Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“A valuable weapon for a baker. Where’d you get it?”
“At the market. They had a ‘buy one and get a free pretzel’ deal.”
He smirks. “I must have missed that sale.”
“You ever use a merth blade on someone, Orme?” the small one asks.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had the good fortune to.”
“Cuts like butter.” His beady eyes settle on me. “Go on. Try it.”
Orme drags the tip of the blade along my collarbone.
I hiss as it slices into my skin.
“That’s gonna leave a mark.”
Another scar to add to my collection. It won’t matter if I don’t survive this, though.
He tosses the dagger aside as if it’s trash. It lands five feet away—too far to reach, but close enough that I feel the urge to dive for it. “Go on, then. Get it,” he taunts.
I’m not stupid. He wants me to try so he can pounce, pin me down, and have his way. I remain where I am, frantically searching around us for any source of water I might be able to draw from. There’s nothing, not a river or stream that I can see or sense. But I doubt I could do anything with this distracting buzz inside me.
And he just sliced me with a merth blade.
That will stifle my elven affinity. Damn it, I’d forgotten about that.
I school my breathing as best I can, needing my wits and my focus.
“I don’t normally bother with the males.” The male grips Pan’s chin in his palm, keeping him from moving as he studies Pan’s skinny neck. “But you’re dainty.”
“Let’s just get this over with.” Pan’s cautious eyes meet mine.
“Fine with me.” He opens his mouth, and the two needlelike incisors extend.
I stifle my shudder. On him, it’s an utterly repulsive feature.
Pan winces as the Islorian yanks him closer and bites down without any of the gentleness I’ve seen from Zander or Jarek.
“He’s not having all the fun tonight, is he?” My attacker moves in, intent shining in his eyes.
For once, I wish my blood wasn’t laced with these morels. If he knew I was Ybarisan, he’d feed off me and then we’d be evenly numbered. His fangs in my neck seem far less disgusting than what he has planned.
It’s now or never.
I bolt for my dagger, my fist clamping over the handle a second before strong hands seize my hips. I swing my leg out as hard as I can, and my heel connects with his shin, earning a grunt.
His fingers dip into my hip bone. “You’re a feisty one. Good. I like the ones who put up a good fight before I—”
An ear-piercing scream cuts into the night, instantly chilling my blood.
I’ve heard that agony before.
The night of the royal repast.
The male who bit Pan convulses on the ground, his fangs still distended, his back bowed as the poison tears through his insides.
And Pan? Beyond the perpetual terror that seems to hang in his expression is a grim smile of satisfaction.
Oswald the blacksmith may have been guessing, but he was right.
It doesn’t matter at this moment. Right now, all that matters is that the horrific spectacle has drawn our other attackers’ attention away momentarily.
I seize the opportunity to swing my dagger, aiming the tip at the nearest immortal’s neck. It lands true, the razor-sharp blade slicing into flesh without resistance, embedding deep.
Blood sprays everywhere as the male topples, his hefty body trapping me as he takes his last breaths. In the background, the poisoned attacker’s screams don’t abate, a gut-wrenching sound to behold, no matter who is suffering. Zander once said it took fifteen minutes for his parents to succumb.
I struggle to free myself from beneath this dead weight. Pan sees and scrambles to help me onto my feet. With my boot on the corpse’s shoulder, I grimace and yank my dagger from his neck, my hand slick with his blood.
The agonizing screams cut off abruptly, courtesy of the third male and his sword. Now he turns to us. “Who are you?”
I reach for Pan. “He told you already. Just a baker and her servant.”
“I don’t think so. I heard you two talking.” The male moves cautiously, forcing us into a dance around the fire. “That’s the king you’re traveling with, the traitor they exiled from Cirilea, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never met any kings, exiled or otherwise.” My bloody dagger is out in front of me, my free hand gripping Pan’s forearm as we shift away together. “Why? What have you heard about what’s going on?”
He pauses, as if deciding whether to play this game. “That King Zander tried to surrender Islor to Ybaris and make feeding off mortals illegal, but his younger brother stopped him with an army.”
Is that what’s floating around? It’s probably what Atticus is telling the public. He’s trying to win their fealty after he’s stolen the throne. How many versions of misinformation will make their way through Islor before this is all over?