Roar (Stormheart #1)(75)
Roar’s arm was wrapped around his midsection, and he laid his hand atop hers. She tensed behind him, but he kept her fingers pinned where they were, and gave a quick squeeze.
“Stay here. Stay alert. If something goes wrong, take the horse and go.”
Her fingers twitched beneath his. “Well, that’s stupid. I wouldn’t just leave you here.”
He peeled her hands away from him, holding them a moment longer than necessary. Just a moment, not enough to hurt. “Glad to know you care about my well-being.”
He slid carefully off the horse, and Roar mumbled, “It’s only because I’m safer with you than without you.”
“You can’t fool me, princess. It’s too late. I know your secret.” She blanched, her already light skin paling further.
Scorch it all. How could someone so bold be so skittish? He patted her knee, just above her bandages, and said, “Sometimes in small towns like this, local bullies like to throw their weight around. Never anything too bad. It usually gets sorted out with a little coin, maybe a couple fists. But I would rather not take any chances with you. If things go sour, get safe, and I’ll find you when everything is over.”
“How about if things go sour, you yell for my help.” She touched one of the knives tucked over her shoulder to make her point.
He scowled up at her. He didn’t have time for this. Duke was already out of the Rock and heading for the men, but suddenly he was thinking about kissing her again, tugging her down until their mouths crashed together. Would she yell at him or kiss him back? He shook his head and said, “If you get hurt, you won’t like the training sessions I devise as punishment.”
“If I’m hurt, you can hardly make me run all day.”
He sighed. “Please. Stay on the horse.”
He joined Duke in time to hear his mentor introduce himself and explain that they were looking for a place to stay while repairing their carriage. The man with the mustache was clearly the leader, and he leaned to look past Duke at the Rock. His eyes flicked over the horses and the wheels, not seeing the damaged back end, and he said, “Seems to be working fine.”
This was always the hard part about staying in small towns. The bigger cities allowed them to pass unnoticed, but that was impossible in a place like this. And the decision on whether or not to reveal their status as hunters was always complex and dangerous.
“Hello. Name’s Locke,” he said. “We ran into trouble earlier today with a firestorm, and it did some damage. We could have her fixed up and on the road in a few days. Maybe a week.”
The man scratched two fingers over his mustache, brown eyes flicking repeatedly to the carriage and the rest of their crew. “Never seen a carriage like that before. What’s put you folk on the road? You scourge?”
Locke’s spine straightened, and he clenched his teeth. That hateful term told him they would indeed have to tread carefully here.
“We’re tradesmen. We flee no storms.”
“What kind of tradesmen?” The man was suspicious already, his voice hard.
Duke cut in. “We want no trouble. Nor do we seek to sell and hamper your own businesses. We were just passing through and hit a bit of misfortune. We’ll pay well for food and lodging as well as the help of your blacksmith.”
Locke looked to one of the men behind the leader, a dark-skinned man whose posture seemed more relaxed than the rest. The man nodded. Mustache said, “We can accommodate you. But you will have to make an offering. Everyone in this town is a follower of the Sacred Souls. It has kept us alive while others nearby have perished. We do not require membership, only observance.”
Damn. It would have to do, but a Sacred town would not be Locke’s first choice for refuge.
“Locke?” Duke’s voice snapped Locke back into the moment, and he focused while the town’s apparent leader explained what would be required of them. Locke nodded at his mentor, who said, “I’ll take care of payment with Minister Vareeth, if you’ll explain to the others.”
“Of course.”
“Welcome to Toleme,” the minister said as he led Duke away.
Locke made his way back to the group. He heard the minister reciting an invocation, and Duke repeating it. Locke glanced over his shoulder to see his friend lay something on a large circular stone altar just beyond the well in the center of the courtyard. He fought off the shiver that climbed his spine and gestured for the others to dismount or exit the Rock. They met on the road, out of earshot of the minister’s men who stayed nearby to watch them. The expressions on his team varied from grim to hopeful, and in Roar’s case a confused sort of eagerness.
“Did he say Sacred Souls?” she asked. “They follow the old ways?”
“They are not old ways to us all,” Sly said, and her normally soft voice held a cutting edge. He would have to keep an eye on that. He trusted Sly, but whatever rankled her about Roar, he couldn’t let it fester. Hunters who weren’t completely focused and in tune with each other became dead hunters more often than not.
“They’ll let us stay. But only if we observe their ways with offerings.”
“What kinds of offerings?” Ransom asked. He, like Sly, was raised around religion, but the two had left home with vastly different perspectives on what it meant to worship storms.
“A token of sacrifice or daily blood.”