by Plum Pascal
“I mean,” she starts and then inhales deeply. “I don’t, but…”
“Who cares what they believe? If they don’t like it, fuck them!”
Her lips quirk into a coy little smile. “Fuck them, too? My, that’s quite a few people I’m fucking now, isn’t it?”
A bark of surprised laughter escapes me and I creep closer to settle myself in the tangle of roots at the base of the tree, keeping a foot of distance between us. She’s frightened of us, still, and I’m not sure why. None of us have made a move on her. Even Sorren keeps his unnerving notions to himself and only stares at her after she’s gone to sleep, something that deeply bothers Leith and me because we both assume it’s just a matter of time before he… does something.
“I think you should worry less about what other people will think. All of us know better, so who does it hurt? You could do worse than being the perceived consort of three royals.”
The puckered lines between her brows only grow deeper, and I have the uncharacteristic urge to smooth them away with a thumb before trailing it down her soft, ivory cheek. She’s too young, too vital for all of this. Faces tend to stick in the expressions we wear most, and I don’t want hers to be a roadmap of pain, stress, and misery.
“That’s not the problem,” she mumbles.
“Then what is it?”
She hesitates for another long moment and then gives her head a rueful shake. “It’s nothing, Nash. Go back to the campsite. I think I’m going to sleep here tonight.”
As if I’m going to let her freeze out here alone. I expel a sigh and begin unlacing my armor, dropping it to the ground in a neat pile off to the side of one root. I tug my undershirt off next, and she inches away from me, climbing to her feet. She backs away a few steps, as if she’s afraid I’ll fall on her right that instant.
“What are you doing?”
“Shifting. I can’t do it with my clothes on if I want to keep them the shape they are. So either avert your precious eyes, thief, or don’t squawk.”
She continues to stare, which is a little gratifying. I’d been starting to believe she truly didn’t appreciate my physical qualities—something I’m unused to from a woman. It’s no secret I’m a handsome man.
But those emerald eyes trace the lines of my body with a feminine appreciation that pleases my beast. I’m so fucking tired of being outdone by Leith. If not for the bad luck of being born to the only female of the Nord clan, I’d be the king. And if that were so, Goldy, as she prefers to be called, would be in my arms, my bed, riding at my back.
The change hunches my shoulders forward. Snaps and pops echo through the clearing as my bones twist in a way that should be painful. The warm, addictive joy of ceding my human mind to the beast keeps the worst of it at bay. Muscle piles onto my arms, my legs, my flanks, and fur thrusts through my skin and rolls down my back. In thirty seconds, I’ve become the beast.
She’s somehow, impossibly, more beautiful seen through a bear’s eyes. These eyes can see colors the human mind ignores. And now she’s painted in a spectrum of new, deeper hues.
I plant my bulk in the space she vacated, grimacing as the cramped confines squeeze my backside. Flopping onto my side, I hope she’ll take the hint. At least this way I can provide her with warmth, and maybe she’ll sleep properly if she’s not afraid I’ll try to fuck her.
A tiny smile tugs at her lips. “If I say no, are you going to sit on me?”
I incline my head and grunt. That’s about as complex as communication gets with outsiders when in beast form. With another werebear, the body language would have given them a clear answer. But she’s a human. An admittedly tough human, but still one who remains largely ignorant of the ways of beasts.
She considers me for a few extra seconds before shrugging. Then she drops back to the ground and tucks herself into my side. I sweep her as close as I can get her, so that my fur covers her on all sides like a heavy, warm blanket. Only her face remains free—and even then, she turns that toward my chest as well, nuzzling a cheek into my chest.
She releases a shaky exhale. “I like you better as a bear.”
I grunt and emit a low growl which makes her giggle.
“Thank you, Nash,” she says as her eyelashes meet the tops of her cheeks and she breathes in deeply. The smile still remains on her face as she falls into slumber’s embrace.
Relax and sleep, little thief, I think back. I’ve got you.
