Fortune Favors the Cruel - Kel Carpenter Page 0,60

slid the plain cup on the other side of her plate towards her. Quinn sniffed it distrustfully before tasting a sip. Soon she emptied its contents and slapped it down on the table. “Thank the gods,” she groaned, her eyes falling closed.

“What is it?” Lazarus asked, pulling away from the red-haired woman at his side.

“I don’t drink spirits,” she replied, her voice like ice. It chilled him to the core that she spoke to him like that and yet spoke nicely with the boy.

He gritted his teeth.

“Why not?” Draeven asked.

“You’re not entitled to answers,” she replied. “None of you are. Except maybe Vaughn.” She patted his hand again, letting it linger, and Lazarus clenched his jaw. Her eyes fell closed once again and Thorne shot a quizzical glance between them.

The beat of drums filled the night as torches were lit, and the celebrations moved to the deck overlooking the forest below. Men lifted women, carrying them toward the drums, and the females laughed and smiled all the way. How easy it must be to have one of those women, Lazarus thought. How boring.

“… dance?” Lazarus turned his head, catching the tail end of conversation between Vaughn and Quinn.

“I don’t dance,” Quinn said, though there was a slight smile to her lips.

“You dance,” the boy said, smiling at her like she was a warm fire in the dead of winter. But he didn’t know. He didn’t see her as she truly was.

Quinn wasn’t sunshine and flowers. She was moonlight and shadows. Blood and bone. The edge of a knife, so beautiful and yet so sharp it would cut should you touch it without knowing how to handle its edge.

“I don’t know how to dance like they do,” she said, pointing to the couples that bounced and leapt and hollered into the night. “The way I was taught to dance is different.”

Lazarus’ lips twitched and his eyes narrowed a fraction as he caught those words. Taught to dance … who would teach a slave? Unless she wasn’t always one. It occurred to him then how much he was learning about her tonight, these pieces of her that she was giving away to Vaughn so flippantly but wouldn’t dare let Lazarus touch.

It infuriated him. Almost as much as when the boy leaned into her and said, “You show me?”

Quinn gave him a lazy smile that said the bastard had worn her down. “Alright, I’ll show you.”

Wood scratched against wood as they scooted their chairs back. Vaughn got to his feet first, holding out a hand. Quinn took it in hers, and even though she wore a smile on her face, Lazarus saw straight through it, to the ice around her heart. He could see it in her eyes, the way she danced with Mazzulah, the god of the dark realm. They moved to the deck, well within sight still, and the Cisean people moved to make room. The drums changed, going deeper, harder than they had before. A bass rooting itself in the air and pulling them along for the ride.

Her shoulders stiffened for a brief second, and then she pulled back craning her neck in an elegant but harsh sort of pose as she lifted her left-hand and circled him. He repeated the motion although far sloppier than her precise and even graceful movements.

“You said you could control her,” Thorne said lightly, leaning forward to take a sip of his ale. “But from where I’m sitting, it looks like the other way around, my friend.”

“We’re still working out the dynamics of our arrangement, Thorne,” he said dismissively. He should have known that Thorne would not leave well enough alone.

“She’s young, probably untrained, given the level of power she’s channeling without even trying. How did you find such a treasure, Lazarus?” he asked, twirling the goblet of ale.

“I didn’t.” And he was telling the truth. Technically. “She found me.”

Thorne paused, took another swig and hummed. “All the more curious that fate would draw you two together. She’s taken a liking to my warrior, though.”

Yes, she had, and Lazarus resented it.

“He’s a boy.”

“He’s a man and one of the finest warriors we have. If it weren’t for the darkness in her, I’d say they would make a fine match.”

Lazarus’ grip tightened around his own ale when her body began moving. Her hips swished, and the damned furs she wore hid nothing, not from his eyes or any others. She moved with a lethal grace, compared to the bumbling of the boy trying to keep