A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Thirty-four

Thirty-four

“Stop looking at me like you’re going to kill me.” Dwyn’s eyes narrowed into bitter slits. Tyr met her challenging stare until her gaze waivered to the true evidence of death at their feet.

Tyr struggled to control his breathing. He hated Dwyn, sure, but had to hand it to her: she was perceptive. Not a moment went by where he didn’t want to see her dead.

“I’m trying to keep my body count lower than yours. In the meantime”—he gestured to the ground—“can you not do things like this in the house?”

Dwyn scrunched her nose disapprovingly. Perhaps she didn’t find much pleasure in eyeing the fallen. “They’re as light as paper. You should be able to carry them into the woods without an issue.”

“If they’re so light, you do it.”

She sighed and made a point of turning her back on the mummified husks of the husband and wife who’d owned the farm home they now occupied. They’d answered the door with a mixture of confusion and skepticism, but Dwyn had given them no time to feel fear or pain. She’d placed her hands on them and sapped them just as she had on the icy, western shores of Sulgrave so many decades prior. It had unnerved him to see then but only bothered him to see it now.

Tyr felt a surge of irritation as she moved toward the fire to warm herself.

“You’re really just going to leave them?”

She looked over her shoulder at the husks. “They won’t smell, if that’s your fear,” she assured him. “Their blood and flesh and the normal elements of rot don’t pose a problem when they’ve been drained. It just”—she made a small, explosive gesture with her fingers as she finished her sentence—“evaporates.”

He was pretty sure he caught her moving to warm herself by the hearth as he carried the belated countryfolk out the door to bury them in the garden. He may have abandoned the Reds long ago, but his noble sense of decency had nothing to do with the church and its moral code. Maybe that was why, even as he muttered last rites to the fresh-turned earthy mounds that were a happy husband and wife only minutes ago, he knew Dwyn would continue to have the upper hand. Her absence of a moral compass allowed her to play chess while he remained confined to checkers.

He returned to the house exhausted and covered in dirt to the homey smells of jam and eggs. Fresh bread sat atop the kitchen table, buttered knife abandoned halfway through its task. A still-hot skillet sizzled on the window sill.

“Do you need help with washing?” Dwyn asked, making a gesture with her hand to indicate that she’d be willing to call whatever water he might need from the trough.

He picked up the sandwich with earthy hands and bit into it. His eyes lifted appreciatively. “I’m shocked you cooked dinner for me.”

“I didn’t,” she said between bites, speaking with her mouth still full. “I cooked for me. There just happened to be enough food for two.” She made a disgusted face as she watched him, eyeing the dirt that smudged his body. “I can’t believe you’re holding that sandwich with your hands after touching dead bodies.”

He didn’t want to let the amusement tug his mouth up at the corners but couldn’t help it. “You were the one who killed them. You’re the reason the bodies were dead in the first place.”

She shrugged, returning to her final bites. “Fair enough.”

Tyr looked around for the water pitcher but landed on the assorted jars and bottles of wines, ales, and spirits in the corner. “Is the only fresh water for their farm animals?” He’d made sure that Knight had enough to eat and drink before he’d taken care of himself.

Of course, riding Knight had meant sharing a saddle with Dwyn, which had been equal parts terrible and amusing. He enjoyed causing her displeasure, which made it a win to hear her bitch every time she brushed against him or felt his chest against her back on the horse.

“They have a well,” she said.

“And?” he asked. “Will you be doing the honors?”

She brushed the crumbs off her hands. “No. I’m in the mood for wine. Go pump the well yourself.” Dwyn fetched one of the tall green bottles and found a small silver cup. He watched as she poured the wine in, swirled it once, and inhaled the full-bodied scent before drinking it.

“Kill the farmers, eat their food, but then sniff their wine to be sure it’s up to your standards?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t take his bait. If he hadn’t continued staring at her expectantly, there’s a chance she wouldn’t have said anything at all. Finally, with another appreciative sip of the rich, red liquid, she said, “I can do this without you, Tyr. I’ve just absorbed the life I’ll need for whatever ability I might require to find Ophir. You’re the one who can’t move forward without me. You wouldn’t know where to go, where to look, or how to even begin to find the princess. I’m only keeping you around because…” Her voice trailed off with distinct hints of sadness.

