11. Eleven

Ryurikov slept entirely without nightmares. The way his sleep ought to be. He woke to a piece of parchment stuck to his cheek. Grimacing, he peeled it off, letting it flutter to the floor as he slumped back in the chair.

Cursing a fair amount at his own reflection the night before, he had eventually given up and settled down by the desk. The clutter held his attention for a while, piles of notes and books, and various sketched portraits. All of children, and Valka.

Her face continued to stare up at him from parchment. Light sifting in through the window splotched it in various shades of emerald and azure. If this was Jezibaba’s work, then she had captured his sister’s likeness well. It was only a sketch, but the shrewd look in her eyes and freckles were there, the strong set of her jaw and sleek cascade of hair, too.

Ryurikov had known Valka met with someone in the forest back home. He always assumed it was a secret lover. As if he of all people would reprimand her for practising sexual freedom while spoken for by a prince she disliked.

With one last glance at the useless mirror, he invited himself to snoop further. Three doors beckoned him to explore by the short landing, and one led into what was clearly Jezibaba’s bedroom.

Since it was currently vacant, he dared to inspect. More plants, and a simple but messy bed in the corner with a troll’s hoard of blankets. That was surprising. He expected her to sleep in a nest of children’s bones.

He strolled to peer out of the circular window, so large it stretched from floor to ceiling, its framework of branches. It oversaw the garden and had a marvellous view over the forest through which they strode.

Far away from Eastcairn, hopefully.

Movement in his peripheral snagged his attention. Atop a ramshackle wardrobe sat a giant, fat toad, mottled with browns and greens. He grimaced. It wasn’t a joyful looking toad.

“You’re going to tell her I was in here, aren’t you?”

To his horror, the toad sat up on its back legs. It blinked, slowly, making direct eye contact with him as it stroked itself across the rotund belly. Sensually.

“Delightful.” Ryurikov grabbed one of the many blankets from the bed and hastened out.

Next he opened a door that led up a staircase, which he left alone for now, while the third brought him to a bathing tub. The room was…humble, but it had a hearth nearby, its fire cosy. Fresh cloth lined the wooden tub, filled with clean, steaming water, the scent of mint and rosemary teasing his nose.

An invitation, if ever he saw one.

He stripped in a rush and sank into the tub with an obnoxious groan, the heat easing stiff muscles within moments. Rubbing a wet palm across his aching neck, he couldn’t remember the last time he bathed like this.

Well, he could. A few weeks ago, after he’d robbed someone’s home blind and helped himself, but that seemed like aeons ago now. So much had occurred between then and now, not least of which, nearly being caught by the enforcers and that hound of a reeve.

Thank goodness for Awimak, or they would still be after him.

Ryurikov extended his legs as far as he could while squatting, and scrubbed himself clean, using a familiar wooden bowl to rinse his hair. He took his time, despite the water turning pink and staining the white lining.

Once he finally emerged, it was with the burgundy blanket wrapped around his shoulders and feeling decidedly more relaxed. Clattering below drew him downstairs. He adjusted the blanket slightly when Jezibaba glared up from where she sat eating at the table. Beside her bowl of porridge there lay his bow and short sword.

“Ah! You shouldn’t have,” Ryurikov said, gliding over.

As he reached for his trusted bow, a bony claw slammed down on his hand. Their eyes locked in silent challenge. Then, he relaxed his hold on the blanket, and it fluttered to the floor.

Jezibaba released his hand with a look of disgust. Triumphantly, he pulled the bow toward himself and gathered the blanket to wrap around his shoulders once more.

“My clothes are soaking, currently.” Not that he had much hope for them. “I’ll need to visit the next town once they’re dry.”

“Pray it doesn’t have more Skin Crawlers.” Jezibaba turned her attention back to the porridge.

“I’m all out of prayers,” he said on his way to the back door.

Awimak was out in the garden, still wearing his cloak around those gigantic horns. The absolute fucker. Ryurikov spent some time gathering raspberries from the bush just by the door with the use of one hand, the other keeping a firm hold on the blanket. Verdant birds fluttered about on the branches, twittering at him as if in protest.

GOOD MORNING.

He rolled his head in the demon’s direction. “Fuck you.”

Awimak huffed. In amusement, Ryurikov was sure. STILL ANGRY.

“Not in the slightest.” With a handful of berries, he claimed a spot in the dewy grass by the tree near Awimak and leant against its trunk, blanket now pooling around his hips. He pointedly eyed his cloak, the broom still slotted in the horns, now mostly hidden. “I just didn’t peg you for a petty thief.”

That earned him a chuckle. At least, he thought it might be a chuckle. It was raspy and honestly, rather terrifying.

COMING FROM A PETTY THIEF.

Ryurikov tossed a berry into his mouth. “I’ve stolen great and valuable things. Nothing petty about my thievery.”

Awimak shifted his head slightly. HENCE, THE ENFORCERS WERE AFTER YOU.

