A Cursed Hunt (The Wings & Witches Series Book 1), page 10
The only bit of magic that wasn’t thought to be corrupt was that of the lesser mages. Entirely elementally based and easily drawn forth from the earth. Any man could accomplish it if they dared to try. Though some men, like Remis, were naturally more attuned to nature and the world’s magic than others, the possibility remained an option for all.
Despite his interest in magestry, he still felt weary at the thought of being so close to a witch. The curse on his hand was warm, nearly hot, and pulsed in time with his beating heart. He squinted at the woman who only frowned at Percy as she pointed him to the seat next to a metal table.
“You can’t just go about accusing people of being witches,” Merritt whispered in a hiss.
Percy’s voice was low but not quiet enough to prevent Ellie from hearing them. “Have you ever met a physician that had eyeballs in a jar before? Or one that collected hair?”
The cloth Remis held to his shoulder was drenched with blood now. He wasn’t sure it was doing much of anything, but he was grateful for the seat when the room felt as if it was a moment away from spinning.
Ellie cradled her supplies, cloth and bandages, and a small jar of salve. She set it upon the table and turned her angry eyes toward Percy. “Do not speak of what you know nothing about. If you want to be helpful, there is a jar of burn cream in the corner behind you for your friend.” Then she turned back to Remis. “I wake in the dead of night for you pathetic lot and this is the thanks I get.” She sighed. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
The whites of Percy’s eyes shone as they widened but he took a tentative step toward the shelf the physician was speaking of. Several jars clinked as he shuffled them about examining the bottles.
Remis carefully pulled the wadded, blood-soaked cloth away from his body. Bits of the fabric clung to his shoulder and pulled at the ragged flesh around the wound. He closed his eyes, breathing through the throbbing pain. It helped to concentrate on a different pain, the more worrisome pain. He forced his thoughts to focus only on the gathering of heat in his palm. He closed his hand into a fist and dug his nails into the fabric wrapped around it that was now crimson-soaked from holding the other bandage.
Ellie’s nimble fingers poked and prodded, needling his discomfort before she began wiping away the blood. He groaned when she pulled at the skin and groaned some more when he felt the needle go in and then back out again. Colors danced behind his eyelids as he squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He didn’t want to see the needle or the blood.
“A warning might have been nice,” he said through clenched teeth.
“A warning wouldn’t have changed anything. It would still hurt.” There was no empathy in Ellie’s voice. His injury was just another problem she needed to solve before moving on. After a few moments, she pulled the thread tight, closing the jagged flesh. “What happened?”
He cracked an eye open, watching her quietly as she picked up some sort of salve. “Dragonis attack. Saved by my friends.” Remis gave a slight nod toward the pair as Percy worked to cover Merritt’s burns in the ointment. “The warlord said that the city doesn’t have a patrol currently.”
“He said no one wants to work,” Merritt added. “In Warlord Erskine’s territory, people fight over a chance at the job.”
Ellie arched a brow, pausing her work. “The patrol is striking. Warlord Vigor drastically lowered the pay about six months ago. It’s hardly enough to make a living from, much less be enough to risk your life for.”
Instantly, Remis thought of the gold and all the other fine materials the warlord surrounded himself with. It didn’t appear as if the man was hurting for coin.
“Why lower their pay? It’s a respectable job, a necessary one even,” Merritt asked.
The woman’s sigh filled the room. Remis swore he saw one of the jarred fingers twitch. “Greed, I suppose. It doesn’t affect him or his family much. They're having their own flame cannons added to their home this next week. Vigor only laughed at the strike saying it’s only hurting them.” Remis winced as she applied the salve with brutal efficiency. Its sickly medicinal scent stung his nose as she continued. “He isn’t wrong. No one protects the borders and the dragonis pick off the peasants who live on the outskirts, the very people who would want the job. It doesn’t affect him at all but it affects them greatly. I’m actually quite impressed they’ve continued the strike for this long, but I doubt it will last. Eventually, they’ll be desperate enough to save their homes and their families.”
Greed Remis was familiar with. It was a disease that started as innocently as ambition. If a person wasn’t careful, that desire for success could be corrupted. They’d get what they’d always wanted only to realize it wasn’t enough. There would always be more and more after that. Greed could not be satisfied and it ruined all that it touched.
She placed the lid on the salve and then held it out to Remis. He took it with his marked hand, and she glanced down at the wrap. “Keep this, reapply twice a day. You’ll likely have a terrible scar. Beast tore through muscle too. Give it a few days rest and then you’ll need to stretch and rotate your shoulder daily to keep it from getting stiff. Would you like me to look at your hand, as well?”
He forced his breathing to remain calm. In and out, in and out, controlled, even when his unease rose. “No, it’s not a new wound, already almost healed, but thank you.”
She shrugged and turned to Merritt. “I suggest wearing thick gloves if you’re meant to do anything with your hands, but when you’re not, leave them exposed to the open air. Don’t burst any of the blisters purposefully but if it happens on its own, use a small scoop of the salve I’m sending with your friend and wrap it up for the day.”
