Listless.
Lazarus’ gaze shifted to her face, sharpening on her eyes. “Six men, Quinn. That’s how many attacked us tonight. When they don’t report back, it will be triple that the next time.” His voice was cut and dry, and while those embers in his eyes might have flared when he stared at her, Quinn was more clueless than the dead men at her feet.
“Yes, and you still haven’t told me why they attacked us or who sent them,” Quinn replied, mockingly indifferent as Lazarus walked behind her. There was a stuttered gasp and then gurgling of breath before … nothing. Silence.
Quinn turned to see him cleaning his blade on the hem of his tunic. The man she’d stabbed in the chest bled out like a slaughtered animal.
“And I’m not going to until you can prove to me that you’re worthy of any semblance of trust,” he said as if they were talking about the weather. Quinn inhaled sharply with indignation, clutching her dagger tighter.
“You’re the one who asked for my help,” she reminded him. “You came to me, not the other way around. Just who exactly are you, Lazarus?” she asked. She’d nearly killed a man tonight and had assisted him in dispatching the other—saving him—not that she thought it would win her any real favors with him. Talking to a donkey would yield better results, she thought.
Lazarus looked at her with obsidian eyes and in utter seriousness said, “Someone you don’t want to make an enemy of, Quinn. If you don’t get us killed with your dallying, you might find out.”
Tired, cranky, with the same crick in her neck and covered in blood, Quinn grabbed her satchel out of the carriage and came to stand before him.
“I’m ready,” she announced with a bite. Lazarus glanced over as he adjusted the saddle on one of the carriage horse’s back. The black stallion nickered then fell silent when Lazarus put a hand on its side.
“You ride?” he asked briskly.
She shook her head as she bit the inside of her cheek because smarting off would get them nowhere. Like it or not, she was tied to his stubborn ass by contract until she fulfilled her end, or he relieved her of her duty. At this rate, neither would happen since it looked like she might actually be more likely to die working for him.
He sighed, an irritated sound. “The way I see it,” he paused, sweeping himself up onto the saddle. Lazarus reached a hand down to her, and she eyed it distastefully. “You don’t have much of a choice in this, Quinn. Either ride with me or run behind. I don’t care much either way at this point.”
Quinn took his hand. If there was one thing she hated more than the situation she’d found herself in, it was running.
Lazarus grinned like he somehow knew it.
Nightmare Shackles
“Nightmares are fueled by reality.”
— Quinn Darkova, former slave, ex-prisoner, and almost-killer
Her backside hurt. Her body ached. Her head was pounding from sleep deprivation and the mental exhaustion of one bad thing after another with no real break. If she thought riding in the carriage for two whole days was rough, she was—once again—sorely mistaken. A day and a half on the back of a giant beast, with her back pressed against yet another giant beast, and she was ready to stab something—anything, if it meant she could get some decent sleep.
Lazarus had ridden hard after the attack. She wasn’t sure if he was attempting to make up for lost time or to outrun the consequences of his actions. There was obviously someone that wanted him dead. Because of that, neither of them had slept.
Quinn let her eyes drift closed as the wind on her face stung her cheeks. But almost immediately after her eyelids slid shut, the horse came to an abrupt stop and her eyes snapped back open.
“What is it?” she demanded, looking around. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lazarus replied. “We’re here.”
“We’re here?” Quinn looked around the country road. They were stopped alongside a tall gray-bricked wall, crusted over with age and spindly dead vines. “I don’t see anything.”
Lazarus nudged her to get off the horse, and with a grunt she complied. Quinn swung her leg up and over the horse’s neck and slid over the side. The impact jarred her, and she stumbled to regain balance. If Lazarus hadn’t dismounted behind her and grabbed her about the waist, she would’ve tumbled onto the dirt road.
“I’m fine,” Quinn said sharply, pulling away from him.
“Stop,” Lazarus commanded.