ELEVEN
Kassidy
Denfur is a squalid little hole at the best of times, and doubly so when winter drives all the shady characters into its many inns and taverns, seeking warmth from the mess of caverns and tunnels within the mountain of Grimm.
It’s perpetually dark in Grimm, seeing as how it’s located in the depths of the mountain. The only lights provided are by overhead street lamps and the various lamps burning within the buildings. And it smells like shit as the air has nowhere to go and nothing to do but grow stagnant. The buildings are shabby, the rock roads unpaved, the muck scored by the wheels of a thousand carts. Grubby faces peer from dingy windows, dozens of beady eyes trailing our party as we make our way down its main street.
It’s almost amusing to watch my companions’ faces as the smell really hits them. The pungent aroma slams like a fist to the face every time I come here, and I don’t even have decent scenting capability unless I’ve stolen it from someone else. Even then, there’s only so much the human nose can discern. Titus, Sabre, and Draven truly hate this place.
Leith actually wheels his horse halfway around before he catches himself, grimaces, and forces himself and the horse to remain stationary as we pass a particularly thick patch of rot or feces or both. I try not to think too much about what’s in the puddle Stellan is delicately skirting. Nash’s face is a rictus of disgust, and even Sorren’s blank façade has given way to mild distaste.
“You’re sure this is the place?” Leith asks in an undertone, keeping his voice so low, not even the nearby bawd can hear.
She’s leaning forward eagerly, big blue eyes drinking Leith in with very evident avaricious hunger. I’ve worn that look myself a few times, though never towards a man. It’s the same expression I give something of value—something that will bring me lots of coin.
This woman clearly is more interested in men. She cases Leith, taking in the fine clothes, the trappings of wealth he displays openly, arrogantly, as if he’s daring someone to steal from him. I know Leith well enough by now to know that’s not his intent, even if it is what he projects.
The bawd doesn’t know that though. All she knows is that he’s one in a party of wealthy men—a man who’s beyond handsome and will have ample coin to pay her. I know the way she thinks—perhaps she can swipe extra coin, if she can drive him to exhaustion in her bed.
For some ludicrous reason, I’m furious with her. I tighten my grip on Leith’s waist and lean around him so I can pin her with a glare. It’s incredibly stupid really. The King of the werebears isn’t mine—obviously. It’s not as though he’s claimed me with his gargantuan cock, and there’s been no talk of changing that any time soon. So, I have no claim I can lay on him. There’s no reason he shouldn’t fuck this woman of ill repute.
She’s a pretty thing, too. Blonde hair mussed, tall and slender, but with an ample chest spilling out of her dress. The coy smile she gives Leith shows she has all her teeth. I bet she’s a local favorite. Undeterred by my irrationally possessive ire, she ignores me.
“Hello, beautiful,” I hear Nash say from behind us.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I grumble. “She’s probably got more diseases than you have coins in your pocket.” Leith chuckles at that. “And that goes for you too, mister,” I whisper to him and he stops laughing immediately.
“Spoiling all the fun,” he whispers back.
“And saving you from crotch rot.”
“I suppose I should thank you, but first I’ll ask you where the bloody hell are we going?”
“The tav
ern we’re looking for is further in. The Tiddly Tigress.”
“The what?”
“Tiddly Tigress,” I repeat with a sigh because it’s one of my least favorite places. “It’s Peter’s favorite watering hole. We’ll find him in his cups or neck-deep in trouble, I guarantee it.”
Leith nods and spurs his horse forward, ignoring the bawd completely. She just stares after us, completely nonplussed. I’m sure she’s never faced rejection once in her storied life. A grin curls my lips, a spiteful spark of glee kindling in my chest. I’m not usually prone to envy, but there’s something gratifying in the gesture. I’ve been outdone by women like her all my life, men’s eyes skimming easily over my boyish figure. Handy for my profession, but a bit of a sting to my heart as well as my female pride. I’ve tried to move past that fatuous, girly instinct but hey, I’m only human. I get lonely from time to time.
Yeah, so take that you stupid bitch! I think to myself.
Okay, Kassidy, calm down.