He leaned back in his chair, wetting his lips. The glass of water called to him, but something else was on his mind. Her shift in tone had scratched his mind with a thirst greater than the need for a cool drink. “Can I ask you something?”

“I’m sure you will anyway,” she said, taking a generous swallow of the wine. She tipped the green bottle up once more and refilled her silver cup.

He made a speculative face, eyeing her as if studying a caged animal. He’d spent years hunting her. Once he’d found her, she’d uniquely positioned herself so that catching her would be disadvantageous. Now that he was only an arm’s length away, he wasn’t sure if he even looked at a woman or if she was another creature entirely. Her heart did not seem to tick with the mechanisms that wound within the chests of men and fae. “Are you genuinely sad that Ophir doesn’t like you at the moment? Or are you just upset that your plan to manipulate her isn’t going smoothly?”

She looked with icy calculation. “I like her.”

He stared back. “That’s not what I asked.”

She tilted her head slowly. “I want her to like me.”

“Now I’m wondering one of two things. Either you’re being intentionally vague because you’re a narcissist who’s disappointed everyone isn’t playing by her rules, or you’re not emotionally intelligent enough to understand your own feelings.”

“Two things. Go fuck yourself, and know that I hate you.”

“But alas.” He grinned somewhat humorlessly, tugging at the collar of his tunic to reveal his tattoo. “There’s little you can do about that hate, is there.”

Dwyn’s gaze shot to where a similar, complex swirl of ink wrapped around her leg and over her hip. It was always hidden below whatever pants or tunic or dresses she wore, but it marred her just as it did him. He’d watched her eyes fill with rage every time she caught the way the darkened edges of his tattoo licked above his collar, impossible to truly conceal. Neither of them needed the constant reminder of the single biggest mistake they’d ever made.

“Her royal guard,” Tyr began, changing the subject as his mind wandered to the man he’d set beside his horse in the yard nearly one week prior. He’d been able to find them when no one else had.

“Harland,” Dwyn supplied.

He grunted his acknowledgment. “Will he pose any problem?”

Dwyn shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. He’s already tried his best, after all. I’ve known him for some time. He doesn’t like me very much, but he’d die for Ophir. I can’t be sure, but something about the way he looks at her leads me to believe they’ve shared a bed. He loves her,” she said, ruing the word with a tinge of jealousy. “Even if we come across him, I think we’d be able to win him to our cause if it means reuniting them. He’s uptight, but he wouldn’t make the worst traveling companion.”

“You wouldn’t kill him?”

The siren’s chuckle reminded him of belladonna blossoms and brightly colored serpents and other poisonous things that came in pretty packages. “I’m trying to get Ophir on my good side, remember? Even when they fight, it’s like a spat between family. Besides, you’d run and tell her what I’d done immediately. If you knew how, anyway.”

“Right,” he said, voice as dry as the crusted earth he dusted from his palms. “And you can, because of the farmers you slaughtered so you…what, exactly? Why did they need to die?”

“Nice try” came her deadpan reply. “You know that I can borrow any ability I want from the well of power that flows through the earth. It’s why you followed me across the Straits. If I wanted to find Ophir right now, I’d just”—she snapped her fingers to underscore her point—“and there you have it, I’d be a natural-born tracker.”

“Then do it.”

“I’ve only borrowed two lives,” she said. “And I have far more than two things to accomplish if I want to help Ophir. Finding her is a quarter of the battle at best. Can’t go wasting good blood, now, can we?”

He drummed his fingers against his bicep. “Why don’t you show me how to borrow powers like you do, and then we can double our efforts to help her?”

“Your selfishness betrays you,” she said. “You’d get what you want, and you’d disappear to do goddess-knows-what with your newfound powers. You don’t care about Ophir.”

“She won’t love you,” he replied. He hadn’t meant for it to come out as quietly as it had. His words felt both too heavy and too quiet for the small country home and its crackling fire. There was a sadness and weight to the simple statement. It soured the room that had been filled with the warm, hearty smells of fire, ash, cooked ham, and eggs only moments before.

“She may yet,” Dwyn said quietly.

“Why do you need it?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t answer.

