Page 9 of Blood & Claw

Kayla huffed a long-suffering sigh. She then glanced over her shoulder, meeting Ailsa’s eye. “Fetch some strong wine from Lilias.”

Ailsa hesitated. Kayla was tough and could defend herself physically. Even so, she didn’t want to leave her alone with this man, despite that Lilias’s ale-hall was only a short walk away. “Kayla, I—” she began, but her mentor cut her off with an irritated wave of her hand.

“Go on … the quicker you set off, the sooner you’ll be back.”

Meanwhile, the man glanced over at Ailsa, his deep-set eyes glinting. “Off you go, Brèagha.”

3: FETCHING WINE

TEETH GRITTED, AILSA pushed her way through the curtain that divided the shop and living spaces of their home and let it swish closed behind her.

Brèagha. Calling someone ‘pretty’ wasn’t an insult, although the way he’d said it made her skin crawl. He was mocking her.

She wasn’t pretty. She was unsettling. Strange.

With any luck, her mentor would work quickly, and by the time she returned with the wine, the job would be nearly done. Then, the creep could leave.

Afterward, she could have it out with Kayla—and demand they make some changes.

The back of the narrow stacked-stone building they lived in was even more cramped than the shop, consisting of two narrow sleeping alcoves stuffed with furs, a hearth, and a small square table where they shared every meal.

Taking a wide clay bottle off a shelf, Ailsa tucked it into a linen bag. She then slid a thin knife into the back of her boot; a precaution Kayla had taught her years ago.

Lately, she found the feel of cold iron against her shin comforting.

After that, she threw on her cloak. It was new, a gift from Kayla at the last Mid-winter Fire. Made of finely woven wool and trimmed in rabbit fur, the mantle was a deep forest-green, her favorite color. Today she wore a thick, ankle-length moss-green tunic. Both her tunic and cloak were warm. Just as well, since, although they were now in autumn and nearing Gateway, the air outdoors held a bite.

The last thing she fetched before going outside was an iron lantern with a dish of tallow inside. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she lit the lantern. She then unlatched and pushed open the back door, exiting into the narrow wynd.

It was as dark as a barrow out here, for the Fort Guard didn’t bother hanging torches in back wynds, especially in ‘The Reek’, the fort’s poorest area.

Turning left, Ailsa screwed her nose up. Aye, this tangle of dark, fetid lanes on Braewall’s lowest level was aptly named. The air was heavy with acrid peat smoke and the smell of rotting food, piss, and dung.

She wished they’d move. If they weren’t going to travel, they could at least enjoy the coin they earned. These days, Kayla had amassed enough for them to buy a roundhouse in the upper levels. It was less crowded up there, and the air was fresher. You were also less likely to get pickpocketed or harassed. However, Kayla dismissed the idea every time she brought it up. She preferred to hoard her coin.

Ailsa’s lips thinned. That was something else that needed discussing tonight.

“Ho, lass,” a gravelly voice greeted her as she walked down the wynd. A moment later, her lantern illuminated a hunched figure swathed in filthy blankets who huddled in the shadows. The stench of stale ale and other vile odors hit her like a wall then. “How about a fuck?”

Ailsa scowled. Beggars were commonplace in Braewall, but this one—a man who’d once served the King of Braewall, but whose love of ale had ruined his career, and his life—had taken to camping just a few yards from their back door. And every time she walked by, he had something to say.

Once, she’d merely shrugged off this beggar’s coarse words, but no longer.

For a heartbeat, she imagined kicking him in the teeth.

Throttling the urge, she stalked past.

Raspy laughter followed her.

The rumble of voices, accompanied by the rise and fall of a gently strumming lyre, greeted Ailsa as she pushed open the wattle door to the ale-hall and stepped inside. The musty odor of ale and mead mixed with unwashed bodies hit her then, as did stuffy warmth. Two hearths burned brightly, illuminating the ruddy faces of the men and women seated at long tables inside the low-slung rectangular building.

Indeed, this ale-hall, one of a few throughout the fort, lay a short walk from the shop.

Pushing back her hood, Ailsa hung up her lantern by the door and swept her gaze over the interior. It had been a while since she’d set foot in here. The ale-hall, with its suffocating heat and noise, as well as the stares that stabbed into her, made her long to escape. Nevertheless, she liked the woman who ran this place.

She marked one of the young men seated at the end of the nearest table then. Rabbie, the carpenter’s apprentice. She hadn’t seen him since Harvest Fire, and her pulse jolted as he smirked before nudging his companion in the ribs with his elbow. The older man, the carpenter himself, glanced Ailsa’s way before snorting a laugh.

Ailsa clenched her fists at her sides, wincing as her fingernails dug into her palms. They were getting long again; she’d have to file them. If left, her nails grew into wicked points. They’d always unnerved people, Ailsa too, and for that reason, she worked hard to keep them short.