The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 20: Conquerors: Section IV: Bree

Bree: Betusha: The Anata Border

Darron held up a coin and whistled. "Server—a jug of wine in the room for when we retire."

"Milos!" called a deep voice from the counter behind Bree.

Dice rattled across the round wooden table inside the smoky common room of the drinking den. The faces of Bree's gambling companions followed the roll with the round-eyed look of pigs before a feed.

Nestled on Darron's lap with his warm, solid chest at her back and the fingers of one of his rough, calloused hands teasing her breast inside her dress, Bree watched the outcome with feigned interest. She was the one, after all, who'd provided the loaded dice.

"Nines!" Darron fumbled to dislodge his hand from Bree's skin so he could scoop up his winnings. "You're good luck, girl." As he grinned and leaned forward, his thick black beard itched against the back of Bree's neck.

Osen, one of Darron's caravanners, tsked. "More than luck, I'd say. That sly bitch of yours has a cunning about her."

"That's right," said Darron with a laugh. He scraped the coins across the table and shoveled half of them into his free palm. "But I'm the only one who gets to taste it."

He pecked Bree on the cheek.

Bree rolled her eyes, but lost in her cups herself, she couldn't help smiling. Darron wasn't bad company—none of them were. Not even Osen, the gloomy Feislander, was so bad really. He'd made no secret of the fact he thought Bree was trouble, but he'd slit the throat of the last man who'd tried to grab her. Actions mattered more than words, and Bree was safe with these men for as long as Darron wanted her. A few more months, and she'd carve her own path and make for Ajwata—the furthest she could get from Lorar or Qemassen.

Darron wrapped his arm around her, giving her an affectionate squeeze.

It was a friendly game, for all that she was cheating, and the Betusha drinking den provided a warm atmosphere after three months of travel.

"If it's me that's lucky, I should get something for my troubles." Besides, it was Bree's wealth Darron had been playing with. She reached for one of the coins.

Darron slapped her hard against the back of her hand.

Bree bolted from his lap, snatched her coin purse from the table, and gave him an even harder slap across the jowls.

The whole table roared with laughter as Bree turned her back on them and marched away in the direction of the stairs leading to the room she'd rented with Darron. She could use some of the promised wine waiting in the room.

As she sidled between tables, she cast a furtive glance to her right toward a cloaked old beggar sitting on a stool.

The slap hadn't been the only reason she'd left. That man had been watching her all night, shielded from view by a black cowl. He didn't even try to disguise that he was watching her, neck turning to follow her passage as she made for the stairs. His grip on his cane tightened.

Bree looked him square in the shadows that passed for a face and made the horned gesture with her fingers. Hopefully her fire gave him second thoughts about laying hands on her.

She hopped confidently onto the first of the steps, wishing she felt half so sure as she pretended. With every town they'd passed on the road to Betusha, Bree's anxiety had only increased. Trying to convince herself she was safe only made the danger feel closer.

She'd been drawing too much attention. Darron and his fellow traders were loud, and while they afforded her some protection against worse types, they weren't what she'd call smart or careful. Not that they knew who she was—Bree wasn't fool enough to tell anyone that.