A Cursed Hunt (The Wings & Witches Series Book 1), page 6
“I thought you all only brought me along because of my good looks?” Isaac feigned offense and promptly plucked the pick right out of Meira’s hand again. The reflection of the moon disappeared as he slid it back into the front pocket of his jacket and gave it a pat.
“Actually,” Brighton turned toward the conversation, “Quincy is very clearly the pretty one.”
Brighton, though known for saying things that might be kind but not necessarily true, was right. Isaac, with his shadow-kissed skin, caramel-colored eyes, and perfectly arranged hair didn’t hold a candle to Quincy. She was darkness personified. Skin the darkest shade of midnight, a body worth confessing every secret to, and eyes that held the stars. Quincy was a goddess. Isaac could only look undoubtedly plain next to her.
“Thank you, Brighton.” Quincy tossed a couple of her braids over her shoulder and flashed a bright white smile at him. His cheeks turned a pretty shade of red before he laughed awkwardly under his breath.
There had been a time when Meira had found herself jealous of Quincy. Of the woman with the pretty smile and the curves that caught men’s attention. That jealousy melted away as she’d gotten to know her, and how she was also a fierce protector with a good heart. If ever there was a law that bound women together in unity, Quincy followed it. At one time or another, the woman had looked at Bram with a spark of interest. Those embers of attraction had gone out the moment she’d heard of Bram and Meira’s first kiss. Meira learned that Quincy was quite unattracted to men who were unavailable either emotionally or otherwise. It led her to admire her fellow scale rider. She wondered if this need for an open heart in a partner was what kept Quincy from reciprocating Brighton’s clear feelings.
Brighton was practically a foot shorter than Quincy, not that Meira thought that mattered to her friend, and he was average in regards to his looks. With light brown hair, always shaved close to his scalp, and pale gray eyes, he was unremarkable. The important bit was that Brighton was kind. The bit that likely held Quincy back was that he wasn’t even a year out of a serious relationship that had ended in his fiancée’s abrupt death. Meira still wanted to root for them.
The frigid mountain air collected her breaths in a cloud. She blinked through the haze of it, holding her breath for a moment before letting it out again. When her vision cleared, Bram was marching toward the cliff's edge. She wondered if the other riders secretly rooted for her and him. She cared for him—though right now she didn’t particularly like him—but she couldn’t let herself care too much. If life had taught her much of anything it was that to love was to accept heartbreak and her heart had already been broken too much. As a scale rider, death was always right around the corner.
Whatever conversations still lingered came to an end as they watched Bram turn on his heel and look them over. Meira almost flinched at the glint of anger that still flashed in his eyes.
“Our rendezvous point to pick up Warlord Vigor Brendal’s heir is roughly an hour’s flight. Once we’ve acquired his son, Valen Brendal, we’ll take to the woods alternating flyers overhead and those traveling on the ground. We fly out in Flight Formation One, separating our two dragon whisperers. Brooks will fly Second Cord.” Bram paused and Meira curled her fingers into the straps of her pack. Second Cord was usually her position. She’d earned her right to fly at the back of her legion leader. She could take down nearly all of her team when it came to combat and Mrithun was second in speed only to Bram’s own Bold Wing. Bram scanned the group but his eyes skimmed right over Meira as he finished. “Meira will take Pocket’s Edge.”
The back. Bram had banished her to the back of the group.
Fine. If that’s how he wanted to handle this then Meira could be happy in the back.
At least she wouldn’t have to look at him and think about how badly she wanted to punch him in his damned face.
She nudged Isaac with her elbow. “Lucky you, we’re about to be flight buddies.”
He snorted a laugh. “You better prove not to be deadweight then, huh?” She only bristled a little at his cutting remark.
“Lowell will take third cord and the rest of you may fall in line as usual. Any questions?” Silence followed, the legion ready to get this flight done with. Winter was here and flying at these altitudes would leave any exposed skin frostbitten.
