Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“It’s not about me,” I hear myself say.
Merc stares down at me, and I swear I can feel his exasperation. And the confirmation of his annoyance is the way he tosses his pack on the table.
“I thought you said Lena was all right.”
“It’s not her, either.”
“So are we going to just play roulette with the names of strangers—”
“It’s not your woman.” Before he can respond to that, I cut in, “And if you can’t help me, I understand. This is … beyond the normal course of things.”
Well, for me it is.
That black and white gaze narrows. “What do you speak of, then. Out with it.”
His sword hand rests on the pack, as if he’s fully prepared to pick it up, strap it on, and resume the exit that was paused out in the hall.
“Go on,” he prompts. “What about it.”
And that’s when my voice fails. At first: “I want you … to kill someone.”
The chuckle that comes back at me is the last thing I expect. “My woman?” he drawls. “As you referred to her.”
“No,” I snap.
Instantly, he changes. “Who hurt you. What happened.”
The fact that he’s willing to come to my defense so readily is a balm I don’t want on my hurt pride. “I told you, it’s not about me.”
With a stumble of syllables, I explain everything except the vision that started it all, and as I hear myself talk, I have to look at the floor because the enormity of what I’m suggesting begins to fall on my head. Except I’m taking none of it back.
Lena called me a healer, and I think she’s right about that. But there’s another side of me, too.
“If we don’t help her…” I clear the lump out of my throat. “And we don’t do it now? She’s not going to live to see tomorrow.”
Merc’s hand leaves the pack and pushes his long hair over his shoulder. As he stands in silence, I catalogue the weapons I can see on him, especially the broadsword that’s currently riding his hip as opposed to his shoulder.
“How certain are you it’s the cook?”
“She, ah … she told me it was him. Just now. I went to check on her and thank her for the food, and he’s…” I motion around my face. “He’s beaten her, badly. I’m pretty sure it’s because she brought that tray up to me yesterday.”
“Okay.”
I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, my heart pounds with worry. “So what else can I say? Do you have questions or—”
“No.” He turns to his pack, opens it back up, and roots around once again. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
There is a metal-on-metal shift as he unsheathes a strange dagger. The weapon’s sharp end is narrow and very short, but the hilt is nearly as long as his forearm. He tucks the latter up into his sleeve and locks a grip on a bar that rests right about the seat of the blade.
It’s easy to imagine him punching into someone’s stomach and dragging the cutting surface upward.
“There’s going to be a certain amount of cover-up required,” he says. “So it might take a little while. But I’ll handle everything.”
“Merc—”
“And given the nature of this request, will you please stay in here as I go to work? I don’t want to worry about what in fate’s name you’re doing.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “And I’ll throw the latch.”
With that, he leaves, and I immediately bolt myself in—and do it loudly. Then I back up until my legs hit the bed’s footer and I fall into a sit. Clasping my hands tightly in my lap, I stare at the gray floorboards as if they are glass and open up a view into the kitchen. My blood is humming as it does before my panic gets away from me.
And yet I am not scared or anxious.
I feel something else.
Vengeance.
I think of every time I huddled and ran from a man I met in the lane back in my village. I think of the mob who came for Mare, and Elly’s death on the birthing bed, and the maid downstairs and her twin sister. I remember those cruel boys taunting the dying dragon, and the top-hatted man with his cadre of dark-hearted guards. I tell myself I should be horrified by what I’ve set into motion. Surely this will be a contamination on my soul, for I’ve behaved no better than any of them.
Except I don’t care and I have no regrets. The only thing I feel in my heart is a disappointment that I’m not the one striking down the maid’s tormentor.
Overhead, the rain continues to fall, and as I close my eyes, I see it as blood spilling from a body. I should be horrified. I’m not. Opening my lids, I look down at my palms, and swear I see red all over them. I tell myself I should be shocked. I’m not.