Heir of the Dog Black Dog - Hailey Edwards Page 0,53
my cupped palm. I raised it to my nose and inhaled, relieved as the sharp, sweet scent hit the back of my throat and revived my senses. “No idea what these are, but they smell delicious.” I showed him one. “What do you think?”
His head tilted side to side while his beak worried the taut flesh. It was an odd-looking berry, deep-orange-colored flesh splattered with red splotches. He pierced the skin and ran his tongue over the tear.
When he tugged the oblong berry from my grasp and swallowed it whole, I figured that meant it was safe to eat as far as he could tell. Good enough for me. I picked one for myself and popped it into my mouth. Cool juices burst on my tongue, sweet, tart and delicious. I alternated feeding myself and Rook until he shook his head and hopped back to his corner while I polished off the rest and wiped my sticky fingers on the bedding.
While I sat there enjoying the sensation of having a full stomach, the bird vanished in a blast of magic. A heartbeat later, Rook’s base form crammed the other half of the room, squishing me against the wall.
“We should talk.” He grunted, shifting his weight while trying to cross his legs like mine.
“Hold still.” I pulled his legs to either side of my hips, unhooked my ankles and straightened my legs above his lap until I could drape them over his thighs and brace them on the opposite wall. Tall as he was, Rook’s head brushed the ceiling. He had to sit with his neck bent hard to one side. “Here. Wiggle down some. Not like that. You need to scoot your butt closer to me. There. Isn’t that better?”
His eyes twinkled. “Much.”
I glanced down at the meeting of our pelvises and slowly arched an eyebrow. “Glad to hear it.”
His gaze swept over me. “Are you hurt?”
“I wasn’t the one who faced down the hounds.” I nudged his hip with the toe of my shoe. “Are you okay?”
A stiff roll of his shoulders was his answer.
Knowing better than to push, I changed strategies. “What’s the plan?”
“We return to Autumn.” He gave me no time to argue before adding, “Black Dog keeps a den there.”
“Do you really believe if we find him that he’s going to switch places with me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“What makes you so sure?” If Mac viewed finding the king’s killer more important than saving me, that’s what he would do. The sense of justice that fueled his legend would settle for nothing less. The woods buzzed with news of the hunt. If Macsen wanted to play rescuer, he was missing his cue.
“You’re his heir,” Rook said, as though it should be obvious. “He will help if given the chance.”
“If he’s still in Faerie, he must have heard the rumors by now.” I lifted my hands. “But I don’t see him.”
“It depends.” He traced the curve of my ankle. “Seasons change on Earth. Some are mild, some are harsh. The thing they all have in common is they will pass. Seasons are static here. Portions of each season reflect the best and worst facets of each period. If your father is in the desert or the tundra, the message will be delayed if it reaches him at all.” Rook studied a crack in the dirt by his cheek. “We just don’t know.”
I stole a moment to ensure my voice wouldn’t quaver. “That means he’s either in his den and he doesn’t care whether I live or die, which wouldn’t surprise me, or he’s so far away he might as well not care because the odds of him reaching me before the hounds do...” I banged my skull against the wall. “Either way it’s a no-win situation. Why bother? Why risk our necks when it doesn’t matter?”
“It’s the only chance you’ve got.” He tapped my knee. “We don’t have anything better to do.”
“Nothing at all.” I scuffed my shoe on the dirt wall. “Just try not to die. Horribly.”
He slid his hand forward until he cupped my thigh. “You’ve been so brave.”
“Necessity isn’t bravery.” If anything, all the running showed prudent cowardice.
“You could have refused to accept your father’s role, his fate. You didn’t.” His other hand caressed the opposite thigh. “Knowing the endgame, you could have surrendered. You haven’t. You’re fighting. I admire that.”
The higher his hands crept, the more possessive his grip became and the more certain I was that I ought to shut him down