“Great. Fly out.” Sinking two fingers into his mouth, Bram let out a sharp whistle and the air around them began to stir. The pounding of heavy wings grew louder before a Bold Wing with fire-red scales and a dark underbelly came into view. Each stroke of his wings broke apart the scattering of clouds, making the beast look as though it were swimming through waves as it approached the mountainside.
The Bold Wing, Skiathis, as he was called, never came to a landing on the open floor despite the way their legion backed up to give him room. Instead, he spit a small flame and made to dive. Bram gave a dark smile as he backed away from the group toward the mountain's edge. His mouth curved up until it looked wicked with the glow of flames behind him. “To the end,” he called to his team. Turning on his heel, he gave the legion his back before he broke into a run, boots pounding against the rock, and leapt from the ledge with his arms outstretched. He dropped from view, eaten up by the last smoky bits of cloud before a flash of red scales appeared with Bram safely seated upon the animal’s spine. An impressive feat, though the awe of watching had lessened over the years.
The rest of the legion echoed the sentiment back to him as he disappeared again. Brooks quickly pulled his goggles over his eyes and untucked the fabric from his hood that would drape down over his face to cover his skin. He shouted his dragon’s name, “Fontarious!” and let the name resound around him.
One by one Meira watched as her fellow scale riders called forth their Bold Wings in whichever fashion they’d been trained and took flight until it was only herself and Yule on that mountaintop. Yule didn’t speak, she didn’t have to, and Meira didn’t particularly want her to, but her attention was a brand on Meira’s skin. She absorbed the warmth and let it fuel her as she stepped to the lip of Mount Ridmond and watched the star-filled sky.
There was a tug on the curse as it wound itself around her spirit and connected her to the magic of this world. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling; if anything, it felt like a nod of approval. This was the right thing to do, and it was her first step toward righting the wrongs of another timeline.
The name of her Bold Wing was but a whisper on her lips, a secret kept between her and the universe. Still, her dragon came like a dark sweeping shadow of the night. Meira watched for the telltale curve of her angled wings and the downward arc as she broke through the smattering of clouds. Then, as she envisioned her stranger, she took a step from the cliff and dropped through the air.
7
Remis
The carriage came to an abrupt halt rocking the men within it. What little relaxation they’d found entering the Deadwoods was ripped away from them as the driver let out a startling cry. Remis’ eyes grew wider as the sound reminded him of a dying animal. He squeezed his eyes shut hoping the noise would come to an end and the driver would pat the carriage wall and tell him it was all a mistake.
The screaming did indeed stop and was quickly followed by a loud thud as a weight fell from the carriage. Remis cracked an eye open. His friends sat in stunned silence, though Merritt’s upper half tipped toward the door as if he’d been drawn to the noise.
Percy, however, shrunk back into his seat. “Do you suppose we should investigate that?”
“And get picked off by dragonis. I think not. It’s safer if we stay right here in the carriage,” Merritt said as he pulled himself back.
If staying in one’s carriage was what would keep someone from being snapped in half in the jaws of the dragonis, then surely there would be more survivors to tell the tale. There was no hiding from these monsters.
A sickly tremble traversed down Remis’ spine. He’d been certain they’d run into trouble on their journey. There was no possibility of avoiding the dragonis. Still, it surprised him at how swiftly they’d been stopped. Only a few hours into their journey and they would meet their end. It seemed almost laughable that his story would conclude so quickly. In fact, he would have laughed out loud if not for the fear that threatened to turn his bowels to liquid.
Two more heartbeats passed. Remis exhaled slowly and shifted forward in his seat.
A twig snapped somewhere outside. Goosebumps rose along his flesh with the knowledge that they weren’t alone. Something lurked beyond the thin walls that caged them in. Could it sense the three men who waited in stifling silence? Could it smell their fear?
