although the thought soured her stomach. She thought of Aoife in the castle, her inky fingers stained with blood. She imagined Alia singing in a room full of bones, her empty song echoing through the halls.
Saoirse speared her a few more pieces. “Owen says you’re on a mission.”
“I can’t explain what it is.”
“Don’t trust one of the Unseelie?”
“I don’t trustanyone,“ she snapped. “No offence.”
Owen chuckled, handing her a few roasted nuts wrapped up in a leaf. “You’ve seen our clientele. Takes a lot more than that to offend us.”
Juliana couldn’t think of much to say to that. “And you?” she said instead. “Still going to the mortal realm?”
Saoirse and Owen exchanged glances, shrugging. “If you’ve a plan, we might stick around here for a bit.”
“It’ll be dangerous—”
Saoirse raised a thick, silver brow. “I’m awerewolf.”
