The Will and the Wilds(8)

I clench my hands into fists, the Telling Stone at the center of the left, and step away from the summoning circle, willing myself to look taller than I am. “We are not so deep into the wildwood.”

“Do your screams carry far?” His eyes glint. He thinks himself clever. “I’m more suited to placing one man’s wallet in another’s pocket or dousing a wedding gown in pig’s blood. If that’s what you want, I’m listening.”

A trickster, then. I’ve half a page dedicated to them in my book. But it’s unlikely a mysting built as he is, with so deadly a horn, is satisfied with mere teasing. “I have summoned you”—I force my voice to be level—“and you have come. You will help me.”

My left hand is behind me, and on impulse, I reach back to pull my sleeve over the icy Telling Stone. My fingers tingle against its bite. I wonder if it’s trying to warn me, or if I’m merely squeezing it too tightly.

The mysting’s brows draw together.

“Tell me your name,” I try. “What you are.”

“Maekallus,” he answers, and his brow rises, almost like he’s surprised he answered. “You don’t know my kind, yet you want to barter with me? I’m a narval.”

A narval! There is an entry for his kind in my book, copied from my grandmother’s journal, but there is no picture to accompany it. It’s a short entry, and I stretch my memory to recall what it says.

He steps forward, and it takes the full strength of my resolve to resist stepping back. He’s a head taller than I am. I glance to the horn.

“What, exactly, do you want?” he asks.

I suck in a deep breath. “There is a gobler near my home.”

“This is the wildwood, is it not?”

“Its companion attacked my house last night.” I leave out its interest in the stone, which pulses cold into my hand, and the fact that it also attacked me. “I don’t know why, but it ignored my wards, and I fear the other will strike soon. You’ll find it in the wildwood, north.” I point.

“A gobler, in these parts?”

“Were I lying, I would do better.” I squeeze the stone.

His smirk returns. “All right, mortal. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll find this gobler for you, eliminate it, but I want something in return.”

The moment of truth. The fingers of my right hand graze the silver dagger. “I have gold.”

Maekallus snorts. “Oh no, I don’t want gold. If you dare to take me as your champion, I will have a kiss.”

The demand startles me enough that my basket slips down my arm, yet his words trigger my memory, and I recall with sudden clarity what my grandmother first penned on that aging page: Beware the narvals, formed from the spilled blood of bastards. They feed upon souls, and will steal one with a willing kiss.

“No.” I plant my feet. “I am no witch, but I am no fool. I will not give you my soul for this simple protection.”

He laughs. “Your soul? I asked only for a kiss.”

“You suppose me naive.”

“It will not take your soul,” he says, and the Telling Stone shivers. To warn me against the approaching gobler, or this narval’s charm? I cannot expect him to be wooed by my beauty, for while I’ve never thought myself ugly, I am not so fair as to inspire interest in the men of my town. Even if I were, I doubt a mysting, even a humanoid one, would desire someone so prim. As I consider, Maekallus confirms my first thought by saying, “It doesn’t have to be your kiss, mortal.”

I squeeze the chilly stone of my bracelet until my arm aches. “I will give you gold. Two medallions, one now, and one after the deed is done. And more if this gobler has further companions.”

My hand tingles, and Maekallus bows his head. “As you wish.”

I’m shocked to hear the words from his mouth, but I dare not wait for him to change his mind. Releasing the stone, I reach into the basket for my father’s war medals.

“Give me your hand,” he says, and reaches his own forward. “There is a sense of ceremony about these things.” His tone is so lighthearted, like we’re old chums exchanging pleasantries.

I hesitate. Draw the dagger from the basket and settle it in my cold grip. Maekallus laughs at this, but I ignore the patronizing sound. I extend my right hand.

He grasps it, and a sharp pain tears through my palm. I gasp and wrench away. A three-inch slash opens the skin of my palm from below my little finger to the base of my thumb. Blood seeps from its lips. My teeth cage a protest, but I see a similar cut on Maekallus’s hand. His blood, too, is red.

“So it is sealed. I’ll find your gobler, and with that, I’ll find you.” He tips his head toward my bleeding hand and slips backward between the trees. When I shift to see him depart, my eyes find only the depth of the wood.

I inspect my hand, frowning at its injury. The towel from my basket becomes its bandage, and I notice that, though Maekallus never reached for it, one of my father’s medals is missing.

I stomp out the summoning ring with my feet, all the while pressing the towel into my hand, hoping the wound will not need to be stitched. When that is finished, I escape the space between trees and head home.

A sudden spike of frost shoots up my left arm, and I stumble. Finding my footing, I swing the stone into my hand and squeeze. I sense the gobler, and his nearness, but . . . no, it’s different now.