The Warded Man (Demon Cycle, #1)(143)

“I’ll draw a circle in the dirt,” Rojer said. “It will be all right. I’ll make everything all right,” he promised.

“Do you even know how?” she asked.

“Sure … I guess,” Rojer said unconvincingly. “I had that portable one for years. I can remember the symbols.” He picked up a stick, and started to scratch lines in the dirt, glancing up to the darkening sky again and again as he worked.

He was being brave for her. Leesha looked at Rojer, and felt a stab of guilt for getting him into this. He claimed to be twenty, but she knew that for a lie with years to spare. She should never have brought him along on such a dangerous journey.

He looked much like he had the first time she had seen him, his face puffy and bruised, blood oozing from his nose and mouth. He wiped at it with his sleeve and pretended it did not affect him. Leesha saw through the act easily, knew he was as frantic as she, but his effort was comforting, nonetheless.

“I don’t think you’re doing that right,” she said, looking over his shoulder.

“It’ll be fine,” Rojer snapped.

“I’m sure the corelings will love it,” she shot back, annoyed by his dismissive tone, “since it won’t hinder them in the least.” She looked around. “We could climb a tree,” she suggested.

“Corelings can climb better than we can,” Rojer said.

“What about finding someplace to hide?” she asked.

“We looked as long as we could,” Rojer said. “We barely have time to make this circle, but it should keep us safe.”

“I doubt it,” Leesha said, looking at the shaky lines in the dirt.

“If only I had my fiddle …” Rojer began.

“Not that pile of dung again,” Leesha snapped, sharp irritation rising to drive back humiliation and fear. “It’s one thing to brag to the apprentices in the light of day that you can charm demons with your fiddle, but what do you gain in carrying a lie to your grave?”

“I’m not lying!” Rojer insisted.

“Have it your way,” Leesha sighed, crossing her arms.

“It will be all right,” Rojer said again.

“Creator, can’t you stop lying, even for a moment?” Leesha cried. “It’s not going to be all right and you know it. Corelings aren’t bandits, Rojer. They won’t be satisfied with just …” She looked down at her torn skirts, and her voice trailed off.

Rojer’s face screwed up in pain, and Leesha knew she had been too harsh. She wanted to lash out at something, and it was easy to blame Rojer and his inflated promises for what happened. But in her heart, she knew it was more her fault than his. He left Angiers for her.

She looked at the darkening sky and wondered if she would have time to apologize before they were torn to pieces.

Movement in the trees and scrub behind them sent them both whirling around in fear. A man, swathed in gray robes, stepped into the clearing. His face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, and though he carried no weapons, Leesha could tell from his bearing that he was dangerous. If Marick was a wolf, this man was a lion.

She steeled herself, ravishment fresh in her mind, and honestly wondered for a moment which would be worse: another rape, or the demons.

Rojer was up in an instant, grabbing her arm and thrusting her behind him. He brandished the stick before him like a spear, his face twisted in a snarl.

The man ignored them both, moving over to inspect Rojer’s circle. “You have holes in your net there, there, and there,” he said, pointing, “and this,” he kicked the dirt by one crude symbol, “this isn’t even a ward.”

“Can you fix it?” Leesha asked hopefully, pulling free from Rojer’s grasp and moving toward the man.

“Leesha, no,” Rojer whispered urgently, but she ignored him.

The man didn’t even glance her way. “There’s no time,” he replied, pointing to the corelings already beginning to rise at the edge of the clearing.

“Oh, no,” Leesha whimpered, her face draining of color.

The first to solidify was a wind demon. It hissed at the sight of them and crouched as if to spring, but the man gave it no time. As Leesha watched in amazement, he leapt right at the coreling, grabbing its arms to prevent it from spreading its wings. The demon’s flesh hissed and smoked at his touch.

The wind demon shrieked and opened its maw, filled with needle-sharp teeth. The man snapped his head back, flipping off his hood, then drove forward, slamming the top of his bald head into the coreling’s snout. There was a flash of energy, and the demon was thrown backward. It struck the ground, stunned. The man stiffened his fingers, driving them into the coreling’s throat. There was another flash, and black ichor erupted in a spray.

The man turned sharply, wiping the ichor from his fingers as he strode past Rojer and Leesha. She could see his face now, though there was little human about it. His head was completely shaved, even his eyebrows, and in place of the lost hair were tattoos. They circled his eyes and rested atop his head, lined his ears and covered his cheeks, even running along his jaw and around his lips.

“My camp is near,” he said, ignoring their stares. “Come with me if you want to see the dawn.”

“What about the demons?” Leesha asked, as they fell in behind him. As if to accentuate her point, a pair of wood demons, knobby and barklike, rose up to block their path.