Bramblepoint they should deliver all my blessings in small brown paper handbags near the porch

From the crone came the announcement of a location where they might locate Vercingetorix' corpse, knowledge that Dacio felt she would deliver for her own gain. This was all too suspect for him to be comfortable; had Drageda's former Cheka truly gone to run with Rusalka for a time? He found it hard to believe, so cast that troubled thought aside for a later time.

Blackhead moved to slink by them, Dacio shifting his weight to act as a shield for Praimfaya. If the sea witch wished to get to her as her prior interest suggested, she'd face his fangs first. He wasn't a boy anymore, not like the one who'd had his first taste of war on the day Rusalka attempted to raid the cliffs. No, Dacio was every bit the weapon that Drageda had bred him to be.

His fierce pastel gaze followed Caiaphas' every step until she is far enough away that the tension in his muscles slacken. Fangs sheathed, the ashen Klikalida exchanged a silent glance with his young ward before he moved to accompany her home to the fen.