Lain’s stomach clenched. The bread and cheese had only scratched the surface of her hunger. It wasn’t just her body now; her every sense turned toward the promise of food, the music of spoons against bowls.
She put her hand on Mallow’s pack as if to anchor herself, but the scent below tugged harder.
She should stay. Wait for Mallow.
But her thoughts blurred at the edges, vivid with hunger in the center.
She stood, almost without realizing it, and smoothed her cloak. The mirror above the washbasin caught her reflection – hollow-eyed, flushed, the outline of her antlers pushing against her hood. She tugged the wool down tighter.
It didn’t matter. She needed food. She needed something.
The stairwell glowed with lamplight. The closer she came to the common room, the stronger the air grew, thick with the smell of ale and sweat. It hit her like a tide. For a moment she just stood there, gripping the banister, breathing it in before descending.
No one made note of her. The room was busy, full of noise and motion. The innkeeper’s wife moved from table to table with a steaming pot, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. Men in traveling coats hunched over bowls.
Lain hesitated only a heartbeat before crossing to the empty seat near the fire. The heat on her face was sinful, delicious.
When the woman approached, Lain managed a quiet “Please.”
The woman nodded briskly, ladling stew into a bowl. “You’re with the sellsword?”
Lain startled. “Pardon?”
“The dark-haired one who came through earlier. He said he had a companion.”
She nodded. The smell hit her then, onion and barley, no trace of meat, praise the wyrm. It was almost too much. Her hands shook when she lifted the spoon.
The first bite undid her completely. The salt, the texture of soft carrots against her tongue. She could have wept. Her body, starved and overfull with the Heat, responded with something close to ecstasy.
“Hungry, are you?” the woman asked kindly. Lain only nodded, unable to speak.
The din of the tavern blurred. For the first time all day, she wasn’t thinking of the Brighthand, or Mallow. She was thinking of life, of her own teeth in her own mouth, of the fire’s crackle. Her tail raveled about her ankle beneath her slacks, then tightened again.
Somewhere beneath the brightness, another thought rose: if the Dagorlind kept the Underserpent asleep all this time, what might happen if it woke?
The idea filled her like another spoonful of stew.
She finished the bowl quickly, breathless and trembling, the edges of her hunger turning to resolve. When she looked up, the woman was coming back around the pub again, this time with mugs of ale. She raised an eyebrow at Lain before placing a mug of ale before her. “Pilgrim, are you?”
Lain smiled faintly, wiping her mouth. “Something like that.” She sniffed at the mug. “Do you have barley water?”
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The innkeeper’s wife blinked, then laughed. “Barley water, is it? We can manage that.” She took the ale away and returned a moment later with a smaller cup, pale gold and warm.
Lain held it between both hands. The heat seeped into her palms. She drank slowly, tasting the sweetness beneath the grain.
She should have felt out of place here, cloaked and hooded among strangers. But for once, she didn’t. She felt awake. Deep inside, beneath the lingering warmth of the stew and drink, the Heat pulsed. Wake it, the Heat seemed to whisper. Wake the serpent and all will sing.
That was when she felt the weight of someone’s eyes. A man sat at the bar a few tables away, half-turned toward her. Young, maybe her age. Freckles across his nose, cheeks pink from ale. His clothes were travel-worn but clean. He caught her glance and grinned, sheepish.
She looked away. Her pulse fluttered like a caught moth.
A moment later, he stood, mug in hand, and crossed the space between them. “Mind if I sit?”
His voice was rough from ale and laughter, pleasant enough. Lain hesitated, then nodded. He took the seat beside her, setting his mug down with care as though to prove good manners.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “You looked lonely.”
“I’m not,” she said.
He smiled. “Startled, or lonely?”
Her laugh came out as a breathy hum that warmed her cheeks further. The air between them thickened. The smell of ale and something faintly resinous clung to him. Pine pitch, maybe. The Heat stirred, quick and eager, hungry for that scent.
Lain’s fingers tightened around her cup.
“I’m Ben. What’s your name?” he asked.
She almost gave it to him, but the word caught in her throat. Somehow it felt dangerous, that someone might know she was still alive. And it felt too charged, after hearing it from Mallow’s mouth.
“Elaine,” she said instead. The lie sounded strange on her tongue, soft and human.
“Well, Elaine,” Ben said, smiling. “You’ve the look of someone who’s traveled far. I can always tell by the eyes.”
The way he said it wasn’t inappropriate, but intimate, like he saw her. Really saw her. For a moment it was pleasant, grounding. But then the Heat pushed the sensation deeper, turning it bright and strange.
He leaned in a little. “Where’s your friend, then? If you’re not lonely.”
“He’s gone for supplies.”
“Ah.” His grin widened, though his tone stayed easy. “Not your husband?”
The words landed wrong. The Heat made her slow to parse them, and when she did, shame curdled in her chest. She should leave. But the Heat liked the nearness, the rhythm of his voice, the simple weight of attention.
“You shouldn’t be talking to me, Ben,” she said quietly.
“Maybe not.” He raised his mug in half salute. “But I couldn’t help myself. Pretty gal like you, sitting all on your lonesome. You deserve good company, at least.”
She should have stood and walked away. Instead, she smiled, and that was all the invitation he needed.
He reached out as if to brush her sleeve, casual and uncertain. The moment his fingers neared hers, the Tuning shivered to life. Her breath caught.
His fingertips connected with her skin.
The Heat moved between them like static, invisible and startling. His eyes widened, pupils dilating as if he’d been struck.
“What –” he began, but his voice faltered.
His feelings roiled back to her through her Tuning, the excitement, the pleasure, the growing desire and curiosity.
She wanted to draw away.
But the Heat did not.
She leaned forward, lay two fingers on the back of his other hand, drew the lightest circle there so she would feel the way it made his skin tingle.
He blinked, unsteady, confusion giving way to something darker – curiosity, then greed. He pressed toward her, brought his hand under the table, knuckles brushing her thigh. The Heat rushed up the back of her neck.
His voice dropped, dripping with sensuality. “Are you Tuned, then, little pilgrim? Can’t say I’ve ever met one of your kind.”
She grinned, head swimming with the pleasure of being touched with such boldness. “Would you like to know our kind a little better?”
He chuffed a quiet laugh, this time the hand on the table sliding just up the base of her sleeve –
And made contact with the band of scales that lined her wrist.
Ben’s eyes widened. His mouth parted, the ale-flush draining from his face. He looked at her like the farmer had, not with lust now, but with the shock of seeing something half-wrong.
Lain drew back sharply, knocking her cup. She caught it before it tumbled over, but barley water spilled over the top, golden and warm.
“Forgive me,” she said, fumbling to still the glass. Then she rose. The bench scraped the floor loudly, and several people turned. Lain fumbled for her hood, pulling it forward. For one awful second, the motion exposed the edge of her ear, softly furred and unmistakable.
“Saints,” he breathed. “You’re –”