Already the agony in his shoulder was giving way to a much simpler and easier to handle tenderness. His skin tingled slightly before his shoulder started a descent into blissful numbness. If anything though, the pain from the dragonis had only been passed on to the pain in his hand. The huntress mark was fully ablaze now and he fought the need to cradle his hand against himself.
“Could you hold this?" Remis passed the salve off to Percy. He tried opening and closing his hand but the movement only made it worse. A fire burning through his flesh.
This can’t be a good sign.
The thought came and the scar-like eye on his hand sent a shock through his entire body. He imagined the sensation that had him jumping up from the seat and clutching his hand to his heart was akin to being struck with a bolt of lightning.
A wave of warning came next. A voice dark and strange descending upon his mind.
She’s coming. She’s coming. She’s coming.
Run.
11
Meira
The warlord’s home opened with a foyer large enough to hold an army. White marbled floors lead up to two sweeping staircases connected to the next floor. Meira looked up at the glistening chandelier as she closed the door behind them.
Bram’s boots squeaked against the marble as he stopped and turned to take in the expanse of the room. At his side, Lowell was sighing dramatically and folding his arms over his chest before leaning against a wall.
Their steps echoed through the open space. Meira found herself reaching out to touch the railing of the stairs, half marveling at the dark polish and half annoyed that anyone spent their money on making something so shiny when there were much more practical and meaningful ways of doing so.
In the next room, a hearth was lit, though the flames had begun to dwindle. Warmth called her forward to warm her frozen fingers and toes. Seeing as there was no one to stop her, she strolled right past Bram and Lowell and weaved around the arrangement of furniture to get to the fireplace. She nearly sighed with the same exasperation as Lowell had as the heat washed over her skin.
Her heart beat against the insistent tug that demanded her to hunt. Though she did her best to look relaxed, her attention kept jumping between the doorways and the shadows of the room. Underneath her glove, the mark began to itch.
“How long do we wait before we let the boy get himself to Croughton?” Lowell said, still leaning against the door.
Bram’s voice came only a few feet behind Meira. “We’ll wait as long as it takes.”
Despite the odd nature of their mission, to leave without seeing it to completion would be a shame upon their legion. The words to the end were more than a tradition to say; it was the heart of the scale riders and their devotion to seeing every mission through. Meira wondered then how much shame would be upon her if she had to abandon this mission. In the fifteen years she’d spent with the scale riders she’d only heard of one banishment, a rider who’d run from their post during a particularly brutal skirmish on the Empire’s border. They’d been called a coward and forbidden from returning. As far as she was aware the banishment even went as far as to the man's bonded dragon. There was a small relief in knowing that no matter what she wouldn’t be torn away from Mrithun.
The bond of a rider with their dragon was a strange one. On her end, she felt an immense endearment toward the animal, a stronger desire to ensure her Bold Wing was always cared for and protected. Yet Mrithun could damn near read her mind. She got the feeling that her dragon always knew where she was even when miles separated them. Whatever the Bold Wing felt, it was certainly even stronger than what she did, which sounded altogether impossible. She’d think so if she didn’t see the evidence of the bond every time they were together. The understanding in her Bold Wings eyes, the way her dragon was attuned to her very emotions and often put herself between Meira and any threats.
What was an itch grew to a burning sensation in her palm. She blinked and could swear she saw the backside of the Brendal home on the inside of her eyelids. Her body tensed as she closed her eyes and examined the building. The same painted brick, navy shutters, and gold accents but all from another angle, another perspective.
Meira felt that tightness in her chest strengthen until it took everything in her not to start stumbling forward and then sprint through the rooms. Her body and mind screamed for her to go and look. To hunt and to find. He was close, he had to be.
She had to find a reason to get away from Bram and Lowell, a reason that would allow her to search the spacious home. Lowering her hands and turning toward Bram, she did her best to look natural, but the movements felt stiff and Bram watched her with a curious gaze. After over ten years of knowing each other, he knew her well enough to notice her tells. She forced a smile.
“Think they’ve got a bathroom somewhere in here?” she asked.
Bram’s lips twitched as he fought a frown. “Why? Are you feeling sick?”
“Just need to relieve myself.” She shrugged and turned back toward the fire offering her hands again as if it was of no rush, but the urgency was building, a terrible constriction in her chest that made each breath harder to take than the last. Embers glowed and the firewood crackled before her. She watched it with rapt attention.
“They probably have a gold toilet,” Lowell snickered to himself. “I’d bet they were fed as babies with golden bottles and laid to sleep in their little golden cribs.”
“We had a nursemaid for our son and I doubt he would have slept at all in a golden crib. I can’t imagine it would have been very comfortable.”
A man stepped out from an open doorway to the right of the fireplace. Meira almost expected to see that stranger. Her stranger. But this man was far from the sharp jawline and tempting eyes she’d seen in her visions. Everything about him was round from the shape of his face to the slope of his belly resting over his navy trousers.
