The Debt
1383 Words
"A war," I repeated.
Damon's thumb still traced my knuckles. His eyes hadn't left mine.
"You have a problem with that?"
"I have a problem with starting a war I don't know how to win."
"Then it's a good thing you're not starting it alone." He released my hand. Leaned back in his chair. "Finish your breakfast. We leave in an hour."
"Leave for where?"
"The witch."
I looked at Rina. She was watching us with those rust-colored eyes, her fork halfway to her mouth.
"She's not going to like this," Rina said.
"She doesn't have to like it," Damon replied. "She just has to talk."
"And if she doesn't?"
Damon's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then I remind her what happens to people who owe me debts."
The carriage was smaller than the one from the wedding. Darker. No windows.
"You could have chosen a less ominous mode of transportation," I said.
Damon sat across from me. His legs spread. His arms crossed.
"The witch lives in a swamp. The roads are bad."
"A swamp."
"An enchanted swamp. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"She thinks so." He leaned forward. His knees brushed mine. "You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous. I'm calculating."
"About what?"
"About whether Morwen is going to try to kill me the second she sees me."
Damon laughed. "She might. But she won't succeed."
"Comforting."
"I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm trying to prepare you." His hand landed on my knee. Squeezed. "Morwen wanted to marry me. I said no. She's been bitter for seven years."
"Seven years is a long time to hold a grudge."
"She's a witch. They hold grudges like other people hold breath."
The carriage hit a bump. I slid toward him. He caught my waist.
"You're going to have to stop catching me," I said.
"No, I'm not."
His hands didn't move. Neither did I.
"How far is this swamp?"
"Three hours."
"Three hours of this?"
"Three hours of us." His thumb slid under my shirt. Touched bare skin. "Unless you want to sit on the other side."
I looked at the empty bench across from us. Then back at him.
"No," I said.
"That's what I thought."
He pulled me onto his lap.
The road was rough. The carriage swayed. Every bump pushed me closer to him.
"You're doing this on purpose," I said.
"I'm doing nothing. The road is doing everything."
"You could have chosen a smoother route."
"I could have. But then I wouldn't get to feel you squirm."
"I'm not squirming."
"You're breathing faster."
"Because you're touching me."
His hand was on my hip. Barely moving. Barely there.
"I'm not touching you," he said. "This is touching you."
He slid his hand lower. Between my thighs. Pressed gently.
I bit my lip.
"Still not squirming?" he asked.
"Shut up."
He laughed. Low. Rough. "Make me."
I kissed him.
Not soft. Not sweet. A collision of teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that comes from knowing you almost died without ever being touched like this.
He pulled back first. His forehead against mine. Both of us breathing hard.
"We're going to arrive looking like we've been fighting," he said.
"Haven't we?"
"Not that kind of fighting."
"Then what kind?"
His eyes were nearly black. "The kind that ends with you in my lap and my hands where they shouldn't be."
"Shouldn't be?"
"Shouldn't be yet." He moved me off his lap. Set me on the bench across from him. "Later."
"When?"
"When we're not about to walk into a witch's den."
I crossed my arms. "You're a tease."
"I'm a strategist." He smiled. "And you're going to thank me for it."
The swamp was exactly as advertised.
Gray moss hanging from dead trees. Water the color of rust. A smell like rotting flowers and old magic.
"This is where she lives?" I asked.
"Underground. The entrance is through the tree."
Damon pointed to an ancient oak. Its trunk was split down the middle, revealing a staircase carved into the roots.
"After you," he said.
"You first."
"Scared?"
"Careful. There's a difference."
He walked past me. His hand found mine. Pulled me close.
"Stay behind me," he said. "Don't touch anything. Don't say anything until I tell you to."
"And if she asks me a question?"
"Then you look at me. And I answer for you."
"Why?"
"Because Morwen likes to twist words. She can't twist what she can't hear."
I nodded. He squeezed my hand. Then he led me down the stairs.
The underground was warmer than I expected.
Lanterns hung from the ceiling. Bookshelves lined the walls. A cauldron bubbled in the corner, releasing steam that smelled like cinnamon and blood.
"Sit," said a voice.
Morwen emerged from the shadows.
She was beautiful in the way broken things are beautiful. Dark hair. Pale skin. Eyes that shifted color every time she blinked.
"You brought a guest," she said, looking at me. "A dead one."
"She's not dead," Damon said.
"Not yet." Morwen circled me. "But she has the scent. The smell of cold. The smell of cells. The smell of—"
"Stop," I said.
Damon's hand tightened on mine.
"She speaks," Morwen said. "I thought you said she wouldn't."
"I said she wouldn't until I told her to."
"And yet here she is. Speaking." Morwen stopped in front of me. Her eyes were gold now. "What's your name, dead girl?"
"Sera."
"Sera." She tasted the word. "Sera Blackwood. Daughter of Elara. Daughter of Silas." She smiled. "You have his eyes."
"I have my mother's eyes."
"No. Your mother's eyes were brown. Yours are silver. Like his. Like the monster's."
I didn't flinch. "Are you going to help us or not?"
Morwen looked at Damon. "She's rude."
"She's honest. There's a difference."
"Not to me, there isn't." Morwen walked to her cauldron. Stirred. "Why are you here, Damon? Seven years without a word, and now you show up with a dead Blackwood on your arm."
"I need information."
"You always need information." She added something to the cauldron. The steam turned blue. "What kind?"
"Silas. Where is he?"
Morwen's hand stopped stirring.
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to kill him."
She laughed. It was a sharp, broken sound.
"You can't kill Silas. No one can kill Silas."
"Your dagger can," I said.
Morwen turned. Her eyes were red now.
"My dagger was lost. Fifteen years ago. When your mother—" She stopped. Looked at me. "You have it."
Damon pulled the dagger from his belt.
Morwen's breath caught.
"Where did you find that?"
"My mother's room. The one you told me to seal."
"I told you to seal it so no one would find that dagger."
"You told me to seal it so no one would find the letter." Damon stepped closer. "The letter where she confessed that Silas was her mate. Your mate. Before my father."
Morwen's face went pale.
"You knew," I said. "You knew who he was. And you let Damon believe his mother jumped for no reason."
"She jumped because she was weak."
"She jumped because your mate abandoned her and you did nothing to help."
Morwen's hand lashed out. I caught her wrist.
"You're fast," she said.
"I'm angry."
"Same thing."
"No." I squeezed. "Fast gets me out of danger. Angry puts me in it."
Morwen pulled her hand back. Rubbed her wrist.
"Fine," she said. "You want to know where Silas is? He's in the mountains. The northern range. A fortress made of black stone."
"I know that fortress," Damon said. "It's empty."
"It's not empty. It's hidden. There's a spell. A veil. You can walk right past it and never know it's there."
"Can you break it?"
Morwen smiled. "I can. For a price."
"Name it."
"I want the dagger. After you kill him. I want it back."
Damon looked at me. I nodded.
"Done," he said.
Morwen walked to her bookshelf. Pulled down a jar filled with black liquid.
"Drink this," she said, handing it to me.
"No."
"It's not poison. It's protection. Silas will smell you coming if you don't have it."
I looked at Damon. He nodded.
I drank.
It tasted like ash and honey and memory.
"Now," Morwen said. "Let's talk about the war you're going to start."
- Writer