That’s right! Go back into your crappy little house and stop looking at my men!
Only, they’re not your men, I correct myself.
Well, they’re more my men than hers.
I guess you have a point.
Nash and Sorren follow close behind, and neither of them pay her much mind, either, which just makes me grin harder. I bury my face into the hollow between Leith’s shoulder blades to hide it.
I don’t have to point out the Tiddly Tigress to Leith. We turn a corner a few minutes later, and there it is, in all its shabby glory. It’s easily the tallest building on the street—three stories high, casement windows bolted shut against the foul smells, though I doubt it smells much better within the tavern. The wood paneling of the walls is blackened to pitch darkness in places, singed points dotting its face like seared-on freckles. The place has been set on fire a few times by drunken magical types with more power than sense.
Leith leads our little procession toward the stables set off to the side of the tavern. The footman is a short, chubby man with greasy dark hair and a hawkish nose. He gives Leith and the rest of us the same speculative look as the bawd, clearly planning to rifle through our saddle bags for valuables the second we’ve disappeared inside.
“I know what you’re thinking, Maslin, but I wouldn’t do it,” I start. “Not unless you want to lose a hand.”
I lean away from Leith and I almost tip sideways off Stellan’s back so I can make myself seen.
Maslin’s broad, round face splits into a grin when he spies me. “Morningstar’s sagging taint! Kassidy, is that you?”
“Kassidy?” Leith repeats, frowning at me.
Fuck. The cat’s out of the proverbial bag. Oh well, I’ll discuss that with him later. For now, I ignore the king.
“It’s me.” I raise a hand to my done-up hair and the circlet of gold Nash gave me. Not to mention my fine dress and the fact that I’m traveling with the best dressed, best looking men this place has probably ever seen.
I rummage in the folds of my dress and produce a coin purse filled to the cinched top with gold pieces. I flick it at Maslin. He doesn’t look it, but he has wicked fast hands. He’s nearly as good a pickpocket as me, so he snatches the sack deftly out of the air and grins.
“There’s enough there to keep you honest, I trust?”
Maslin crosses his heart with a finger and gives me a sly wink. “Course, me girl, o’ course! Wouldn’t dream of stealin’ from you.”
I snort. Maslin is about as honest as a snake oil salesman, but I’m trusting fear to stay his hand if the money won’t. Even in this elaborately sewn death trap, I’m still dangerous and he knows it. Maslin is pure human. He knows if I get my hands on him, I can kill him. I won’t like doing it, but if it comes down to it, I’ll take his life to further the cause.
Actually, I’ll take most lives to further the cause.
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Leith whispers to me.
“We’ll see,” I answer with a quick smile.
We leave Maslin in the stables, securing the horses in their stalls and rounding the side of the building, we pass a few more of the promiscuous women the town has to offer. One actually reaches out and playfully slaps Nash’s ass as he passes. His eyes twinkle with good humor and he actually flashes her a sharp-toothed grin. Jealousy twists like a blade just beneath my navel and I curse my stupid fucking feelings. It’s bad enough to be clinging like a vine to Leith, but at least we’ve been lovers, in a sense. I mean, I’ve done nothing but kiss Nash, but that’s still something in my books.
Sort of crazy to think I’ve done more with Sorren than I have Nash. And, initially, Nash was the one who attracted me the most.
I lift the skirts of my ridiculous dress and stalk past Leith to take up the lead of our group, reaching the tavern doors thirty seconds before any of my companions. I shoulder them open with an unladylike grunt and slip inside, not bothering to hold the doors open for the others. They’ll catch up or they won’t and, besides, I’m not their fucking doorman, or woman. It’s not my fucking business what they decide to do with prostitutes.
Stepping into the interior of the Tiddly Tigress feels like having a veil tugged over my eyes. The place is so dark, it’s like swimming through ink. Only seasoned patrons of the bar know how to weave through the tables and chairs without toppling at least one. The only lights in the place come from little oil lamps scattered on various tables, but even those are almost rendered moot by the fug of pipe smoke that hangs heavy in the air. The lights are tiny pinpricks, bobbing in the gloom like drunken fireflies.
