Black Moon Draw(20)

“Come, battle-witch!” This is from the lord and master, the Shadow Knight, who doesn’t bother climbing down but leaps off the tree. He lands near me, shaking the ground.

Overbearing, determined, sexy . . . He’s impossible to reason with. There’s no way for me to follow these kinds of rules. I may not have much of a backbone; compared to blind obedience, I’m an absolute rebel. I have a feeling convincing him of anything will be like smacking a tree with a Nerf bat. I’m not going to win.

The idea I need to somehow help the Hero complete his journey returns. I’m no closer to identifying who that Hero is. If I lie here, I’ll never figure it out.

Reluctantly, I stand up.

The Shadow Knight has replaced his boar head, for which I’m unusually grateful. His body is enough of a distraction. His piercing eyes are a whole new level of intensity I’m not used to.

The boar’s mouth opens, and I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say.

“I know.” I glare at him. “I heard you the first four hundred times. I’m coming.” Maybe I should care what he thinks, but I don’t, not after he threw me out of a tree.

He snaps his snout closed with a growl and turns away, his powerful body striding back towards the camp in the forest.

He’s wearing chaps again. I sigh. I want to go home.





Chapter Eight





I’m hungry, confused, and worried by the time I follow him through the throngs of milling, sweaty, smelly men of his kingdom into the trunk of an ancient tree. Once again I marvel at the idea that the trees voluntarily give them shelter. The interior of this one reflects the Shadow Knight’s status as a leader. It’s the size of my living room at least with half a dozen lanterns seated on boxes, a bed that almost looks comfortable covered with furs, and an area used for planning with him and his generals. Or whatever he calls them.

I enter and go to the sitting area, watching him nervously. Thank god his attention is elsewhere. There’s a basin of water on a tree stump and he heads there. His head comes off, followed by his weapons. I watch him strip off weapons, astonished by the size of the equipment and how authentic the different pieces are. There’s blood on the blade of his sword and I move away, squeamish.

He strips off his kilt. I freeze, staring at the backside of his naked body.

His round ass, bulging thighs, the thick muscles of his back and shoulders . . . holy shit is he hot. Unnaturally so.

Glancing over his shoulder at me, he raises an eyebrow over one of those enigmatic eyes. They’re dark blue again.

I quickly turn my back to him.

“You have never seen an unclothed man?” He’s amused.

My mind is too occupied with the image of him naked for me to come up with a smart answer. I fan myself.

“You have naught to fear from me, lady, so long as you follow my rules. A battle-witch is only good to me if she is pure.”

He has no idea how far from the truth that is. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism started by these battle-witches to keep the barbarians from hurting them. If so, it’s smart, and I’m not about to ruin it for any fellow witches. This man crushes armies and slaughters thousands to win wars. He isn’t the kind who likes to be denied something he wants.

“Thank god you’re betrothed.” I flush at the disappointment in my voice – and the fact I said it out loud at all.

“Aye, there’s that,” he says shortly. He throws a wet rag across the space hard enough that it splats against the tree trunk wall.

“My god, she’s perfect. How can you sound so . . . meh?” I ask.

“Not your concern,” he grumbles. “I have never had a new battle-witch.”

You can have me any way you want, honey. I banish the words, knowing they’re not the right ones for this situation, even if I am sitting so close to a man that looks like that.

“I’m not here for the long term,” I manage. “I’m going home.”

“No one who leaves the edge of the world ever returns.”

“I’m sure someone goes back.” It’s not clear if we’re talking about the same place – the real world, where I came from – or this ambiguous place I can’t quite figure out.

“Never.”

“But if people come from there, then there has to be a way back.”

“There is.”

“You know it?” I ask. “You know how to get me home?”

“I do. But why would you want to go now that you are free?”

Free? “Are we talking about the same thing?”

“The edge of the world from whence you escaped the slave lords that rule the seas.”

At this, I turn and face him, too surprised to be self-conscious. Thank god he’s got the kilt back on and is finishing up sponging down his shapely arms with a wet rag. He’s studying me with eyes that glimmer purple and green in the lantern light.

“You did not come from the edge of the world,” he assesses.

The Red Knight’s warning returns. I’m not supposed to reveal where I’m really from. The way he said it makes me think battle-witches as a whole come from somewhere other than the edge of the world, that it’s some kind of conspiracy. If the edge of the world is filled with slave traders, then I definitely don’t want to return there.