A statement that had Ryurikov smirking. “Yes. Thank you for nudging them out of this existence.”

I WILL KEEP THE CLOAK,said Awimak, sounding smug, AS PAYMENT.

He sighed. “I repeat, fuck you.”

IF YOU WOULD LIKE.

Ryurikov’s gaze swung toward the demon, seated so casually, a muscular leg outstretched and claws folded across the toned stomach. Awimak still seemed smug, but it was impossible to tell if he was being sincere.

In the end, all Ryurikov could do was puff out a breath. “Later, perhaps.”

Enlumine’s Wish.

An unusual name for an unusual town, lurking in the oldest part of the Bryum Woods, with trees as wide as they were tall, the canopy so thick daylight had no hope of penetrating. Were it not for the abundance of townsfolk bathing all in a golden glow, the place would have been darker than the devil’s asshole.

Circular doors and charming lattice windows affixed the wide trunks, casting patterned light across Ryurikov’s path. Shop signs swung in the cool breeze pulling through, sending leaves above aflutter, their whispers ethereal. Its people weren’t often seen outside of these woods, in that their light depended on the darkness. Whether they were looking at him or the colossal demon walking beside him, Ryurikov couldn’t be sure, but their lantern heads turned with faint squeaks as they passed by.

“Can no one see you, still?” he asked, just loud enough for Awimak to hear.

NONE.

“Being able to see you, does that make me exceptional, or insane?”

PERHAPS A BIT OF BOTH,replied Awimak in amusement.

Ryurikov raised his hand to smack the demon’s arm but stopped. There was no need to look mad in front of others. Pausing by a wide, round red door, he fiddled with the scarf hiding the lower part of his face. His clothes were far from tidy, washing them had done very little good and without his cloak, he felt exposed.

“I don’t have coin on me,” muttered Ryurikov. “Once I’ve picked something I like, will you cause a distraction so I can get away?”

WHAT WILL YOU PROVIDE IN RETURN?

He struggled for an idea when a broadside caught his gaze, hanging from a branch nearby. With an interested hum, Ryurikov searched the elegant lettering.

“An archery contest,” he murmured. “That’s right, the Candescent enjoy sharpshooting.” Ryurikov rapped his knuckles against the parchment. “How would you like to be entertained in exchange?”

Awimak glanced from broadside to him and back. I WOULD LIKE.

“Excellent!” Such good fortune he’d just been given his bow back. Suspiciously convenient, even. “The prize is a lantern and forty crones.”

A pittance, truly.

Burrowed into the trunk of a tree, the tailor’s shop was surprisingly spacious. If not a touch too dim, the only light source the shopkeeper’s head. The Candescent were particular about the quality of their goods, and it showed. Running his fingers along a displayed overcoat, it was clear to Ryurikov that their wool was of the finest quality.

“Good afternoon,” trilled the tailor, approaching him with clanking footsteps, feet but blocks of metal.

Ryurikov wasn’t sure how he might describe their voice, when it sounded more like a fly buzzing against glass. Since they only had a lantern for a head, the flame within flickering mildly, it wasn’t easy to tell where they were looking, either.

“In need of some new attire, are we?” Words brimming with judgement.

He would have responded, but his rebuttal fell away at the sight of a cloak near the counter. Ryurikov beelined for the crossed logs holding the garment up, running his touch down the fabric. Its navy a deep midnight, embellished with walnut brown leather at the front, embossed with a pattern of leaves and branches, the fine details painted gold.

It was perfect and came with a surcoat and breeches of armure fabric. A blend of silk and cashmere, he was certain of it. A gasp escaped Ryurikov at a matching pair of boots and equally detailed belt.

“I haven’t seen anything this fine since…a long time ago.”

“The very finest is all I offer,” buzzed the tailor, lingering behind him, “and the price reflects it.”

Ryurikov gnashed his teeth. Stealing from this asshole would bring him much joy. Awimak crouched just outside. Watching, perhaps, for a signal. Ryurikov collected a tunic of fine white linen and a pair of leather gloves to match with the boots, the tailor but a foot away from him at all times. Then, Ryurikov turned to the demon, and winked.

The solid slab of wood rumbled beneath his feet. The tailor uttered something unintelligible as thick branches swiftly grew upward to ensnare, their squawks of shock drowned out by loud, crackling wood that gradually turned into a solid casing. Ryurikov stepped away and helped himself to the cloak and black breeches, making do with what little light poured past Awimak’s massive shoulders.

“Make sure no one comes near,” he hissed, stripping and discarding his old clothes to the floor, hastening to dress.

For good measure, he snagged three more tunics before rushing out, past the now imprisoned tailor. His stunning new leather boots were silent as he ran. He eased the hood over his head, his heart pounding in exhilaration. Awimak’s heavy footfalls caught up to him, both running to escape down a road enclosed by the wide trees. Not until they took their sixth turn did Ryurikov stop to catch his breath.