“No.” She refilled her glass. “Why I need it isn’t the question. You’re not unintelligent. You’ve discerned my motives.”

“Power for the sake of power?”

“If it were as simple as that. But yes. The true question is, oh noble Tyr, why do you ?”

Revenge . But he wouldn’t tell her that. If she knew about Svea…if she knew of his weaknesses…well, he didn’t need anyone else to see his weak spots. They’d been his undoing. He looked away and could see Dwyn smile.

“It’s a woman, isn’t it? Your secret?”

He didn’t look at her.

“It is,” she pushed. “I knew it. I’ve always known it. Let’s see…you weren’t high status enough for her? Something to prove? A heart to win? A lover scorned?” She leaned forward on her elbows, testing each question against his impassive expression. “No, that’s not it… Was she family? A sister? A mother?” Dwyn stood and wandered nearer to him, still holding her wineglass. “I’m getting warmer, aren’t I? Something happened to her.”

His face tightened in a way that would have been utterly imperceptible to anyone else.

“That’s it, isn’t it. Did she die? They always die.”

He closed his eyes slowly.

“Yes? No? Let’s try again… Did someone hurt her?”

“Stop speaking of things you don’t know. It’s not for you to understand, Dwyn. We’ll get Ophir back. You can continue whatever game you’re playing for her heart, though I have to say, I think she’ll see through it. She kept me in Guryon’s house when she kicked you out, remember?”

“You don’t know what she will and won’t do.”

He reached up and took the wineglass out of her hand, draining it. “What, because you fucked her you think you’ve cemented a place with the heir of Aubade? You want to rise to power alongside the last remaining hope of Farehold? Please, you should know the difference between sex and love. She slept with her guard, didn’t she? Does she love him?”

“Are you saying she’s easy?” Dwyn’s posture tightened as if ready to spring into defense.

“I’m saying, she slept with you because she doesn’t respect you. She saw you as an opportunity for fun, or escape, or rebellion. Not because she views you as an equal.”

Dwyn’s mouth dropped open in offense. Her brows lowered. She raised her palms, hands filling with fire.

“Don’t go draining your abilities before we’ve used them on anything good just because you can’t keep your legs closed.”

She threw a punch that he caught, staring at her as she lit her fist on fire. He didn’t flinch as the flame consumed his hand, crackling with shades of white, orange, and yellow. The small home filled with the scent of roasted meat as smoke billowed from his grasp.

She cried out in pain, buckling under the dually inflicted wound as it consumed her. The sound was a high, sharp, guttural noise as if it had wrenched itself up directly from her belly. He felt every crackle of skin, every boil of blood, every splinter of bone that she felt, but all he had to do was remain conscious while they shared the unspeakable pain she’d intended to inflict only on him. She grunted through the pain, intensifying her flame in a final burst of energy as if she’d forgotten even for a moment that, for her, he was untouchable.

Finally, she released the call on the flame, blinking at him in shock and disgust. Her face turned a greenish shade of sick. Sweat danced on her brow as she struggled to maintain her angered expression. Her small fist remained in the blackened, cooked remains of his scorched hand, but he’d endured it all without a single reaction.

“You sick fuck!” She gagged, staggering to the side as she failed to jostle her fist loose from his grasp. “Why did you let me do that?”

He refused to break his challenging stare. “I think you underestimate your opponent, Dwyn. You want power for power’s sake? Your life, your future, your prospects, your happiness, everything is at stake for you. Me? I have nothing to lose.”

“Are you going to let go of my hand?”

“Oh, I can’t. My fingers are absolutely fused together. Make yourself useful, would you?”

She tried to jerk her fist free of his grasp. He gleaned some satisfaction from the way her expression changed when she realized he was right. He’d made a horrific, unconscionable gamble, and won. His heart was still racing against the exchange. Tyr had undergone excruciating torture without flinching to prove, what, that he wasn’t afraid of her? She called magic to her fist once more, but this time it was a healer’s touch coursing through her until his flesh was pink and healthy once more, allowing him to relax his hold and disengage.

“You’re so much more fucked up than I realized.”

He arched a brow as he emptied the bottle of wine into the glass. “And that’s why I’m going to win.”