Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“No, not war,” Meera said. “I mean, I’m not a Red Rider or anything.” She gave an awkward laugh that went unanswered. Yet her mother had been one of the fiercest Riders in history.
Meera had sometimes dreamed of their adventurous existence—sleeping under the stars, camaraderie, battle chants chorused around a fire.
But she was a confirmed homebody. Paperwork. Cottage maintenance. Predictability. Now she wanted nothing to do with Riders at all.
Unfortunately, they wanted everything to do with her. The memory of earlier arose unbidden, the way dread always did…
Rosewyn Banehand had paced Meera’s toadstool cottage as if measuring it for a coffin, her red cloak snapping with each sharp turn. The hearth fire had thrown light on Rose’s black braids and the purposeful flush across her petal-like cheeks.
“You’re going to help us nail this halfling witch,” Rose had said, not asking. Her voice had been calm, far more frightening than shouting.
Meera’s hands had trembled around her teacup. “A-and if I don’t?”
Rose had stopped pacing then. Slowly, she’d smiled—wide and delighted. “Then you’ll get nailed too.”
Not metaphorically. Riders didn’t bother with metaphor.
“You already have access,” Rose had gone on, circling closer. “You’ll see schedules. Correspondence. You’ll tell us what she plans, who she meets, and when she’s alone.”
“That’s subversion,” Meera had whispered. “A betrayal of the office.” Depending on the new witch’s powers, it might also be suicide.
Rose had leaned down, braids brushing Meera’s shoulder. “Don’t make this complicated. You’re not choosing between right and wrong. You’re choosing who kills you and when.”
Now Ditch turned back to face Meera, pale green eyes fixing on her like a pinned specimen. “You wouldn’t be a Rider, would you? They’re in peak condition.”
Meera’s shirt strained when she sat straighter. “Yes. They are.” But Meera ate when nervous. After Rose and the Riders had left, Meera had polished off a whole pie without tasting a bite.
How could she not? Rose intimidated her nearly as much as Ditch did. Though young, Rose carried herself with all the confidence of a long-lived immortal. She and this demon-witch were on a collision course, and Meera feared she would be trapped in the middle when the carnage hit.
One thought kept repeating: Will I survive either of these women?
Ditch asked her, “You’re in the enchantress caste?”
“That’s correct.” Witches were separated into five castes: warrior, seeress, conjurer, enchantress, and healer. Most had one or two powers, a rare few even up to the three. For millennia, the Wiccae had awaited a witch prophesied to possess all five, called, originally enough, the Awaited One. “You’re likely in the warrior caste?” Meera ventured.
Ditch’s brows arched, her tail going rigid as if tensing for a strike. “You don’t think I could be a healer?”
Healers were the gentlest caste—selfless witches who worked to support the rest of the coven. Meera hesitated. “No. I…don’t.” At Ditch’s narrowed eyes, Meera scrambled, words tripping: “I mean, maybe? Yes! You could be. You just don’t…strike me as selfless? I don’t know?”
“And you assume I’m only of one caste. Interesting.” Sparing Meera, Ditch said, “Tell me about this werewolf king. What do you know of Thane the Hungry?”
Everything. No one in the ’Wood knew more about him. “Um, I did my thesis on Thane MacGray. In the years since, I met him a few times when he convened with Lazara, and I’ve kept up on the subject.”
“Give me an overview.”
“He’s roughly fifteen hundred years old, a hands-off ruler who leaves kingdom details to his seneschals. But he’s a fearless tactician. His byname, the Hungry, came about because he’s never satisfied on a battlefield, just hungers to fight and fight. And because rumor says he descends from the wolf who devoured Red Riding Hood and her grandmother. Hecate rest their souls.” Meera lowered her gaze briefly, as was polite.
Ditch’s tail flicked. “Colorful. What does he look like?”
“Attractive. Probably too much so.” Objectively, he was even handsomer than Lowell, but Thane’s weariness and permanent scowl were a turn off. “Hungry” was exactly how she’d describe him—a ravenous, unsatisfied male. The kind whose smile never reached his forever searching eyes.
“No mate?”
“None,” Meera said. “Only conquests.”
“Sexual predilections?”
Where was Ditch going with this? “He beds only the most beautiful nymphs and Lykae females in his kingdom. Usually several a night. Word has reached us that Thane’s been drinking more of late as well.”
Ditch sat behind the desk in a chair that should never have been hers and changed the subject: “I wanted a Red Rider as my aid.”
Meera wilted. “Oh. Well, I’d never make the cut.” As she had told them repeatedly when they’d been spell-bent on recruiting her to spy.
“What’s your power, Molly?”
Meera! “It’s of little use and no matter.” Not to mention it was rude to ask. Did Meera want to know Ditch’s abilities? Absolutely. No one knew. But Meera would wait for a power declaration.