His hand drifted to the hilt of the weapon strapped to his belt. Wet with sweat, his palm curled above the bulbous end.
There came several muffled thumps, a familiar pattern of human steps. For a split second, he wondered if it was the driver, finally coming to apologize for the scare, but the noise was multiplied many times over. It was joined with a pounding against their carriage’s sides, a startling slap of flesh.
Something shoved against the side of the carriage, rocking them, then tipping all three of them in their seats. Arms and legs were cast at odd angles trying to find purchase. Remis caught Meritt’s elbow somewhere in his rib cage and he was certain he caught sight of Percy’s boot against Merritt’s bicep. Before they were entirely tipped onto their sides, something caught them and launched them back the other way.
Remis fully slid from his seat then. As the curtains swayed with the movement, he caught sight of dirt-coated skin and a half-toothless smile. Back and forth the carriage rocked, bouncing them around like dice held within cupped hands. Where they might land nobody knew.
“Men, not dragons,” Remis seethed. Probably more than the three of them could handle even with their sword training if they were tossing the carriage around as though it were but a toy.
The shaking stopped with a loud crack, everything tilted definitively to the rear left side, and the door to the carriage was flung open. Cold invaded their space, followed closely by the foul scent of body odor.
A man leaned inside with his weapon outstretched. Mud streaked what skin was exposed around what looked like a woman’s fur coat. Dirty blond hair was braided back to reveal the line of his jaw and the scars that peppered it. Did he shave with a dull blade?
“We’ve got…one, two, three…three pretty boys who think they can make it through the Deadwoods,” the stranger shouted.
“What do you want?” Merritt scowled.
Several more faces, varying in ages, but all dirt-covered tried to peer in around the one who held the weapon. The smell of their unwashed bodies and perhaps another more putrid scent turned every breath sour. Remis tried to count them as they came into view. He thought there were six but then again perhaps there were seven.
“Isn’t it quite obvious? We’re robbing you.” The man snorted and nodded as his friends all chuckled behind him. “Come on now, let’s make this quick, we've all got places to be.”
Remis had landed in the tangle of Percy’s legs. Percy sighed, his head hitting the bench as he deflated at the news—as if being robbed was an everyday annoyance. Merritt was already pulling himself up from the carriage floor.
Still, Remis couldn’t help but feel immense relief. Highwaymen. It was only highwaymen, not dragons. This he could handle. Well, at least he thought he could live through this. He’d never actually been robbed before.
“Out you go.” The highwayman grunted again, jabbing his blade toward Merritt.
Sliding out from between his friend’s limbs, Remis followed Merritt out onto the dark trail. Only the pale moon shone down on them between the leafless limbs of the trees. Their faces were shadowed but he could make out eight silhouettes. An entire band of highwaymen. At least out here the strong breeze brought with it fresh air so they could be spared from the strangers’ stench.
The moment Percy stumbled from the carriage a highwayman climbed inside. Already two others had dispatched themselves from the group without a word and began undoing the trunks that had been secured at the back.
“I’m curious,” the highwayman purred, running his sword along the frosted ground at their feet. The blade left a streak amongst the icy crystals, drawing a line between the group and them. “What are three pretty rich boys doing out here during dragonis season?”
At least the highwayman thought he was pretty, Remis supposed. Though if he thought he was too pretty that could pose an entirely different plethora of problems. He considered reaching for his sword then and testing out the skills he’d been taught. Though fighting amongst ruffians and thugs in the black of night would likely be far different than working with trainers who’d pull their strikes back to keep from leaving a mark.
The trio stood quietly, not readily answering, and the man sucked his teeth and waved the blade before them. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”
“Not yet,” one of the men behind him called, pulling forth a round of laughter.
Remis tried to look anywhere but directly at the sword pointing deviant before him. Night cloaked most of the group hiding away features and thick jackets disguised their true physiques. He counted them again, noting those who were currently turning their carriage inside out. Eight. The odds of winning eight to three weren’t terrible but they certainly weren’t in their favor either.