I draw on the last of my reserves, leaning into the power I stole from Leith’s guard. It’s enough to sharpen my night vision to a point where I can navigate through the bar without busting my shins.
The place is mostly empty at this time of day. It’ll be doing a brisk trade come nightfall, but until then, there are only a few people in residence. There’s a gaggle of genuine night hags hunched over a deck of cards in the corner, arguing with one another about who has the winning hand.
The smoke that hazes the air comes from a man in the middle of the bar. The pipe he’s clutching is big enough to double as a club, in the event he needs to use it in a fight. The bowl alone is large enough to be a stewpot, and it’s stuffed to the brim with snuff. The man himself is big enough to be a half-giant. Or maybe it’s half-orc. He’s got leathery brown skin and narrow yellowed eyes that trail me with interest as I pass.
My focus is on the men gathered at the bar. They all appear to be relatively young, but I know better. Every single one of them is old enough to be my grandfather, but because of a series of misadventures and a witch’s curse, they’re all frozen in the bloom of their youth. Useful for mercenary work, but a pain in the ass for almost every other occasion. Hard to have a wife and a family knowing you’ll remain forever young while they wither and die in time. Quinn was the oldest of them when the curse hit, and even he’s only twenty physically. Poor little Nibble is stuck at twelve. Peter’s forever eighteen.
He’s in the thick of them, leaning over the bar to flirt shamelessly with the beautiful, dark-skinned bartender, Layla. She’s trying to do her work, scrubbing out the glasses, but I see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I know she’s got a soft spot for Peter. Always has, and probably always will. She grew up with him, after all. Even now that she’s almost twice his age, she still looks at him with that same girlish wonderment she had when he saved her from pirates all those years ago.
He tucks a strand of her long, dark hair behind one ear and whispers something to her that makes her blush before she lets out a trilling laugh. I hate to interrupt. It looks like Peter might have a bedmate tonight, if he plays his cards right. But I have to say something to him before he drags her upstairs for a night of passion.
The door to the tavern opens again, letting a slice of lamplight cut briefly through the darkness before it clangs closed again. A brief glance over my shoulder shows that all three
of my men have piled into the tavern.
My men? Ugh, I need to get a hold of myself.
“Pan, you great lout!” I call over the Lost Boys’ raucous laughter at some joke he’s told. “We’ve got business!”
Peter whirls, hand flying instinctively to his sword. His pretty face creases down into a scowl, mirth draining away to leave a peeved expression in its place. His fingers flex on the hilt. It never takes much to provoke Peter into a fight. Not only is he physically eighteen, he’s stuck there mentally, as well. It means that he, along with the rest, tend to be quite reactionary. It’s good they’re all so skilled, or they’d have gotten themselves killed a long time ago.
He scans the dim interior of the tavern before his eyes land on me. The guarded expression falls away at once and his face splits into a huge grin that shows all his white, perfectly straight teeth. His big green eyes start at the crown of my head and scan me appreciatively down to the boots on my feet. He blows a whistle through his teeth.
“Damn, Aurelian. You clean up real nice. Knew there had to be a lady somewhere beneath all that armor and the layer of dirt.”
“Oh, fuck off, Pan. And stop leering at my chest, you pervert.”
Peter remains brazenly amused and bends at the waist, or as much as the forest green armor he wears will allow, giving me a flourishing bow. “If m’lady commands.”
“Bastard,” I mutter, sinking gratefully into the chair he pulls out for me.
“Born an’ bred,” he says with a smirk. “But you knew that already.”
The rest of the Lost Boys crowd around the table as well, coming to stand behind Peter while Leith, Nash, and Sorren take the remaining seats. There’s a tension that stretches taut between the two groups of men. Neither looks terribly happy with the other, sitting stiffly and eyeing one another with wariness. I can’t understand it. I’ve never seen either group of men act this way before, and I’ve witnessed first-hand how they all typically act around other men.
