Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1 by Dan Fish (no david read aloud TXT) 📕

He sighed, turned, leaned against the door. Flashed his fingers.

You can come out now.

Chapter 17

“I DON’T TRUST her,” Mig said. She yawned.

Sorrows soaked in a tub of cold water left beneath the tapestry of the elf scholar. Elven subtlety. His muscles ached. The cold helped. Mig sat at the foot of the bed, cloak thrown aside. She wore a wool dress the color of buttermilk and had tucked her feet into the skirt. It looked like fog on her body. Her hair hung long and loose in front of her shoulders and behind. She looked good. And he wondered how she’d feel lying on top of him. Probably even better. But she’d already slapped him once, so he pushed those thoughts aside. The cold helped.

“I don’t trust her either,” Sorrows said. “But she gets me out of this cell and into the city. And she’s not Oray. And she sure as hells isn’t Davrosh.”

“She was practically sitting on you at the tavern.”

Sorrows sighed. “She was looking at the Grimstone. I can’t help that elves don’t understand personal boundaries.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

Sorrows stood, let the water run down his body, pushed his hair back, stepped out of the tub.

“I pitied her,” he said.

“Pitied?”

He walked to the bed, put his hands on either side of Mig. She rolled her eyes, looked at the wall.

“Pity,” Sorrows said. “Imagine having all this human in front of you and knowing he’s only thinking of a goblin with eyes like shadow.”

“Oh, please,” Mig said.

She glanced at him. He lifted his hand, stroked her cheek.

“Skin like a spring meadow.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

He trailed his fingers along her jaw, down her neck. “A body like rolling hills.”

She caught his wrist, stared hard at him.

“Back off, Solomon,” she said. “I’m still angry with you, and Julia’s still in the bow. And for gods’ sakes, put on some clothes.”

Solomon shrugged, pushed away. She hadn’t slapped him, and that was progress. He walked to his clothes, picked them off the floor.

“Not those clothes. They stink,” Mig said, stifling a yawn.

“I’m not wearing a skirt.”

The elves had left a pile of clothes on the bed. New undergarments and a Mage Guard uniform. Sorrows had spat on the boots already. Clean, no fragrance. Ga’Shel had applied the restoration magic. Sorrows preferred that to smelling like lilac or rosewater. The boots were sturdy, looked comfortable, and the jerkin was an improvement over his own. The tunic was a tunic. Plain, white. Hard to mess up a tunic. The skirt and cloak were problems. Their gray was caught right in the middle of black and white. The Mage Guard uniform was meant to be seen. To be recognized. To encourage the nefarious to reconsider their plans as a crisp, gray cloak walked by. Sorrows didn’t mind being seen on occasion. But on other occasions, he preferred to settle into shadows. To disappear in a dark alley. To hide. The Mage Guard gray didn’t hide.

He threw the skirt in a corner, slipped into his underwear. Pulled the tapestry off the wall again and spread it on the floor. Dropped his black trousers into the tub of cold water and started scrubbing.

“You look ridiculous,” Mig said.

Sorrows shrugged, kept scrubbing. “Are you too angry to slip me around the city tomorrow night?”

“Yes,” she said. But her tone said not really.

“Fair enough. Just means it will take that much longer to free Julia and get out of here.”

Mig sighed. “Solomon, don’t you think you should help them find the killer?”

“Not particularly.”

“I know they’re elves, and you don’t like them. But daughters are dying. Twenty-seven-year-old daughters. Dwarves, not elves. And dwarves aren’t that bad.”

“True.”

“I think you should.”

“Maybe I will.”

“I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“Probably.”

She worked her feet free and slipped off the bed, yawned as she walked over to him. She bent over, leaned against him.

“Leave the clothes and come to bed,” she said. “I’m tired.”

He glanced over his shoulder, lifted an eyebrow. She gave him a sleepy smile and a pat on the cheek. No chance, big guy. She walked away. He finished scrubbing and tossed his trousers onto the tapestry. Picked up his cloak and laid it nearby. Mig was already in bed. Her dress lying on the floor. The room smelled faintly of mint and rosemary. He snuffed the lamp and crawled beneath the coverlet. Sleep took him in seconds.

✽✽✽

MORNING LOOKED THE same as night. Stone walls, stone floors, stone ceiling. Only difference was feeling hungry instead of tired. Sorrows sat on the edge of the bed. Mig lay beside him. Two sharp knocks sounded, then Jace pushed the door open, walked in the room. Mig had just enough time to kiss Sorrows on the cheek and slip the gods-stream. Jace’s hair was loose, no cords, and combed straight. It hung down her back like sunbeams. Her eyes sparkled, her lips had been touched with red, or maybe she had just wet them. She’d buttoned her jerkin higher, but her tunic lower, and it created a swell of cleavage that Sorrows knew he would hear about later. He grabbed his bow on the way out the door and followed Jace into the corridor.

The tower was all movement and sound. Elves in the black and gray slipped in and out of doorways, hurrying along the corridor. They glanced at Sorrows, stared at Sorrows, whispered as Sorrows walked by. A door opened and the smell of breakfast spilled into the hallway. Eggs, maple syrup, bacon. Buttered toast. All good smells. Jace slowed, grabbed the door before it closed, stepped back.

“The others are waiting for you in the dining hall. I’ll be out here when you’re finished.”

“You’re just going to stand there? Aren’t you hungry?”

Jace shook her head. “I already ate, and I have a few things to attend to.”

“Things.”

She nodded, said nothing. Her gaze moved to his mouth, then slid down his body. She put a hand on his chest, patted it.

“I like you in that jerkin,” she said.

“An elf who prefers elf clothing.