The Centaur Queen (The Dark Queens #7)(20)

She placed both her hands on my shoulders, turning me toward her and looking at me with a soft scowl. Her cheeks were flushed, her female form smelling of sun-soaked, sweet hay and wild flowers. I sucked in the scent of her, lost in it, even as I grew distressed with anxiety and worry. She must not do this thing.

“I understand the nature of a satyr, but you must—”

Damn her. No she didn’t. There were times Tymanon irked me like no other. There’d only ever been one before her who had, and Myra was gone now. I would not lose Ty too.

Yanking out of her grasp, I turned and marched with determined steps toward the fallen king.

“I said her,” the vile, twisted thing spat with rolling fury.

I knew why he wanted her, and I’d be damned if I let him have her. The soon-to-be-carcass struggled, snapping his jaw, his intent more than obvious the closer I got to him. He would have lured Ty in, with her soft heart and her caring disposition, and taken a bite from her.

Dwarves, even the dying kind, were cruel, spiteful, and hateful creatures. The old king knew there was nothing here that could save him, but he’d be damned if he crossed the veil alone. He would have died, but she would have fallen gravely ill too.

Angry at what might have been, I was none too gentle when I rolled him over, keeping well clear of his mouth or hands, and plunged my knife through his back, sinking the blade deep between his ribs to his still beating heart.

I knew the moment my dirk hit true because he took one last breath before going limp. Up close, I could see the damage that’d been done to the king. They’d not just eaten from him, they’d torn off both his feet. Dangling bits of flesh and the peekaboo of bone made my stomach instantly heave.

What little I’d eaten at lunch came right back up. I had just enough time to twist to the side and retch. Mortified by my reaction, I stared at the ground with a furious scowl.

I heard Ty’s footsteps draw near.

“Stay back,” I warned.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” I barked.

Furious.

So bloody upset that there was a sudden ringing in my ears. Standing, I angrily wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I needed to swish the filth out of my mouth but couldn’t even drink of the waters beside me.

Not relishing the thought of sleeping beside his corpse, I started to roll him toward the snare bush when she stopped me.

“Wait.”

“What, Tymanon?” I glared at her, crossing my arms and trying desperately to ignore the sight of blood and gore lingering on my blade.

She didn’t seem bothered by my anger. Instead she pointed to Wulfric. “We need him still.”

“What? He is dead, what could he possibly—”

She shook her head. “I... I... just want a souvenir.”

I frowned, and she fidgeted, kicking out her foot and not looking at me. That was so unlike Ty that all my anger fizzled away. What was she about? Tymanon was a warrioress. Death did not bother her. She’d probably not have made filth like I had after killing Wulfric, but she’d never been so bloodthirsty about death, either.

“A souvenir?”

She shrugged. “His polydactyly.”

“His what?”

“His extra finger,” she said.

If she were anyone else, I would think she’d cracked, lost her mind in this terrible and foreboding place. But this was Tymanon. She had her reasons, even if I couldn’t fathom them.

“His finger?” I said again, slowly.

She nodded. “Aye.”

I did not want to hack into him again. In fact, I’d hated killing him. Though rationally I understood I’d given him a mercy, with him thrashing about, it hadn’t felt that way. But this... this was desecration of a body. It was unnatural. Foul.

“I can do it,” she offered.

I sensed no censure in her words, but they stung all the same. I did not want Tymanon to ever think me a burden. For some reason, what she thought of me mattered.

I shook my head. “No.”

Turning back to it—I had to dehumanize him if I was going to be able to do this—I knelt, lifted up its hand and with a quick snick, severed the finger. Again, I had to fight the bile threatening to claw its way out, but this time I managed to hold it down.

Ty grabbed some bits of dried grass and clumps of weeds and, walking over to me, took the finger from my hand and cleaned it off as best she could. Then she dropped the deformed pinky into her pouch. Blowing out a heavy breath, I wanted to ask her why we’d had to do that, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, either.

Needing to get rid of the body, I turned back and began to roll it toward the right. Without asking, Ty joined me, and together we rolled the solid weight toward the outer reaches of the snare bush’s domain. Not even a second later, snake-like, thorny brambles shot out, sinking deep into the carcass, dragging it away.

I turned and headed back toward the only safe area in this place. It was the size of a large boulder, and there’d be room enough for the two of us to sleep so long as Ty remained in her human form.

Neither of us spoke after settling down for the night. We had no fire to build or shelter to make. There was no food here. I had very little stored in my pouch, and I needed to hang onto it in case I found nothing else tomorrow.

It wasn’t the first time I’d gone to bed hungry.