A Girl Named Calamity (Alyria 1)

We were walking by all the different booths of crafts and food when someone grabbed my hand.

“Would you like your fortune told?” an old woman in a robe asked as she tried to pull me towards a booth.

“No, sorry. I don’t.” The only money I had was what I was supposed to pay Weston. I had taken a few coins out before I left for the festival. He wouldn’t notice, right? Besides, I didn’t want to know my future. It was mine to find out on my own.

A mournful expression appeared on the old woman’s face. “Enjoy the festival, enjoy the time you have left.” She dropped my hand while I stared at her with wide eyes. She disappeared into the crowd as I tried to comprehend that she had just told me I would die soon.

Why would she say that when I had been clear on the fact that I didn’t want my fortune told? My ears were hot with irritation. I tried to tell myself that she was just an old, addled woman. But the irrational feeling that something would fall from the sky and land on my head flashed through my mind. I had a grossly overactive imagination.

I tried to forget her words with another cup of brew.

When I realized the effect the drink had taken, I also lost Rosa. The thought that I had no idea how to get back to the inn alone sent

prickles of anxiety through my body. When I looked up and saw the Star of Truth, I let out a breath of relief.

Hopefully, it would work, and if it didn’t, then Grandmother had officially gone senile, and this whole trip was a pointless endeavor. I didn’t care if men were after me and I could remove prisoners from magical rocks.

I looked into my empty cup. What would another harm? I got a refill and then told the Star of Truth to take me back to the inn. It took me a moment to realize I had said it out loud.

The streets were full as I followed the star. It didn’t move in the sky, but every time I would look up from my clumsy feet, I would need to turn, or I would have run into a wall. I didn’t know whether it was that I was in my cups or if the land was moving for the star. I was too drunk to care.

I finished my cup by the time I got back to the inn, and realized I shouldn’t have. My face was hot, my head was light, and I stumbled some going up the stairs. The inn door banged shut, and I glanced behind me and saw Weston walk in.

I frowned. Where had he been all day? I watched him sniff the air and scowl. Not again. I grimaced and finished my trek up the stairs. I tensed as I heard his heavy steps following behind me.

When I got to my room, I slammed the door, but Weston blocked it with a boot and shoved himself in. “What do you want?” I sighed.

He stood in the doorway with a frown on his lips, his gaze clouded with confusion. He didn’t answer my question as he just stood there, still. Tension permeated the air, and I swallowed. When the haze over his eyes turned into something smoldering and terrifying, he walked towards me.

My heart drummed, and I backed up a step but stopped myself. The drink had made me brave, and I wasn’t going to be intimidated by him anymore.

He froze, turned around and raked his hands through his hair. He positioned himself in the corner of the room, the furthest he could have gotten from me. I couldn’t help but think he was only breathing through his mouth. Did I really stink that bad?

His body was tense, his fists clenched. “What game are you playing?”

My heartbeat sped up at his tone. “I don’t play games,” I retorted.

Most of the time . . .

He grimaced. “Why do you stink like a Sylvian bride?”

“I don’t stink,” I lied. I was certainly being unreasonable, but I didn’t feel like being reasonable. I felt dizzy and tired.

“You do, and you will go wash it off. Right. Now,” he ordered.

Demands. Demands. Demands. I’m getting really damn sick of them.

“No, I don’t think I will,” I said.

The muscle in his jaw ticked while he stared at me with a murderous look on his too handsome face. Which was just not right for an assassin to have. “You will go wash it off, or I will do it for you,” he said calmly, but with an undertone of menace that gave me the chills.

I found it odd that he wasn’t moving from his spot in the corner. Why was he even so angry? So what if I smelled like something rotten? He couldn’t possibly be able to smell me from his room. Defiantly, I turned around to crawl into bed. My body tensed and rebelled against the idea of having my back to him, but I was too tired to take a bath.

When a rough hand wrapped around my arm and spun me around, my stomach dropped, and I was sure I was his next victim. Someone had found me and paid him to kill me. Or he had just gotten sick of me.

But he didn’t kill me—he threw me over his shoulder. The impact of his shoulder in my stomach almost made me throw up alone. The motion of him walking as I hung upside down didn’t help. My stomach revolted at each step he took down the stairs, and I focused on keeping my dinner down.

“Put me down!” I demanded as he carried me through the streets. I heard a couple of whistles as if they thought we were lovers and that made my vision redder than it already was.