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He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Raiders are the easy answer for the people at the outpost to fall onto so that they can pretend that whatever is slowly eating away at The Bend won’t come and devour them next. It is easier, and perhaps more comforting, to say that people go missing because of raiders than because something out there ate them.”
MaryAnne shivered. “I’m absolutely going with you then. Everyone else in the carnival seems to be treating The Bend like a fun daytime excursion, but I’ll be damned if I let you go there by yourself.”
His eyes narrowed on her, his jaw tightening as all of his features went rigid. She steeled herself for the inevitable, but to her surprise, his expression suddenly softened and a wry chuckle escaped him.
Cupping her cheek with one hand, Raskyuil brushed his thumb back and forth in a sweet caress. “Whatever would I have done without such a formidable mate.”
She chuckled quietly. “You would have brought your ax.”
He dropped his hand with an amused snort. “I’m still bringing my ax. If not to cut up foes then any idiot human who attempts to touch my mate. As for your other question, yes. If I don’t return with them, then Elwyn will likely remove us from the carnival and have someone else fetch them anyway. Better to be at his side where I can stop him than tossed out on my ass.”
MaryAnne grumbled. Her male had a point, but boy did she hate the idea of giving that asshole anything he wanted. Whether he intended to harm her kids or not, he was a complete prick if he wanted to utilize a spell to devour what he perceived to be ghosts of children.
ChapterThirty-Seven
The Bend was just as horrible as Raskyuil remembered. No, it was worse. He didn’t understand how it could have gotten worse so quickly, but the hapless milling of residents among the gloomy streets, the magic of the living earth and all its creatures slowly dwindling and warping had been disturbing enough, but there was a heavier shroud now as the Hallow Night crept nearer.
He didn’t want to know what the island was like if the town nearest the carnival grounds was this bad. The fog was thicker and prowled with things that he had no intention of getting to know. He merely tightened his hold on his mate and kept watch, reading to pull the ax from his harness at a moment’s notice. His unease did not match the excitement of the residents of the Night Carnival flooding into the town square, practically disappearing into the fog as they scattered. A number of them headed directly for the tavern, Barok among them, the orc’s silhouette recognizable despite the fog’s best attempt to swallow him.
There were humans on the street, but they were oddly few in number and seemed to move slowly, in a daze. Even the occasional fae male or female among them had a similar look. An aelf stood near a trickling fountain, his eyes staring vacantly at some point in the distance. A flap of dark wings briefly broke the fog, and a crow cawed, the sound louder than what came from the birds he usually saw in this world.
Muttering under his breath, his eyes swept over what little of the streets he could see. Dark doorways and pitch black alleys were like scars among the dull faces of the buildings.
“Fuck, this place is creepy,” MaryAnne observed in a low voice, her grip tightening slightly on his arm as she too studied their surroundings. She shivered. “Let’s just get what we need and get out of here.”
He grunted in agreement, gently steering his mate toward a merchant’s store just across the square from where they stood. His mate eyed the aelf warily as they passed by, but the male didn’t so much as glance in their direction, much less acknowledge their presence. His lips simply moved and Raskyuil’s ears pricked, the whispered words sharpening in clarity.
“It calls. It calls. The night calls. All the crows. A hundred voices. It calls. The woods call. The fog calls. The sea calls. It calls. It calls, for we must listen. It calls.” The aelf’s voice droned on and on in a flat, empty tone until the fog swallowed the male and his words entirely.
MaryAnne glanced back toward the wall of fog behind them and shivered. She followed silently at his side as they made their way over to the store and stepped inside.
The small bell fastened to the door chimed quietly, its sound oddly muted. Small wisps of fog crawled in with them, and a single candle lit on the counter facing the window flickered briefly before brightening once more. Not that the candle did much to brighten the shop. Nor did the lamps set out at various intervals by the shelves. There was a gray gloom that settled everywhere, clinging to everything that once again gave the impression of life slowly being consumed.
He glanced over at the human standing behind the counter. The male was older, with a shock of white hair and a blunt white beard hanging from his jaw beneath his sunken cheeks. He didn’t look their way when they entered. His gaze never left the front window as if he stared at something unseen on the shrouded street. His lids drooped over gray eyes, his lips moving faintly.
Raskyuil frowned, the back of his neck prickling as if something were slithering over him. His mate was right. They needed to get what they required quickly and leave. This place felt wrong. Very, very wrong.
Growling softly to himself, he picked up a basket from the stack beside the door, turned, and started walking, aiming for the shelves further from the counter. It looked like a promising place to start. Just beyond them, on the wall, there was a peg board holding several metal objects hanging from the pegs.
“What are we looking for?” she whispered.
“An iron blade,” he muttered in reply.
She looked over at him with surprise. “Seriously? Elwyn had all kinds of blades hanging up. Outside of silverware, I can’t imagine you are going to find anything that fancy here.”
He shook his head as he glared at the useless tools displayed. “Nothing made of iron, however. Fae weapons are of a superior quality, but they are never made of iron since just touching it alone can be harmful to many, especially among the aelves.”
MaryAnne made a face. “Of course an elf arch-mage’s spell requires metal that no elf would have. You might have found it easily enough before the Ravening—but now? Metal is hard enough to come by unless you know where to scavenge. Though I’ve heard that a few mines have opened back up,” she added thoughtfully.
Turning away from the pegboard, her eyes skimmed the baskets that lined the shelf and Raskyuil became aware of the fact that she had stopped in place. “Does it have to be a fancy knife or dagger?”
His brow beetled. He removed the list from his pocket, looked down at it, and shook his head. “No. It just needs to be a blade and made of iron according to Elwyn’s instructions.”
“Hmmm. These might work.” MaryAnne stooped, her hand slipping into a badly scuffed container and withdrawing a heavy pair of metal shears.
Raskyuil stared at them for a moment and gingerly took them from his mate. Trolls were not affected by iron like many other fae, but he was still sensitive to the conduit of energy which could be startling to his system if he weren’t prepared. The iron sang with a familiar crackle. He nodded, setting them in the basket.
“Can I see the list?”