He collapsed against a trunk, his chest heaving with strained laughter. Lowering the hood again, he ran fingers through his hair. Awimak stood before him, burning eyes trained on him in askance. Ryurikov cleared his throat and waved a dismissive hand.

“I’m usually alone doing these things.”

He couldn’t say he hated having an accomplice.

Awimak made an agreeable sound, causing something in Ryurikov’s stomach to stir. His gaze flicked back to the deer-like skull, heart still trouncing his ribs.

If his eyes were like the moon, Awimak’s were as the sun, burning hot and fulgent with sinister beauty. The demon took a step closer, the air turned ravening. Ryurikov’s inhale caught in his chest, hand twitching with a sudden need to reach out, glide his palm across that muscular stomach, rising and falling with breaths as heavy as his own.

A group of Candescent walked by, their chattering an odd buzz, metal feet clacking on pebbles, and Ryurikov straightened up. He raised the hood back over his head and adjusted the scarf around his face. With a muttered pardon, he sauntered past the demon and quietly drifted behind the group.

Their fine overcoats were of silk, gold embroidered embellishments shimmering in their light. Deftly, he flicked out his hand, liberating one of their coin pouches from a thick leather belt, and snaked it under his cloak to hide. He let his eyes roll into the back of his head, the beautiful fabric of his breeches a fantastical glide against the skin of his wrist.

FROM GRAND TO PETTY,said Awimak.

Ryurikov shot him a slick smile. “I need to pay for arrows and the entry fee to the contest, don’t I?” He was at the demon’s side again, strolling down a narrower street, lined by yet more overspreading trees. “The contest won’t be for another few hours. Care to have a drink?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, stopping by a wide circular door, this one a vibrant yellow, and extended a hand, bowing to let the demon enter before him into a lively tavern. Brightly lit, what with the many lantern heads inside. There were several other species, including two humans at a table furthest in the back, their heads bowed together.

Feeling far better than he had in ages, Ryurikov held up two gloved fingers at the barkeep upon nearing the counter and perched on a stool. Awimak lowered to his haunches in the nearby corner.

The barkeep was an unusual one, in that they had two beady black eyes bobbing among the red flame inside the lantern. “You can hold your fingers up all day, but unless I know what you want, I can’t serve you.”

“Ah, right. Two of whatever you recommend,” Ryurikov said, swiftly recovering from his embarrassment—Awimak’s bemused snort didn’t help. Quietly, he muttered, “Fuck you.”

“Pardon?” The barkeep’s tiny eyes turned within the flame to look at him, their metal frame coming to a squeaky stop.

Ryurikov repressed a cough. “I said, thank you.”

“Mm.”

Three-fingered metal hands scooted tankards of a glowing drink across the counter toward him. It looked like liquid steel, spills singeing the worn wood.

“And for my next trick,” Ryurikov raised his tankard, “my piss will light up a wall after I drink these.”

NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION,Awimak warned and Ryurikov clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“Why the fuck serve me something I can’t drink?”

“You asked for my recommendation. I recommend you perish.”

Ryurikov jerked his head back in affront. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re here for the contest, aren’t you?” asked the beady-eyed fucker, looking bold in their dashing leather vest. “Got to eliminate the competition so my kin stands a good chance.”

“This asshole,” Ryurikov grumbled in disbelief, glancing at Awimak and jerking his thumb at the barkeep. “Not much of a competition if you eliminate all other competitors.”

The barkeep seemed to consider this. “True. Drink up.”

“Don’t mind Theo,” said another droning voice, “they’re just like that.”

Ryurikov’s gaze settled on the approaching Candescent, this one with a much brighter flame and in a dazzling periwinkle dress, glittering like frost in moonlight. A snow-white sash hung loosely around exposed metal bars, the joints to the shoulders silver, complimenting their dark framework.

“And what’s your name?” Ryurikov spun in his stool to face them.

They tilted their head back slightly, the eyes within the flame two white dots. “Theo.”

“Theo and Theo.” Ryurikov pushed the tankard in Nice-Theo’s direction. “These are on Mean Theo, enjoy.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to keep a clear head,” said Nice Theo. “My kin might not think I’m good enough to compete against living competitors, but I am.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said Ryurikov. White dots flicked up and down, scrutinising him, and he resisted the need to fiddle with his scarf. “I look forward to competing against you, then.”

“Thank you.” Those white dots flicked to the side. “I’m told there will be a prodigious audience today.”

He followed where Nice Theo had glanced, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Aside from the two men still in the back, still with their heads bowed together. Were they jerking each other off under that table?

“I do love an audience,” he murmured. When he regarded Nice Theo again, they bowed their head, then left. “Huh.”

YOU SHOULD BE WARY.

He would not say this out loud, but Ryurikov thought Awimak was right. Something foul was afoot, and he couldn’t wait to find out what.