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The demon then looked up at Teague. “I like the shape of their skulls.”
Jesus. “You’re not killing the dogs.”
“I would make it quick.”
He tugged on its hand and pulled it toward the firepit. “Stop trying to freak me out; it’s working.”
The entity giggled.
Archer shuddered, almost spilling his coffee. “Jesus, that sound,” he mouthed.
“I know,” Teague mouthed back, sitting down on a log beside Tucker. The rest of the clan seemed similarly creeped out by the damn giggle.
Larkin’s demon sat on Teague’s other side and slowly swept its eerie gaze along their surroundings, exploring every inch.
Tucker cleared his throat, his attention on the harpy. “I think I speak for all of my clan when I say that—”
“Don’t,” Saxon told him, lifting a slice of bacon as if to ward off the comment. “You’re likely the only one thinking whatever it is.”
Tucker arched a brow. “So no one else is thinking that we never expected to meet Larkin’s demon, let alone her?”
Leo spooned some fruit loops. “Well, I’m thinking it now.”
“I like their feathers,” her entity announced, watching two of the ravens perched on a tree branch.
Teague narrowed his eyes. “You’re not killing the ravens.”
It pursed its lips. “I suspect I could de-feather them without killing them.”
“You’re not stealing their feathers either.”
“But they are so shiny.”
Tucker bent down, grabbed a stray feather from the ground, and then reached across Teague to hand it to the entity. “Here.”
It smiled. “Thank you, small man.”
Saxon burst out laughing.
“I’m not short.” Tucker bit harder into his slice of toast than necessary.
Watching the demon happily pocket the feather, Teague asked, “You’re really going to keep that?”
“Yes.” Its gaze abruptly turned inward, and its head twitched to the side. “Larkin wants to surface now. You and I will talk again later.” Then it retreated.
Larkin double-blinked at him, her eyes now gray-green. “You shouldn’t have bought it a gift. It’ll expect more.”
Teague shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t mind.” He thought he might enjoy spoiling it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Archer said to her, setting an empty cup on the ground, “but your demon is creepy as hell.”
She flapped a hand. “No offense taken.”
“Would it really kill the dogs?” Gideon asked.
“Only if they hurt it,” she replied. “So don’t let them hurt it.”
Leo rested his bowl between his spread thighs on the chair. “Off the subject . . . We’re out of black salt. Someone needs to buy more.”
“I’ll pick some up from the Underground before my race,” offered Teague.
Larkin looked at him. “What time does your race start?”
“Noon. Why, you planning on being there?”
“I might as well go cheer you on.” She gave a nonchalant shrug. “A girlfriend would do that.”
“You’re better than me at this pretend dating thing.”
“Teague, I’m better than you at a lot of things.”
He full-on smiled. “That was wonderfully bitchy.”
“I mastered bitchiness as a kid.” She glanced at each face. “Did you all know one another before joining the Wild Hunt?”
“Teague and I did,” said Saxon. “We grew up in the same town.”
She tilted her head. “What’s hell like?” she asked no one in particular.
“Very different from here.” Slade took a swig of what was likely liquor-laced coffee. “There’s lots of barren land, lots of desert, lots of perpetual warzones. There are some kingdoms where peace mostly reigns, but there’s still plenty of fighting and drinking and mayhem there.”
“The town where Saxon and I grew up was in the middle of nowhere,” Teague told her. “It was like something you’d see in a Western movie. People settled most things with violence. Fights were always to the death.” He shrugged. “It’s just the way of life there.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. Tell me about Ronin.”
“He’s a dick,” said Archer.
Larkin twisted her mouth. “I was really hoping for a little more detail.”
Teague stretched out his legs. “He’s eight years older than me. Strong. Powerful. Motivated. And his loathing for me is a twisted, infinite, obsessive thing.”
“A lot of it stems from resentment,” Leo chipped in.
Larkin looked at Teague. “You’re living proof that his father cheated on his mother.”
“Yes, and he didn’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t exist. Our town was very small. It wasn’t possible for him and his mom to completely avoid me and mine.” A part of Teague had felt bad for them. “Every time his mother laid eyes on me, pain would flash across her face. He saw it. Hated it. Hated me for it.”
“Not his father, though,” said Saxon. “Ronin never blamed Soren for her pain. He blamed Teague’s mom; focused all his spite and scorn on both her and Teague.”
It was as if Ronin hadn’t been able to allow himself to think badly of his father, so he’d projected all his negative feelings onto Teague and his mother. “He idolized Soren. The old bastard was once a commander within the Dark Host. A highly decorated and well-respected commander. Ronin was extremely proud of that. But I was his reminder that his hero wasn’t quite so perfect.”
