Princess of Thorns

“You will live, and you will change your fate.” I should pull my hand away, but I let my fingers brush across his lips instead. “I will help you, if you’ll let me.”

Niklaas mumbles in his sleep and I take a guilty step back. We’ve slept on the same bedroll for a week, but I’ve never felt like I was invading his privacy the way I do now. I shouldn’t be touching him. I haven’t earned the right, and I never will.

With one last check of the room—making sure the window is locked and a glass of water placed by Niklaas’s bed for when he wakes up with a mouth full of cotton—I let myself out, taking his key and locking the door behind me, figuring I’ll be up before he is and he’s better off locked in.

Outside in the hall, I place my palm against the door, wishing I hadn’t asked for two rooms, wishing I didn’t feel so reluctant to crawl into bed alone, without Niklaas’s back pressed to mine and his irritating sleep sounds waking me in the night.

Sad to miss a night of snoring. I must be losing my mind.

With a sigh, I tuck Niklaas’s key into one pocket and pluck my own from the other.

“Surely you’re not going to bed already.” The voice—and the low growl that follows it—comes from not ten hands behind me, making me jump and reach for my staff, cursing myself for letting my guard down for a moment.

Chapter Fourteen

Aurora

I spin to find a girl in a red cloak leaning against my door. A shaggy white dog big enough to ride crouches beside her. The creature’s blue eyes narrow and its growl turns even more menacing as I point my staff at its lady.

“It’s all right, Hund.” The girl runs her fingers idly back and forth along the beast’s back. “This boy won’t hurt us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I say, tightening my grip on my staff.

“Easy, now. We only want to be friends.” She tosses her head, sending curls the color of hot chocolate tumbling around her shoulders.

Her dark eyes consider me with a hungry look, while lips stained a deep red push into a pout every bit as seductive as Niklaas’s. She is his feminine counterpart, a girl so striking it’s impossible to believe she’s a mere mortal. She would turn heads dressed in an oat sack, but in her red cloak and tight black dress—displaying what I, for one, consider an aggressive amount of cleavage—with the scarlet leather belt at her waist, she might as well be parading around with a court trumpeter by her side.

“You’ll want to hear what I have to say.” She brings a hand to her hip, emphasizing her curves, drawing my attention to the small axe hanging from the leather at her waist. It’s an unusual choice of weapon but a dangerous one, assuming she knows how to throw it. “I have a proposition for you.”

A proposition, eh? I lift my eyes from the axe. This girl must have been sent by one of the madams, a treat to tempt the handsome boy on the white horse.

I’m suddenly very glad Niklaas decided to drink too much. I wouldn’t want to see the way he’d look at this girl. I’d enjoy seeing him pull her into his room even less.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sound it. “But I’m not interested, and my friend is too drunk to … um … perform.”

“Perform?” Her eyebrow lifts.

“Yes,” I say, blushing despite myself. I’ve heard about prostitutes and seen them at the mercenary camp, but I’ve never spoken with one. I’m finding it more awkward than I would have thought.

What must it be like? To sell something so sacred? To have men look you over like a menu at a tavern and decide whether or not to … consume you?

“You’re … you’re beautiful. Really.” My blush becomes a burning in my cheeks. “But we don’t have money to waste on … companions.”

“Companions …” Her brow smoothes. “Oh my!” She throws her head back and laughs, displaying her flawless white throat before ducking her chin and tossing her hair.

Her mane is like a luxurious fur, so glossy and thick and soft-looking that it begs to be touched. Even I wouldn’t mind twirling it around my finger, and I couldn’t be further from her usual customer. She must do quite well with real boys.

“I see.” She presses two fingers to her lips in a gesture that does nothing to conceal her delighted smile. “You think I’m a whore. How sweet.”

I blink. I wouldn’t call someone who had confused me for a whore “sweet,” but to each her own.

I grip my staff, on guard once more. “If you’re not a whore, then who are you? And why are standing in front of my room?”

“I just want to talk,” she says, ambling down the hall.

The dog makes to follow her, but she stops him with a pointed finger and a sharp command in a language I don’t recognize. I’ve studied the major languages of Mataquin, but I can’t recall anything that sounds so guttural. She must be from the extreme north, even farther north than the man I fought today.

A wave of uneasiness passes through me. Beyond the countries of Herth, on the far side of the Gefroren Mountains, mountains so tall the bodies of ancient giants are said to be buried beneath them, lies the last refuge of human witches, men and women born with magic in their blood instead of borrowed from the Fey or bartered from dark spirits, like the fate reader at the New Market.

Centuries ago, human witches were hunted by the ogres, who gained a portion of the witches’ magic when they consumed their flesh. The ogres, craving more power, eventually turned their efforts toward stealing magic from the Fey, but not before they decimated the witches’ numbers and drove the few remaining men and women into hiding. The last of their people are a fiercely secretive and vengeful tribe, who only venture from their arctic home to kidnap children and pillage the harvests of Herth’s farmers. They can clear an orchard in a night, leaving behind only a few crystal-filled stones most farmers are too terrified to touch, let alone sell for profit.

I wouldn’t be surprised to learn this girl is a witch. There is something … not right about her. She wears her beauty like a costume, something false she could shed at a moment’s notice. It isn’t a part of her, it’s a tool, a weapon every bit as dangerous as the axe at her waist.

“Don’t come any closer,” I warn.

“Don’t be afraid.” She keeps walking, hips swaying. “I want to be your friend, little prince.”

“How do you know me?” I ask. “Who are you? Tell me or I’ll put you down.”

“Threatening a woman?” The girl lifts her hands in the air, but she doesn’t seem frightened and doesn’t pause until I stop her with the end of my staff against her chest. Her dog growls, but the girl silences him with another guttural command.

“This is no way to behave,” she says, turning back to me with wounded eyes. “You’ll have me trembling all over in another moment.”

“I’ve asked you once,” I say in a humorless tone. “I’ll ask once more, and then I’ll knock you unconscious. Who are you, and how do you know me?”

Her eyes widen further, but she looks more excited than frightened. “I’m with the exiles. I heard you were looking for a guide to the Feeding Hills.”

The guide. Niklaas did say he had put a word in with a friend.

“If that isn’t true, I’ll be on my way,” the girl says, drawing my attention back to her pouted mouth. “There’s no need to threaten me with your … weapon.” She reaches up, ru

I pull it out of her reach. “We are looking for a guide,” I say, mentally cursing Niklaas. Couldn’t he have found someone else? Someone less … busty?