“The witch is fine.” A grim smile touches his lips. “And how will I pay? Will you splash me with water?”
“Looks like someone already did.”
The fiddler ends his tune and announces a short break to “water the grass and fetch a fresh pint,” leaving us with a steady hum of drunken conversations.
The waitress swoops in with our ales.
“Since he’s gone … Cheers.” I slide Pan’s mug over and clank mine against it before taking a sip. It’s sour and hoppy, and stronger than I’m used to. “Try not to get too sloppy drunk tonight.”
“You really are a pain in my arse.” Jarek sighs before collecting his and sucking back a mouthful. “Have you seen Abarrane?”
I shake my head.
“She’s likely scouring the cellars and dungeons. Fates help everyone if Drakon and Iago do not walk out of here tonight.” His focus shifts to more important things, at least, than how I escaped.
“You saw the people in the square?”
“Aye. And I imagine we’ll see many more before our journey ends.” I can’t tell whether the thought of that bothers him like it does me.
A curvy blond waitress shoves her cleavage inches from Zander’s face while she checks his mug of ale. The move is shamefully overt and pathetic, yet Zander doesn’t shift away, flinch, or indicate that he isn’t enjoying the fleshy display.
My stomach tightens. She’s wearing a cuff on her ear, marking her a mortal, though I assumed as much. All the servers here are marked, their dresses designed to offer more than an enticing look. They’re advertising easy access to generous veins, and she’s trying to tempt him.
Zander’s been to Norcaster before. Did he take the bait last time?
“Don’t be an idiot,” Jarek scolds.
“Huh?”
“He abandoned his crown and kingdom for you. I do not think there is another female in this entire realm you need fear will ever be able to compete with you for his attention.” Jarek’s gaze dips to the waitress’s cleavage. “As remarkable as those may be.”
Is my jealousy that obvious?
Jarek’s words are oddly comforting, though.
Still, Zander could appear to appreciate those a little less …
On impulse, I channel my elven affinity toward the fresh mug of beer as she’s setting it down.
It splashes into Zander’s lap, and he stiffens, telling me I’ve hit my mark.
“There. That should cool him down,” I murmur around a sip, satisfied.
The waitress apologizes profusely, but Zander’s eyes fly to mine, his head cocked in question.
I shrug.
The grin I get in return is dark and wicked and promises retribution. I’m going to pay for this—for all of it—later.
I can’t wait.
“Can you try not to keep up the entire camp this time?”
My cheeks burn as I grasp Jarek’s meaning. “We weren’t that loud.”
He smirks. “He wasn’t.”
I push aside my embarrassment. “Aw, it’s okay.” I reach up to toy with the thick rope of braided hair draped over his shoulder. The sides are growing in, covering his scalp in soft fuzz. “One day, if you try really hard, you’ll please someone that much too.”
The muscles in his jaw tighten, but humor glints in those eyes as he works his way through a suitable—surely biting—retort.
I’m saved from hearing it by the four guards who file in through the swinging doors.
Followed by another four.
And another four.