Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb - Lexi George Page 0,42
I in a tree?”
I believe you had some notion of catching the moon in a net of moonbeams and willow bark. That is what I surmised from our last “conversation,” if you could call it that. There was a great deal of singing and frolicking involved.
“A Dalvahni warrior does not frolic.”
You, sir, frolicked, and with abandon. Your gamboling stampeded a herd of deer. There is a dairy farmer hereabouts no doubt wondering what soured his milk. You have a fine voice, but it loses much of its charm when you are in your cups.
“I shall seek the man out and rectify the matter. Why do I feel so peculiar?”
You do not remember?
“Bits and pieces.” Grim pushed his hair out of his face, and winced. Gods, even his hair hurt. “Refresh my memory.”
There is quite a lot to tell.
“Make it brief. My head hurts like the very devil.”
Very well. This evening past, you became pot-valiant on chocolate and fairy dust. The demonoid Evan turned into something resembling a maddened ogre. Conall charged you with Evan’s care, and you left to fetch a motorized carriage.
“That I remember.” Grim grew cold. The Monster Evan could have killed Sassy. “I do not recall anything after I left to fetch the carriage.”
That is because you dematerialized, in spite of my warning. The Provider sounded chillier than usual. Suffice it to say I was correct. Frivolity ensued.
Grim was puzzled by the Provider’s odd behavior, but his pounding head made it hard to think. “Sassy is still asleep?”
No, she is in a tree. Admiring a bird’s egg, I believe. Tree climbing appears rampant.
Grim cursed. “You should have awakened me as soon as she left the house.”
You told me to watch her and Evan. I did. You cannot expect a soulless engine of knowledge to show initiative.
“What is this? I am in no mood to decipher your riddles.”
A soulless engine of knowledge has not the imagination for riddles.
“I am leaving,” Grim said.
He started to dematerialize but the Provider’s voice stopped him.
I would climb down if I were you. Your readings are abnormal. Dematerializing will likely make it worse.
Worse? The thought made Grim shudder. He felt like he’d been dragged by a team of eight-legged horses through a field of rocks. He decided to heed the Provider’s advice and climbed down the old-fashioned way. Jumping the last few feet, he landed ankle deep in leaves. The impact, though slight, shot a blaze of agony up his spine.
Dear gods, he was going to be sick.
He braced his hands on his thighs and waited for the nausea to subside. Where was he? More importantly, how far was he from the house? He was an excellent tracker, but his usual instincts were dulled by misery. Gods, what a muddle he’d made of things. Truly, chocolate was the work of Pratt, the god of mischief.
“Provider, give me my location.” Grim straightened with an effort and waited. His query was met with silence. “Provider?”
Puzzled by his longtime guide’s odd behavior, Grim stumbled through the woods. He followed the scent of water and damp bracken to a nearby brook. A brief swim would set him to rights. Then he would be on his way.
A little farther into the woods, the stream emptied into a quiet pool ringed by mossy stones and overhanging trees. Grim stripped out of his dirty clothes. Sending a mental warning to the pool’s denizens, he dove in. The water was cold and cleared his head, though the cursed queasiness persisted.
He swam back to the surface and found himself eyeball to eyeball with a blotchy brown snake with keeled scales.
Mine. The snaked whipped back and forth to indicate its displeasure at Grim’s intrusion. Bite.
“Peace, serpent. I have no designs on your home. Tell me where I am and I will be on my way.”
Water, the snake hissed, and swam away with a disdainful swish of its tail.
That was the trouble with snakes: excellent hunters but invariably sarcastic and unhelpful.
Grim climbed out of the pool and donned a fresh suit of clothes. Using his Dalvahni magic, he copied the denim breeches he’d worn the previous day. He added a black fitted tunic humans called a tee shirt. His boots he kept. A good pair of boots was not to be lightly discarded. Sore feet made a poor warrior, or so the Directive taught. Pointing a finger at the heap of clothes, he incinerated his dirty apparel. Unfortunately, he overcompensated and set the woods on fire.