“How you do it is up to you.” Verte handed me the end of DumBeau’s leash, which brightened his face immediately. He looked at me with adoration, and even though it was probably the result of some love spell for the first thing he laid eyes on… I knew I couldn’t do it.
“I’m not cutting off his head—and you can’t take mine either.” I added the last part for good measure.
“Didn’t expect you to, and if we’re gonna have a chance of surviving the switch with Gwennie, she’s gonna want a body with curves more like that bow you done stoled.” Verte moved her hands in arch then and wrinkled her nose at me. “An’ arrows got more curves than you and Dimples.”
Relief at not being decapitated warred with being offended at being called flat chested. I was going to have to break into Nottingham Pawn and get the right body this time. But if I brought it back, I’d have to explain to Dorthea that I was leaving again. For good. She’d either get all gushy and beg me to stay, or suck me dry. It depended on the day.
A speck of glitter rained down with a ribbit, landing on my nose, and gave me an idea.
“It’s not enough to be evil for evil’s sake. The best villains always have a strong why—or at least a very tragic backstory that makes them understandably criminally insane.”
—Seven Habits of Highly Evil People
7
Sense of Dred
“No good deed…” I mumbled and picked myself off the forest floor after tripping for the fifteenth or sixteenth time. The ironwoods still had a bit of that chaotic wish in them, and they seemed to be pulling up roots to catch us on purpose. Behind me, the lead line had become taut. DumBeau struggled, thrashed, and snagged on something.
Pulling the newly grown hot dope on a rope tied around his waist was taking three times longer than it should have. Bad enough that I was rusty when it came to spotting traps set by the merry morons of the Sherwood Forest, but even when I found a safe trail, the brain-impaired DumBeau kept walking into tree trunks.
It was so tempting to leave him to whatever fate had planned. But the thought of abandoning someone in the forest, even someone not technically a person—I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it made my stomach feel like it was being eaten by night crawlers.
That and he made an excellent pack mule, carrying all my supplies.
“Mrmph,” he mumbled my name with his lips pressed against the ironwood he’d just collided with.
I sighed and started back to help.
A twig snapped and a horse whinnied.
I dropped the leash and took to the trees. Sure, maybe I was being paranoid, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t all manner of wicked whatevers waiting to haul me up a beanstalk or feed me some sort of poisoned fruit or vegetable.
No sooner had I perched on a branch than a man called out, “Who goest there?”
I knew the voice wasn’t Morte’s; he hadn’t whispered to me since the last sun went down. And this voice was rich and full. The sound carried like it owned the air. A rogue or crusty bandit perhaps?
My gaze was drawn first to the glint off the ax he carried on his back, then his figure. The rider was dressed in dark leathers with hair like ebony wood. I couldn’t see his face from my squirrel’s eye view, so I couldn’t guess his age, but given his size, he was certainly a man, full grown. He jumped off his horse so he could examine DumBeau.
“Ho there,” he said and picked up the end of the leash.
DumBeau didn’t answer, so he couldn’t give me up. The tree, however…
Though they were still creepy at night, Verte and Oz had bespelled the ironwoods so they were no longer murderous. Usually. Unfortunately, this one took issue with having me up its branches, so it shook me loose. I landed solidly on the stranger. Making a quick decision, I acted as if I’d meant to ambush him all along, grabbing his ax and pressing it against throat.
“Who are you are and what do you want?”
Up close, I could see the man was not a crusty bandit, as I’d first guessed. Or near as old. Rather, he was a young man who had a few years on me and a few notches of rugged gorgeousness on DumBeau. A rush of tingles spread through my chest and a niggle of recognition wiggled into the back of mind.
Which was stupid. How do you recognize someone you’ve never met?
His dark eyes burned like coals as he said, “For sport, I shall give thee ten seconds to yield. Then, all bats are off.” Aside from butchering the cliché, his words were formal without an ounce of familiarity or concern that I was straddling him, trying to shave the stubble off his chin with his own ax.
“It’s bets. All bets are off. Are you pixed in the head?”
“Nine. Ten.” Before he even finished saying the number, he bucked his hips, twisted, and, just like that, our positions were reversed. “I confess to being new to these phrases, and thus have no knowledge of this pixed, but I believe you, young huntsman, mayhap be.”
I gulped and closed my eyes, ready to meet Morte for the whatever-th time, but the weight on my chest disappeared as quickly as it came. When I opened my eyes, he was climbing back on his horse, his ax already in place upon his back.
“You’re not gonna kill me?”
“Time runs short while the grail quest goes long. And despite my reputation, I prefer not to slay lads still unblooded.”
The words popped out before I could clamp my mouth shut. “Lad? You must be blinder than all three mice, and you talk like you have a stick up your—”
“Button your lips, boy, or you shan’t keep them.” The rider huffed. “Now, go before I change mine mind.”
Run, moron, the smart part of my brain screamed. Normally I would have agreed and been well on my way. Who he was, why he felt familiar, or where he was going—so not my problem. But something about this guy rubbed me the wrong way. Or maybe playing the part of a huntsman was going to my head.
It was easy to be brave when I knew, if worse came to worse, my deaths were only temporary.
Nocking an arrow, I stood in front of the stranger’s horse. “Maybe you’ve got an ogre earwax problem, so I’ll ask again: Who are you are, and what do you want?”
Tilting his head, the guy pulled the reins to make his horse stamp her feet. As she did, bright flames flicked down her mane and tail. Her eyes flared red, the mark of a night mare. Her hooves smoldered and steamed, coming close to crushing my feet.
“Rex,” DumBeau blurted in a higher pitch. I’d almost say he sounded concerned.
Join the club.
“Rex, huh? A very noble name to live up to. Aye, you might be amusingly brave, I’ll grant, for such a small lad who can’t even hold a bow proper.”
I fell for it and checked my stance while the rider chewed the side of his lip, keeping it from turning up into a smile. “The grass is green on both sides of the fence, so as I have your name, boy, you might as well have mine. Mordred. Hiya,” he yelled and spurred his horse, galloping away.
I froze. Unable to correct his rotten turn of phrase. Unable to bark about being mistaken for a boy. Unable to do anything.