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Meira clung to the harness strapped across Mrithun’s back. Together they’d flown steady sweeping circles around camp, even turning away Quincy’s replacement. Sleep wasn’t something Meira imagined she’d be able to get. It was too bright out here, far different from the dense darkness of Mount Ridmond, and her mind was stuck replaying that damn dream.
Though she was seated on top of her Bold Wing and there were no threats in sight, Meira had the feeling she was falling. Over and over again, her stomach would lurch up into her throat and her limbs would feel terribly light. The first time her entire body tensed up, preparing for a landing, but she’d never moved from Mrithun’s back. It was nearly an hour later that the huntress mark burned so terribly on her hand that she’d ripped her gloves off and shoved the damn things into her waistband.
She looked down into her palm and this time instead of seeing the darkness of whatever wrap he’d had on his hand, Meira’s mind tunneled through the connection where she’d found him sprawled across the ground in a puddle of his own vomit. His hand was stretched over his head, reaching for her, that identical mark to hers facing up. There was a moment where she wanted to take his hand in hers, filled with those vulnerable lingering feelings from her recently returned memory. The desire soured as she wondered why she was cursed to hunt the man.
Meira was little more than a projection of magic, an image given form in his mind with enough reach to see his surroundings which she took in with greedy appreciation. The world around them, visible as it was, held a hazy ethereal look at the edges. She took in the trees and the flow of the river behind him. The Mitus River? she wondered. It was the only river that had been near where she’d seen him last. Apart from that, there were no other clear signs as to where he was; it was just him, the forest, and the water behind him.
Not real. This isn’t real. She could see where he was because the mark had been uncovered and this connection between them brought her to him but as she held still she could feel Mrithun underneath her and the wicked lick of wind across her face. The vision of him grew fuzzy as she felt her reality around her and she frantically focused on his drenched form until everything became clear again.
A twig snapped under her boot as she took a tentative step forward. His chest rose and fell, shallowly. The man was alive at least. Meira cursed herself for the inkling of worry that grew for him. Should she want him dead? Wouldn’t that make everything easier? Fix whatever wrong he’d done in another life? She took another step, content to study him and the way his dark hair fell over his face. The ghost of a beard now graced his jaw, dark stubble that circled his parted lips.
He sucked in a breath, the sound accompanied by a series of rattling coughs. Meira straightened, unaware that she’d even leaned forward as if to reach out and touch him.
His dark eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot as he looked around and pushed himself up. All the while Meira watched him. His body trembled and though she couldn’t feel what he felt she knew he must be freezing. Even his cloak was waterlogged.
The moment he noticed her, his eyes trailed her body. Heat followed the movement up her legs, hips, and then to her face like the ghosts of the hands she remembered touching her in her dream. She was thankful her hood covered her face so he couldn’t see the way her cheeks turned red hot as their gazes locked.
Damn him. He was terribly beautiful and that would explain why she felt her insides get all fluttery though she loathed the feeling entirely. She couldn’t stand under his scrutiny for a moment longer for fear she’d burn up.
Crimson spread like watercolor over the shoulder of the white shirt underneath his blue waistcoat. Blood.
“You’re hurt.” She reached to help him up, not certain if they could even touch in this in-between realm they met in.
Those near black eyes landed on her bare palm. Her gloves, she’d taken them off the moment the mark had begun to hurt. She nearly startled at her own uncovered mark.
His gaze turned accusatory. “You.” His voice was rough as he pointed.
That was fear that she saw flicker in his eyes. Good. He knew her, knew what she was to some extent.
With a smile, she pulled her hand back and let it settle on the pommel of her sword. “Me.”
“Who are you?” To his credit, his voice didn’t waver. Remis staggered to his feet, almost stumbling back into the river before he righted himself. “What do you want with me?”
He was scared, no, terrified of her. She liked that, thrilled at the idea of it. He was the pretty little prey, her rabbit. She was the predator that stalked him, a vicious wild cat ready to sink her teeth into him.
Meira prowled forward. Her eyes caught on the way his white shirt became sheer and caught herself annoyed that the waistcoat he wore covered the majority of his torso. Though he was a lean man, the definition of his arms was clear. She remembered the sliver of her dream, the way his body felt under her hands.
Remis’ eyes widened as she neared, his attention flicking to her hand on her weapon. She let her fingers flex against the smooth handle and watched as his muscles tensed. Those full lips of his parted and Meira thought of the taste of his wine-addled tongue.
Fury sliced through the memory. Whatever he’d done to her, whatever she couldn’t recall that was so terrible she’d tied them with this curse…it had to be greater than whatever stupid love story they might have had. Hatred begged for her to rip her weapon from its sheath. The way her mind propelled her to think of him as she’d remembered him last night was an inconvenience. One she was determined to work around.
“Do you not know what that mark means?” Meira let the words drip from her tongue, a slow, sensual tease of danger.
His throat bobbed but his voice held firm, disgust tainting the words. “There is folklore of you witches.”
She wished that after all these years she’d grown numb to the Empire’s hatred of her kind. After all, there wouldn’t be folklore if witches hadn’t been hunted to near extinction. Furthermore, Remis’ opinion of her shouldn’t matter. He’d be dead as soon as she could get her hands on him. The weight of anger and shame fell over her. She masked it with a smirk.
“Only good things, I presume.”
The sound that came out of him, a rush of breath, was almost a laugh. “The stories are true then? You’re murderers. That’s what this is, isn’t it? A game? You’re hunting me for your own amusement.”
He thought so little of her, of witches. He assumed she’d done this to herself for the sake of killing some time? For a little fun?
Emperor Grandith Augustine and his hatred for witches had led the entire damn continent to believe that witches were monsters. That somehow women with an ounce of talent for drawing off the magic of this world were out trying to set villages on fire, eating babies, and otherwise creating chaos.
For all her anger, Meira was still able to laugh. She watched as he stiffened at the noise, eyes searching her face for something she doubted he’d find. Mercy? Certainly not. Kindness? Not for him.
“This is no game, Remis.” She moved close enough now to touch him, to reach out and stroke his face as he blanched. Meira let her nail scrape gently against his skin, over the curve of his cheek, and the rough stubble growing in.
