Page 45 of Dhampira

Startled, I jerked my attention to his face.

Are you a simpleton?

My angry gasp was loud in the hushed forest.

Say nothing, he said, his voice in my head fainter this time. I couldn’t have said how, but I sensed him pause. The next time his voice came, the words were muffled, as if he spoke from a great distance. Eyes forward. Always assume someone is watching.

It took all of my willpower not to look around. This was the third time he’d warned me, albeit in his arrogant, reluctant way. I wouldn’t delude myself into thinking his reasons were altruistic. But I’d heed him all the same.

So I didn’t look at him, and I said nothing as he continued his grueling pace. The sky lightened to lavender and then Nocta’s sugary, muted pink. Finally, the sun’s warmth spread over the forest, banishing the chill. Birds fluttered from branch to branch over our heads. A few offered tentative songs as we passed, but the forest was otherwise still.

Before long, my empty stomach groaned and my leg muscles trembled with every step over the uneven ground. My heels burned, blisters forming as my skin rubbed against my stockings. A stabbing pain formed between my eyes, the bursts of discomfort flaring with my heartbeat. My head swam, the trees blurring. Just when I started to wonder what Lorcan would do if I fainted, the trees opened onto a small clearing.

Lorcan stopped. Panting, I staggered to a halt beside him. A few fallen logs lay at the edge of the clearing, which glowed pink and golden under the rising sun. The glow was everywhere, its perfect heat wrapping around me. I tilted my head back, letting the light spill over my face. If I closed my eyes, I could almost be in Derryton, the familiar slam of the cottage’s back door ringing in my ears as Mama hurried down the steps to tend her herb garden.

Corinthe!

Smiling, I stepped forward, ready to grab my apron so I could help.

The rasp of steel snapped my eyes open, and the fog in my head cleared. Lorcan’s sword flashed in the sun, chasing away the memory.

Staggering backward, I thrust out a hand to block Lorcan’s blow. “Don’t—”

“Hold this,” he ordered, flipping the blade and shoving the hilt into my hand. I grasped it automatically, confusion swamping me as he strode to a log and sat.

The dragonstone pulsed but I ignored its light, my confusion growing as Lorcan opened his jacket and withdrew a white cloth. Feet braced wide in the grass, he unwrapped two small round buns.

My stomach clenched, my insides gnawing at themselves. The buns were as plump and golden as the sun, their tops glistening with butter. The scent of fresh-baked bread hit my nose, and I couldn’t stifle my moan.

Lorcan bowed his head.

Surprise cut through my hunger. I’d been around enough gentry to know they didn’t pray before meals. That was for peasants and merchants, who depended on the gods for a good harvest. The nobles Mama occasionally treated might appeal to the gods when facing death, but never over something as mundane as food.

Lorcan lifted his head.

His eyes were totally black.

My mouth went dry, my fingers tightening around the sword’s hilt. We were miles from the Drakhold. I had his weapon, but he had fangs and stolen magic.

“Zid vedara,” he murmured.

Power brushed my skin. The air cooled, and the sun dimmed. I looked up, expecting clouds. But the sky was clear, the sun a round, hazy smear behind its veil of magic.

When I lowered my head, the air around the clearing was tinged with blue and Lorcan had placed one gleaming bun on the log beside him. He lifted the other and took a healthy bite.

Saliva rushed into my mouth. The sweet, milky scent of melted butter taunted my nostrils. Lorcan chewed, his black gaze unfocused. I stared at the second bun. Maybe this was the challenge, and I was supposed to kill him and take the bread. Like mother, like daughter. Perhaps I was a prodigy like Mama.

I started forward—

Vines rushed over the log, green tendrils quickly crisscrossing the bread. I stopped, shivering as more power slid over my skin. Zid vedara. The first word was the same one Vander had used in his study. The blue in the air was familiar, too. It had hemmed us against his bookshelves. It had glowed in the crystals he’d dropped around our campsite in the Wendlewood.

And it had glowed in the witch’s eyes in the dungeon.

The vines thickened around the bun. Lorcan didn’t look at them as he took his last bite, his jaw working. A breeze picked up, rustling the leaves of the trees that bordered the clearing. The vines continued to circle the bun, obscuring the golden crust until only green remained. The breeze became a wind. Trees shuddered, raining leaves that tumbled through the air and into the clearing. I gripped the sword as my heart thumped faster and my skirts whipped around my legs.

“What’s happening?” I asked Lorcan.

He said nothing, his eyes on the same distant spot. Beside him, the vines began to retreat. They slid down the log, slithering over one another before rolling backward. The bun had vanished.