Mask of Poison (Fall of Under Book 1) by Kathryn Kingsley (great novels to read txt) 📕

for Jakob, every single one of them was immortal, ancient, and powerful beyond her comprehension. Even if she didn’t trust his word, what did it matter?

She nodded. “I’m going to bed down by the edge of the clearing. The last thing I want is to wake up with one of the refugees taking a piss on me.” No one seemed to know what to do with that statement. She shrugged and walked away. “Good night, all. Or…whatever time of day it is.”

Heading to the tree line, she went another foot or two into the woods before she sat down on a softer section of grass. She took off her coat and folded it under her head. She must have shut her eyes for no more than a minute before she heard something large approach her. She jolted in shock as that large something abruptly sat in the grass next to her.

Looking up, it was Cricket. The insect-horse stretched out on the grass next to her and plonked his head next to hers. He let out a long, comfortable sigh.

“All right, then.” She petted his neck. He nudged his nose closer to her shoulder and chewed on her leather coat. “Hey, none of that.” She chuckled. “I like this coat.”

Cricket let out an unhappy grunt but obediently stopped chewing on her.

“Sleep well, you freakish, violent, carnivorous, killer, monster horse.” She petted the creature’s cheek. With everything that was going on, with all the insanity that had been dumped on her in the past few days, she found herself smiling all the same.

She didn’t know what the future held for her. Or for anyone else. But Cricket had sought her out and had wanted to bed down next to her for the night. She had never slept next to a horse before, let alone one that had shelled plates in lieu of fur, but she certainly wouldn’t turn her nose up at it.

It was nice to have company.

Even if it was a freakish, violent, carnivorous, killer, monster horse.

Beggars shouldn’t be picky.

Exhaustion won over her thoughts like it always did, and she fell quickly asleep to the sound of the loud, deep breathing of the animal next to her.

19

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beeeer—”

An army of undead corpses who followed his every command was nice and all, but Rxa pondered if there was actually a slower way to get to Aon’s estate from Yej.

Crawling.

Undead corpses who crawled might be slower.

But very little else.

Ants?

No, ants would probably make it there faster. Efficient little creatures.

“Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall!” he sang to no one in particular. Fred Two wasn’t much of a conversationalist, just like his predecessor. And all the rest of his new friends. I wish I had someone to talk to. But what’s the point? I’m going to kill them all. Every last one of them.

Rxa sighed and looked down at his feet. He was walking barefoot, save for a few strips of well-and-truly ruined bandages. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse—the parts of his feet that were healing and therefore could feel the rocks and sticks on the road, or the missing parts of his flesh that were still raw wounds.

But there was progress. He had all his toes now, which made for much easier walking. It was astonishing how important toes really were for things like balance. He didn’t fall over nearly as much now that he had his toes back.

“I wonder where my little dove wound up.” He smiled behind his mask. He might have actually grown lips, which would be a wonderful development, if so. “I really hope I see her again. I have so many questions! Oh. I forgot to mention.” He turned to face his army, walking backward as he did. “Nobody hurt the little dove. Ember. Not until I have all my answers. And until I get to taste her.”

Silence. Well, save for the shuffling and raspy breathing that seemed to be the only sounds his corpses could make.

“Good?” He grinned. “Good.” He turned back to the road. “Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beeer—”

Beer sounded wonderful. Food sounded wonderful. His stomach growled. He’d need to find someone to eat soon. It seemed every time he filled his stomach, a little bit of himself grew back. He was excited to be whole again.

Maybe everything wouldn’t hurt so much.

He wanted to lie down in the dirt and die. He wanted to go back to the nothingness. But he couldn’t. He had been brought back to life. And he had a purpose to accomplish. Revenge.

One slow, tedious, painful step at a time.

Alone.

But at least he could amuse himself while he was at it.

“Take one down, pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall!”

Ember stayed quiet as she rode. Cricket had followed her around that morning and refused to let anyone ride him save her. It was only once she was on the horse’s back that Cricket humored the idea of Maverick joining her. The poor Elder of Words was still limping from having walked so far in terrible shoes.

Riding with him also gave her an excuse to stay far away from the rest of the survivors of Gioll. They were unnerved by the people of Under, and she couldn’t blame them.

Lyon was riding nearby, with Ini perched on the back of his horse. The elven woman was sitting sideways and looking for all the world like they were on some leisurely jaunt to have a picnic, not trying to escape a horde of hungry drengil as the world was ending.

“Why is it the others stare at you so?” Maverick broke the silence.

He had answered plenty of her questions. Seemed only fair. “My kind are strange to them. We’re raised to be different, to live outside the cities in the wild, hunting the drengil.”

“I see. You are considered ‘other.’”

She nodded. “The only time a hunter is allowed