Page 46 of Dhampira

Lorcan didn’t move.

The wind quieted. More leaves tumbled. A lump formed in my throat. Because I’d seen leaves tumbling that way before—when Alon pulled his gaze from the sky and asked me to kill him.

The vines thinned. Just before the last one slipped from the log, it climbed Lorcan’s thigh. Slipping over his knee, it shivered once and then quickly retreated.

Then it was gone.

The wind stopped, and sunlight filled the clearing. My throat burned as a final, lonely leaf tumbled gently to the grass. I looked at Lorcan, something loosening inside me.

He stood and closed the distance between us. “We’ll keep moving,” he said without meeting my gaze. Then he started forward.

“Wait!” I called when he was several steps away.

He paused, his head turned just enough to show his profile. His eyes were back to normal. His expression was, too, his features arrogant and petulant.

I moved to his side. “That…” I swallowed, his warning about being watched ringing in my head. But we stood in the open. He’d given the bun to the forest in plain view of anyone who cared to spy. “Was that for—?”

“We have more ground to cover,” he said. “Don’t fall behind.” He moved off again, his long strides eating up the ground.

I hurried to catch up, and I thrust the dragonstone sword at him. “Don’t you want this back?”

“No.”

Any inkling of goodwill I might have felt toward him evaporated. The sword wasn’t particularly heavy—perhaps five pounds at most—but it was long and cumbersome, and I didn’t have a scabbard.

“You could at least give me the scabbard,” I said.

Lorcan swatted a thatch of tall grass from his path. “I could.”

The grass rebounded, slapping me in the stomach. Gritting my teeth, I shoved it away. “But you won’t.”

No reply. Which was its own reply. I tightened my grip on the sword, a vision of me plunging it into his back flashing through my mind. He probably wanted me to attempt it. Then he’d have an excuse to further humiliate me.

More grass loomed. He pushed through it, letting the swaying stalks snap into my path.

I slashed the sword at a waving thatch, slicing it in half. “You said something back in the clearing. Zi—” My throat closed, my air cutting off. Searing pain wrapped around my neck before fading. Coughing, I slowed my steps. “Zi—”

Lorcan stopped and turned. His dark eyes were impassive as he watched me recover.

Raising my free hand to my throat, I tried again. “You said zi—” My windpipe closed once more. The burning pain returned, and I lapsed into another round of coughing. As quickly as it came, the pain fled. But the next time I tried to speak the strange word, I couldn’t even open my mouth.

“Let me know if you think of it,” Lorcan said. He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t use my sword to clear the grass.”

During the next hour, I entertained myself by imagining the most painful ways he might die. Assisting Mama had given me a whole arsenal to choose from. The pox was unpleasant, although most people grew too feverish to realize what was happening to them. On one occasion, my mother had tended a hunter who had stepped into a bear trap. The stench of his rotting leg had spread through the whole village.

That was perfect for Lorcan. He enjoyed bothering other people.

My headache returned, along with a churning hunger that made my eyes water. My throat grew dry, my mind spinning with visions of the water pitcher I’d left behind in the Drakhold. As much as I wanted to ponder the strange gag that fell over me whenever I tried to echo Vander’s and Lorcan’s words, my hunger-addled brain was too sluggish to sort it out.

So I kept walking, exhaustion and irritation growing with every step. The sun loomed overhead, its diffused glow turning the sky a paler shade of pink. The trees changed, their trunks becoming narrower. Eventually the ground sloped, and I had to angle my feet sideways to keep my balance. After a few minutes of descent, the trees grew sparse and the land smoothed into a broad, flat strip with hills rising on either side. A river flowed down the center, its banks studded with rocks and clumps of bushes.

We’d reached the glen Rasimir referenced in the dungeon.

Lorcan threaded his way around the bushes. The river flowed on our left, the water sparkling in the sun. Shoving damp hair from my face, I trudged forward, my boots sinking into soft grass that soon gave way to coarse sand. Somewhere in the distance, more water roared. The sword hilt grew slick in my sweaty hand. My heels burned, and I was reasonably certain my stockings were filling with blood.

Still, Lorcan marched onward, never missing a step.

“Delphine said you were a king,” I called.