“Out with it,” the highwayman pushed the words out through clenched teeth. He’d stilled his pointless waving of the sword and directed it at Merritt. The blade stilled near enough to Merritt’s throat that one sudden movement could end his entire life.
Guilt was a creeping serpent wrapping itself around Remis’ spine. It slithered up, striking with a poisonous bite somewhere deep in his chest.
Hours. They’d only been gone for hours.
“We’re traveling to Croughton,” Merritt answered. The bob of his throat snagged on the edge of the weapon and a bead of blood welled.
“What’s in Croughton that is valuable enough to risk your lives here?” Merritt looked to Remis from the corner of his eye and the highwayman’s brows raised. “Are you the leader then?”
Then the blade was at his neck. It didn't brush against his flesh, but the nearness was damnable. Remis wouldn’t push the man, not when he so clearly had the advantage.
“A business deal.” The answer managed to pull itself from his dry throat.
“Businessmen!” the highwayman crooned.
At the same time, the man who’d climbed inside the carriage stepped out with a shrug. “Only a broken lantern in there.”
The others had succeeded in removing Remis’ trunk and the two smaller satchels that accompanied it. They waited at the edge of the road ready to scurry off with their winnings and every ounce of the trio’s supplies.
It was most tempting then for Remis to pull his own weapon, to test his hand as well as his friends’. Merritt had been brought up much the same and was quite adept at swordplay but Percy knew more about the sport than he could successfully put into practice.
Perhaps all this made him a coward. He couldn’t find it within him to summon the strength to try or to fight. His desire to live far outweighed his want for his supplies.
“Well, it was our pleasure, truly.” He took a small bow, pulling himself away and creating room for the three friends at the edge of his sword to breathe. “We truly wish you the best of luck on your journey. You’re going to need it.” He backed away, along with the rest of the men.
“You can’t just leave us here with nothing,” Merritt snapped. “We won’t survive.” His hand gripped the hilt of his blade. “We’re as good as dead without it.”
“You’re dead with it!” the highwayman shouted and his words startled birds from a tree. “Make no mistake, we’ll slice you one way and then the next and leave your carcasses for the dragonis if you show your sword. It’s a small mercy we’ve left you with your weapons. You should be showing us gratitude.”
It was no mercy they’d left them with their lives. Remis sighed. Gratitude, the man had said. He couldn’t imagine having any sort of feelings of warmth for these men who’d destroyed their carriage, murdered the driver, and—two of the men climbed on top of the horses who’d been unhooked from the carriage rails at some point and began leading the thieves away. They’d taken the horses too.
Damn it all.
All they could do was stand and watch as everything they’d brought with them was carted away. Remis hoped the man would enjoy his portions of dried meats and aged cheese. He wondered if the next person they stole from would be greeted by the smelly, dirt-covered leader in what were once his trousers.
“My favorite shirt is in that bag,” Merritt whispered, though the men were already far enough away he doubted they could hear anything they said. The highwayman had created the distance that made them comfortable to turn their backs on what was now three desperate men.
“My backup book is in mine.” Percy tucked his novel against his chest and folded his arms over it. It would only be good for kindling now but he didn’t want to tell Percy that.
When he could see the men no more, Remis turned toward the carriage. The back left wheel had snapped right off, likely from the violent way the wicked men had rocked it back and forth. On well-oiled hinges, the door swung quietly as a gust barreled past them. He was thankful then that he’d kept his fur-lined cloak on. Another small gift, if it could be called that, that the men had left behind.
Yanking his hood over his head, Remis gently pushed the door aside to see the cushions on the benches ripped open. Small white feathers were scattered across the fabric and littered the floor as the down stuffing spilled out. There were no secret compartments in this rather plain carriage but there were gouges in the wood as evidence that the stranger had tried to pry several boards apart to check.
