“At the market. They had a ‘buy one and get a free pretzel’ deal.”
He smirks. “I must have missed that sale.”
“You ever use a merth blade on someone, Orme?” the small one asks.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had the good fortune to.”
“Cuts like butter.” His beady eyes settle on me. “Go on. Try it.”
Orme drags the tip of the blade along my collarbone.
I hiss as it slices into my skin.
“That’s gonna leave a mark.”
Another scar to add to my collection. It won’t matter if I don’t survive this, though.
He tosses the dagger aside as if it’s trash. It lands five feet away—too far to reach, but close enough that I feel the urge to dive for it. “Go on, then. Get it,” he taunts.
I’m not stupid. He wants me to try so he can pounce, pin me down, and have his way. I remain where I am, frantically searching around us for any source of water I might be able to draw from. There’s nothing, not a river or stream that I can see or sense. But I doubt I could do anything with this distracting buzz inside me.
And he just sliced me with a merth blade.
That will stifle my elven affinity. Damn it, I’d forgotten about that.
I school my breathing as best I can, needing my wits and my focus.
“I don’t normally bother with the males.” The male grips Pan’s chin in his palm, keeping him from moving as he studies Pan’s skinny neck. “But you’re dainty.”
“Let’s just get this over with.” Pan’s cautious eyes meet mine.
“Fine with me.” He opens his mouth, and the two needlelike incisors extend.
I stifle my shudder. On him, it’s an utterly repulsive feature.
Pan winces as the Islorian yanks him closer and bites down without any of the gentleness I’ve seen from Zander or Jarek.
“He’s not having all the fun tonight, is he?” My attacker moves in, intent shining in his eyes.
For once, I wish my blood wasn’t laced with these morels. If he knew I was Ybarisan, he’d feed off me and then we’d be evenly numbered. His fangs in my neck seem far less disgusting than what he has planned.
It’s now or never.
I bolt for my dagger, my fist clamping over the handle a second before strong hands seize my hips. I swing my leg out as hard as I can, and my heel connects with his shin, earning a grunt.
His fingers dip into my hip bone. “You’re a feisty one. Good. I like the ones who put up a good fight before I—”
An ear-piercing scream cuts into the night, instantly chilling my blood.
I’ve heard that agony before.
The night of the royal repast.
The male who bit Pan convulses on the ground, his fangs still distended, his back bowed as the poison tears through his insides.
And Pan? Beyond the perpetual terror that seems to hang in his expression is a grim smile of satisfaction.
Oswald the blacksmith may have been guessing, but he was right.