The Boneless Mercies by April Tucholke

Author:April Tucholke [Tucholke, April Genevieve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK

I’d given up the death trade, but the death trade hadn’t given up me.

“Death tracks us, unwilling to let us go.”

Ovie had been right. I couldn’t seem to leave death behind no matter which choice I made or what path I took.

Tarth pulled the Quick to his feet and shoved him toward me. I could see now that his back was bleeding, his tunic in tatters. He’d been whipped hard and was weak from it.

I put my arm around his waist and let him lean on me.

Most of the Willow girls had retreated into the thatched houses, unwilling to watch what was coming next. Proving that despite the Cut-Queen, despite abandoning the Mercy-trade or whatever life they’d had before this, some compassion still endured within them.

But Tarth lingered nearby, as did a dozen or so other girls, each with that raw, hollow look to them. One young, wiry Willow in particular made me uneasy. She had curly brown hair and cold ice-blue eyes—I’d seen half-starved wolves that looked friendlier.

The girl stared at the Quick, and her hands twitched. She was eager for this. For his death.

“Back off.” I gave Tarth a hard stare, and then looked at the rest of the Willows, ending with the wiry girl. “Get away, all of you. The queen can watch. No one else.”

They didn’t move. I didn’t move.

Elan made a dismissive gesture with her hand, and the girls slunk back into the shadows, all except Tarth, who refused to leave the queen’s side.

Runa held her dagger in one fist. Juniper fiddled with her shells. Ovie stood, one leg forward, hand on the hilt of her ax, in the third starting position of the Seventh Degree.

The Quick shifted against my shoulder and sighed. I felt his breath across the side of my neck.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Warrick.”

I pulled out my water flask and held it to his lips. “Drink, Warrick.”

He tilted his head back and let the cool spring water drip down his throat.

A twist of fate and it could have been Trigve drinking from my flask, about to die. Instead of this stranger.

“I’ll make it quick, lamb.”

He nodded. His dark eyes were sad, and wistful. I grabbed my dagger from the sheath on my calf and cut the rope around his hands.

He didn’t try to escape. Where could he go? He was too weak to run. There was only one way this was going to end.

“The world is cursed,” he whispered. “And yet, I do not want to die.”

I faced him. I didn’t shy away from his gaze but met it head-on.

“You will go to Holhalla as a warrior,” I said. “Kiss me, as a hero from the sagas kisses his lover before he leaves for battle.”

His freed arms slipped around me, and I pressed my chest into his. He put his hands to my cheeks, and I felt the calluses on his palms—the trademark of an archer.

My lips parted, and he kissed me deeply, and slowly, as if no one were watching,

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