Chapter 112
[ 753 words ]
In Blackridge
112: 112.
In Blackridge Theo
“So, are you and Elliot a thing?” I say, stepping over a twisted and arched branch.
Ransom raises a brow.
“Really?”
I shrug.
“Just making conversation.”
We’re making good timing.
Elliot’s warrior, Sigrid, is a stoic male with a shock of white hair mixed in with the black at the temples and front of his head.
Scars rake along his right cheekbone, giving him a menacing look about him.
But I’ve seen him laugh easily with Quinnie and the members of his pack, and I don’t get the impression he is a bad male.
Ransom snorts.
“Sure.
Let’s just get one thing clear, either one of you call me princess and you won’t be making it back to the mountain.”
“But you’re so pretty,” Sigrid deadpans, surprising me.
There is a beat of silence before we burst out laughing.
I’m pelted with a twinge.
“Oh, screw your furry asses,” Ransom grunts.
“Sorry, it’s just too easy,” Sigrid says, his laughter dying out.
“So, where is your home with all of our answers?”
“Not all of the answers, but some.” Ransom steps between two trees.
“It’s in the house I bought from Aria.
In Blackridge.”
“Close to home.
Was it smart to put it there?” Sigrid asks.
I have to admit that was my thought too.
I would think the house would be the first place the Hunters would look when news of Ransom and Hazel’s betrayal became known.
“There are a lot of things about that house no one knows.
That’s why Lorain made me promise to buy it.”
“Lorain?” I ask, a strange tightening feeling settling in my gut.
“She was working with Hazel and me long before Aria came into the citadel.” He looks at me as if deciding something.
When the decision was made, he says, “Most of the time she was under Kane’s influence, but there were moments of lucidity, and those moments began to grow.
She was working with Hazel and me to make sure Aria has everything she needs.”
“For what?” Sigrid says.
“Don’t know. Maybe this,” he says.
We trek until the sun goes down, then make camp under the cover of a tall canopy of trees.
I stoke the fire while Sigrid skins a few rabbits he caught, and Ransom peels and cuts vegetables for a simple stew.
Once the pot is over the fire and the stew is cooking, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell Aria about the house?”
“It was too soon,” Ransom answers, watching the fire.
“She just watched her mother die; the last thing she needs is to have more fissures opening while dealing with the few she knows about.”
There is only honesty in his words, so I accept them with a nod.
“That’s kind of you.”
“Rare for a hunter to be a decent person, I know,” he intones, notes of self-deprecation seeping out of his cool facade.
He folds his arms behind his head and leans back.
Sigrid stirs the stew.
“What exactly are we receiving?”
“Mostly notes.
Big ass folders fill with information on how to fuse weapons with sypher magic.
But we’re also getting a few of my tools.”
“For fighting?” I ask
“For making the weapons.”
“Would it not be better to acquire them?”
“Not for what we need.
Even if we could go to a black market dealer and pick up some swords, bows, and knives, the hunters pretty much have the market tapped.
They would know we’re buying, which would take away our edge.
Plus, there is only one type of metal that can be used as a conduit for the magic.
Copper.”
“So you’re going to make them,” Sigrid says.
“Yup.”
“We won’t have a lot of time for you to make a full armory,” I point out.
Ransom cracks one eye open and looks at me with a bored expression.
“We don’t need one.
We just need enough to combat there’s.”
“Sounds like a problem,” I shot back, honestly not sure how we’ll pull something like this off.
“Good thing Hazel loves a good problem.” The words are the softest I’ve heard his voice sound.
“Stews ready,” Sigrid says, taking out three metal bowls and pouring each of us a bowl.
Gods, I never thought I’d break bread with a Nightshade wolf, but here we are.
We eat and turn in for the night in companionable silence, each focused on the string of tomorrows and the battles we have yet to face.
One thing at a time, my wolf reminds me.
We cannot win the war without gaining the upper hand.
This will just be one piece.
It will be one more than we had.
One more than they have, and every piece matters.
You know this.
I do.
The night around looks like any other, and maybe that is the problem with change: it only takes one thing to alter your reality, even if everything else is left untouched.
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