Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(80)

Chaol said, “There is an apartment hidden in a ware­house in the slums. It’s secure, and has all the amenities you need. You’re welcome to stay there for however long you require.”

He felt Aedion watching him carefully. But Murtaugh frowned. “However generous, I cannot accept the offer to stay in your ­house.”

“It’s not my ­house,” Chaol said. “And believe me, the own­er won’t mind one bit.”

31

“Eat it,” Manon said, holding out the raw leg of mutton to Abraxos. The day was bright, but the wind off the snowy peaks of the Fangs still carried a brutal chill. They’d been going outside the mountain for little spurts to stretch his legs, using the back door that opened onto a narrow road leading into the mountains. She’d guided him by the giant chain—­as if it would do anything to stop him from taking off—­up a sharp incline, and then onto the meadow atop a plateau.

“Eat it,” she said, shaking the freezing meat at Abraxos, who was now lying on his belly in the meadow, huffing at the first grasses and flowers to poke through the melting ice. “It’s your reward,” she said through her teeth. “You earned it.”

Abraxos sniffed at a cluster of purple flowers, then flicked his eyes to her. No meat, he seemed to say.

“It’s good for you,” she said, and he went right back to sniffing the violets or what­ever they ­were. If a plant ­wasn’t good for poisoning or healing or keeping her alive if she ­were starving, she’d never bothered to learn its name—­especially not wildflowers.

She tossed the leg right in front of his massive mouth and tucked her hands into the folds of her red cloak. He snuffed at it, his new iron teeth glinting in the radiant light, then stretched out one massive, claw-­tipped wing and—

Shoved it aside.

Manon rubbed her eyes. “Is it not fresh enough?”

He moved to sniff some white-­and-­yellow flowers.

A nightmare. This was a nightmare. “You ­can’t really like flowers.”

Again those dark eyes shifted to her. Blinked once. I most certainly do, he seemed to say.

She splayed her arms. “You never even smelled a flower until yesterday. What’s wrong with the meat now?” He needed to eat tons and tons of meat to put on the muscle he was lacking.

When he went back to sniffing the flowers rather delicately—­the insufferable, useless worm—­she stalked to the leg of mutton and hauled it up. “If you won’t eat it,” she snarled at him, hoisting it up with both hands to her mouth and popping her iron teeth down, “then I will.”

Abraxos watched her with those bemused dark eyes as she bit into the icy, raw meat. And spat it everywhere.

“What in the Mother’s dark shadow—” She sniffed at the meat. It ­wasn’t rancid, but like the men ­here, it tasted off. The sheep ­were raised inside the mountain, so maybe it was something in the water. As soon as she got back, she’d give the Thirteen the order not to touch the men—­not until she knew what in hell was making them taste and smell that way.

Regardless, Abraxos had to eat, because he had to get strong—­so she could be Wing Leader, so she could see the look on Iskra’s face when she ripped her apart at the War Games. And if this was the only way to get the worm to eat . . .

“Fine,” she said, chucking the leg away. “You want fresh meat?” She scanned the mountains towering around them, eyeing the gray stones. “Then ­we’re going to have to hunt.”

•

“You smell like shit and blood.” Her grandmother didn’t turn from her desk, and Manon didn’t flinch at the insult. She was covered in both, actually.

It was thanks to Abraxos, the flower-­loving worm, who had just watched while she scaled one of the nearby cliffs and brought down a braying mountain goat for him. “Brought down” was a more elegant phrase than what had actually happened: she half froze to death as she waited for some goats to pass on their treacherous climb, and then, when she’d finally ambushed one, she’d not only rolled in its dung as she’d grappled with it but it had also dumped a fresh load on her, right before it went tumbling out of her arms and broke its skull on the rocks below.

It had nearly taken her with it, but she’d managed to grab on to a dead root. Abraxos was still lying on his belly, sniffing the wildflowers, when she returned with the dead goat in her arms, its blood now iced on her cloak and tunic.

He’d devoured the goat in two bites, then gone back to enjoying the wildflowers. At least he’d eaten. Getting him back to the Northern Fang, however, was a trial in itself. He hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t fled, but he’d pulled on the chains, shaking his head again and again as they neared the cavernous back door where the sounds of the wyverns and men reached them. But he’d gone in—­though he’d snapped and growled at the handlers who rushed out to retrieve him. For some reason, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his reluctance—­the way he’d looked at her with a mute plea. She didn’t pity him, because she pitied nothing, but she ­couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“You summoned me,” said Manon, head high. “I did not want to keep you waiting.”

“You are keeping me waiting, Manon.” The witch turned, eyes full of death and promises of endless pain. “It has been weeks now, and you are not airborne with your Thirteen. The Yellowlegs have been flying as a host for three days. Three days, Manon. And you’re coddling your beast.”