The man was a warrior, or so she’d thought; they’d come out of that situation fairly unscathed. A win in her book, but for days he’d been giving her the silent treatment, which led her to believe that he did not share her sentiment.
Or maybe he was just responding to her subtle cues and his disgust at her had nothing at all to do with the dragon, after all… Gods, she hated playing devil’s advocate.
A squeaking chirp caught Lilith’s ear. Narrowing her eyes, she turned toward the slight shuffling of a holly berry bush to the side of them.
“What?” he growled, sounding irritated.
She rolled her eyes; she would not let him get to her. Rumpel had demanded she make this journey, but should Giles change his mind, she was more than happy to return home. In fact, it would be a relief from the constant and confusing emotions she felt in the demone’s presence.
Scenting the air, she caught the unmistakable odor of field mice.
“It is nothing, just a rodent. Are you okay to enter the pub, Giles? There is an unsavory element inside. Keep your head down, though, and they should leave us be.”
“I can handle myself just fine.”
Tossing up her hands, she shrugged, realizing she may have inadvertently insulted him. A wolf could never show any sign of weakness. To be weak was to be seen as powerless, and unless intentionally done for the purposes of foiling your enemy—as she now would be by appearing so frail and mortal—it was seen as cowardice.
“I apologize. I was just trying to be helpful.”
His jaw clicked.
She sensed he wished to say more, but whatever it was he never said.
Sighing, she beckoned to her tiny wellspring of magic. Compared to her mother, the Heartsong, Lilith’s magic was more of a parlor trick. Shifters could not shift with any article of clothing on them—it was why they so often walked around nude; constantly ripping clothes was no fun.
Lilith could not only shift with clothing and return to human form wearing the same, but she could also alter her “appearance.”
Sort of—it wasn’t a true alteration so much as an illusion of it.
Spinning an illusion of a dress from the song of breeze, she murmured beneath her breath the exact specifications that she’d require. Something well worn and thrifty. She did not want to be seen as wealthy; with the bandits that littered the area from here to Fyre Mountain, acting as though you had coin was the quickest way of bringing the degenerates out of hiding.
Her dress was dark cream with moth holes riddling the sleeves and hem that fell to her knees. Wolves, whether young or old, were slightly vain. So the next part of her alteration made her cringe, but it helped to think of her brothers’ mocking and scornful laughter at her hesitation to such a change.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned herself into the image of a crone. A withered frame with hunched shoulders and skin peppered with dark brown liver spots.
Lifting a thin hank of hair off her shoulder she frowned at the greasy, gray sight of it. Now only a powerful spell caster would be able to see through to the real woman beneath. Her form hadn’t truly changed, only the seer’s perception of her had.
If she rubbed a little dirt upon her cheeks and on her mother’s cloak she would now seem entirely harmless. Her shoes were sturdy sandals. Lilith hated wearing shoes; in fact, she wasn’t much fond of clothing, either.
But wearing the slippers would help solidify the image of the old, worn crone.
What must he think of my looks now?
The thought flashed quickly through her mind. Not that it was any concern of hers whether he now found her repulsive, of course, but the hard knot of anxiety twisting her stomach into knots made a mockery of her bravado. And she hated that she cared. Why couldn’t her bloody emotions understand that even entertaining any thoughts involving anyone outside of her species was a bad idea?
But the reminders were growing thin, and her weariness at pretending that what he thought of her was beginning to matter made the complication that was her life a daily source of irritation.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned to him.
His gaze traveled from head to toe before finally lingering on her face. She could read nothing behind his eyes. She wished she had enough magic to change him, too, but her magic did not extend beyond herself.
Lifting a brow, she said in a voice that rattled like dry, dusty bones, “Perhaps you could rub a little dirt on yourself and—”
“I’m fine. Thank you. But there isn’t much that can hide who I am.” His tone was cordial—in fact it was extremely polite—so why then did it make her want to growl at him?
She almost told him that with his dark skin and burning, ruby-colored eyes, their ability to remain inconspicuous would be for naught. There was no one in all the lands of Kingdom that looked quite like a demone. Superstitions in this part of the country ran rife. Because Lilith already knew of the demone, she’d known exactly what he was. But there were few in these parts who would believe him to be a demon. A monster capable of all manner of vile, devilish things, and that could be a problem for them.