Page 26 of Mortdale

But there was something about it that put me at ease. Maybe it was the fact that they only saw me as a witch, that they didn’t know Willow Briar the way everyone at the Crimson Weaver did. Maybe that’s why I felt more comfortable around them despite what they were.

“Just call me Willow.”

Henry smirked. “Not unless I have a death wish.”

“Where’s your lord?”

“Called to the parliament. He’ll probably be there until morning.”

I stopped chewing. “Having a vampiric orgy or what? What takes them so long?”

Henry cocked a dark brow in my direction. “Vampiric orgy?”

“The thing where you all turn into bats and hump one another.” I took another massive bite out of the bread. It was too good—soft and buttery and herby. A witch had to have cooked it because what the Hell did they or humans even know about cooking herbs? They were terrified of salt; thought it was a witch’s version of gunpowder. “Is there garlic in this?” I pouted. “Are you all going to die now?”

Henry chuckled, but Arthur sneered in my direction. “When did you sell your soul to the devil?”

“I love this question. It was the summer of my eighteenth birthday. Big bash we had, me and the devil. Many orgies with many devil folk.” I nearly choked trying to swallow a big bite. “By the way. What does this devil you keep mentioning look like? I’ve always pictured a small man that looks like a mole rat. Wet-looking, very saggy skin.” Peeling my front lip over my teeth, I said, “Sort of like this. But naked and mole-y.”

Chewing like a proper cow, I glanced between the two of them who were just staring at me, yet again.

“They say you cut open folks back at the coven,” Henry said, handing me another loaf of bread. “Like a coroner.”

I nodded.

“Gruesome, that is,” Arthur said under his breath.

“What’s so gruesome about it?”

“The cutting, the slicing people up to pieces like they’re meat.”

“They don’t feel anything. They’re dead. Mostly.”

When they both did that staring thing again, I added, “My Goddess, can’t a witch make a joke around these parts of town?” I lifted Henry’s handkerchief up. “Is this lavender I smell?”

Arthur snorted. “Fancy-ass is a lord’s son. Never outgrew his noble habits.”

“Fourth son,” Henry clarified. “Which by mathematical terms puts me at about a clothing merchant level heir at best.”

“At best,” Arthur grumbled, shaking his head.

My eyes kept bouncing between the two. “How did you end up with grouchy toes here?”

Henry laughed. “Hit a rebellious phase in my early teens and joined the army. I expected my father to fight back for me. He never did. Got my ass beaten up by tender toes here in squad drills after I called his snotty ass a guttersnipe—in all fairness, you should have seen the state of the poor waif. His knickers were glued on to his balls, that’s how tight they were.” His shoulders shook from laughter when Arthur nearly shoved him across the street. “Logan jumped in to split us up. Got banged up pretty good himself. All three of us were locked in a dungeon for six days. And the rest is history.” He flashed me a fangy smile. “Pissing in the same tiny bucket for six days does wonders for a friendship, that I can tell you.”

“Awe. That’s incredibly adorable.”

The amusement didn’t slip off his face for even a moment. “We’ve done everything together since then. Shared everything.” He hummed as his gaze raked all over me, forcing me to look away. “Not anymore, I suppose.”

“Why’s that?”

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. “Henry, shut the fuck up.”

But his friend did indeed not shut up, his smile only growing bigger. “Logan won’t let us even look at you, let alone touch you.”

Oh. My eyes widened. Oh.

I nearly choked.