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“I won’t run,” I say.
“I don’t believe you.”
I stab him with a glare, break his hold on me, and stalk back to his horse.
“Wait,” he says.
Will he apologize? Grovel? Set me free? When I glance back, he’s holding out the cloak I left on the ground. Disappointing but not surprising.
I take the cloak.
It’s still fucking cold. Not that I will ever get warm by fucking him.
* * *
We’re standingon the brink of a ravine when the trouble begins.
Rook looks over his shoulder. His nostrils flare. Drifting downwind, there’s the stink of sweaty men and horses.
He glances at me. “Hide.”
When he braces me by the elbow, I slide from Bolt’s back. I duck behind a mossy boulder, peering over the curve of the stone. Hooves drum the dirt beyond the trees. My teeth itch on the brink of sharpening into fangs, but the aellurium collar dampens my magic.
I’m not someone who hides. I’m someone who fights.
Five men ride through the forest, crashing through leaves. They drag their horses to a halt by the ravine. Armed with swords, armored with plate steel, they glint in the sunlight and reek of wealth. Not ragged bandits, but men with gold to spare and the blessing of our ruler, Her Majesty Queen Dulcamara of Chymeria.
Knights. A real danger to a dragon.
Rook holds Bolt by the bridle without any tension in his stance, as if he just paused during a pleasant jaunt in the woods. He nods at the knights and tugs his horse from the trail to let them pass. One of the knights spurs his horse ahead of the rest. He’s tall, with engraved armor that must have cost a fortune. I would love to loot his corpse, if Rook does me the favor of killing him first.
“Demon,” says the knight, “state your name.”
“Rook of Chymeria.”
“Chymeria?” Disbelief rings in the knight’s voice. “You expect me to believe you belong here, in our kingdom?”
“I expect very little from you.”
“Where are you truly from?”
“Your nightmares,” Rook says, almost smiling.
The knights fondle their swords. My fingers curl around the boulder, digging into the moss.
Rook still hasn’t flinched. How is he so damn calm?
The first knight leans over the pommel of his saddle, to better stare down at him. “You’re that demon bastard, aren’t you?”
“Which one?” Rook says.
“The Gray Prince.”
Who the hell is the Gray Prince? A memory nibbles at me like a rat on bread, but I can’t remember why that sounds so familiar.
“Can’t be,” mutters a second knight.
A third knight eyes Rook. “He’s got the wrong horns.”