“Warlord Vigor,” Bram spoke first. That was for the best seeing as Lowell had turned a dark shade of scarlet and Meira was sweating from forcing herself still. “We’ve come to accompany your son to Croughton as requested.” Bram leaned ever so slightly, looking around Vigor for a glimpse at the son who’d not yet shown himself. All that was behind the large warlord though was more darkness.
Vigor took a step forward. Flames reflected off the golden handle of his cane, shaped into the menacing effigy of a roaring lion. Meira felt the intensity of his gaze laze over each of the scale riders one by one.
The man scowled. “We had some unexpected visitors and he’s been delayed but should be here shortly.” He turned his attention back to Bram. “You are aware that someone should be with him at all times, correct? I’ve made him an appointment with several potential business ventures but the atmosphere surrounding them has already become somewhat of a mess. A meeting with any man from one of Elton Hamza’s previous business ventures and suddenly the person ends up dead. That will not be what becomes of my son, do you understand?”
Elton Hamza had been undoubtedly successful and spoiled with riches. Was it so much so that it was worth killing each other for? Meira had never had an ounce of wealth to her name, not even in her long-forgotten village years ago. The idea that any of it would be enough to bring men to each other’s throats was absurd.
The Empire loved its coin, even if the mystery of it befuddled her. They loved it about as much as they looked down on scale riders and certainly far more than they ever cared for witches.
Bram was quick to nod. “Yes, we’ve been briefed on your requests. Two riders will be at his side at all times to act as guards while within the great city. We have an entire legion prepared to escort him through the Deadwoods as well.”
Meira backed away from the fireplace, practically stumbling forward as the vise of magic gripped her and nearly stripped her of free will. She fought the curse as it sunk its claws into her mind screaming at his nearness. When Vigor shot her a glance at her abrupt movement, she feigned interest in the books upon his shelves. Letters swam before her vision, never making comprehendible words.
“Very good, very good.” Vigor nodded.
Behind him, the steady sound of footfalls grew louder until a man with short golden hair appeared. His smile was a stark contrast to the deep frown his father wore. There was a spark of excitement in the heir's eyes as he quickly assessed the room and clapped a hand on his father’s back. He started with long strides toward Bram holding his hand out.
“I’m assuming you’re my escort to Croughton. My name is Valen Brendal. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Bram looked down somewhat reluctantly but took Valen’s hand in a firm shake. “Bram Dearson. This is Meira and Lowell.” He motioned to them, though neither Meira nor Lowell had shifted from where they stood at a distance.
“Please take a seat. I’ve already called for tea and sandwiches to be brought in and you all can warm up before we head out. I’m sure the rest is much needed. You flew here, correct?”
Bram dipped his chin in answer. Then Valen was making his way toward Meira, forcing her to stop staring so intently at the spines of novels she wasn’t actually reading. Valen was practically a foot taller than his father and of medium build, but the way he walked toward her was feline, the stalking steps of a predator. He stopped a foot in front of her and held out his hand. “I take it you’re Meira.”
All she could do was stare at his palm. A fresh trickle of perspiration ran down her spine. If she moved she didn’t trust herself not to frantically dart from the room and follow the lure of the curse. Eventually, Valen let his fingers curl into a gentle fist and dropped his hand. His smile remained though his shoulders tensed. Those ocean-filled eyes ran over her form clad in the leathers of her riding gear. It wasn’t an appreciating glance but merely an observation as if he was keeping stock of her curves and evaluating her for a threat.
“I didn’t realize you had women in your employ,” Valen continued with a flash of his all too white teeth at Bram.
Scale riders were not a job out for hire. The notion of it being some sort of employer was befuddling to hear. Meira assumed it was common knowledge that the riders had been born from a group of rebels during the war that had won Emperor Grandith Augustine his seat on the throne. They’d fought in his favor at the time, but it hadn’t been a secret that it was only because they’d shared a common enemy. From there, the tradition of taming and riding Bold Wings had mostly been passed down through family lines.
“There are many women amongst our ranks,” Bram answered when Meira stared at Valen blankly. He motioned Lowell forward and the men lowered onto the tufted couch. Lowell lounged back into the seat, crossing his legs at his ankles, seemingly enjoying the luxury he’d been so quick to put down.
“Are they all as friendly as Meira?” Valen laughed, keeping his tone light. He even passed her a smirk over his shoulder on his way to shake Lowell’s hand.
A rider didn’t need to be friendly. Though she never heard anyone complain if one of her male counterparts appeared rude or outright aggressive and cruel, she’d been told to smile or be pleasant on more than one occasion and the slight jab only made her teeth grate together. The comment only came from citizens of the Empire, never other riders. She wondered at their lives and if all their women were berated until they walked around with false grins and insincere kindness.
“They’re all as deadly as Meira.” Lowell took Valen’s hand but dropped it just as quickly.
“That’s exactly what I like to hear,” Vigor chimed in, watching them all with a considerable amount of disapproval belying the encouraging statement.
Running a hand through his blond hair, Valen finally settled into a high-back chair beside the couch. He stayed perched on the end of the seat, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, and watching the riders as if they were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
