But then a figure emerged from the town, striding purposefully onto the open lands to the north. The man was large, as tall and broad a man as she’d ever come across, and yet he walked with the stealth and grace of a dancer half his size. There was something unusual about his gait, almost as though he was constantly fighting the instinct to drop to all fours. He stopped and turned, head bobbing as though scenting the air, and Bryony was glad she’d chosen to wait in the deepest shadows, giving herself time to observe before committing to a partnership with a stranger who’d been sent to her by a greedy barkeep.

But then the figure looked right at her. It wasn’t just a passing glance, or a wayward stare that happened to strike her general area. It was a direct, pointed gaze that somehow pierced the veil of darkness in order to meet her eyes.

Which was impossible, even for the most keen-eyed human. She found herself frozen with indecision, a rare occurrence that didn’t sit well in her gut. But then the figure said, “It’s alright, you can come out. I won’t bite…at least not you. Humans aren’t really to my taste.”

Humans, she thought. If he’s not human, then what is he? There was something unusual about the way he spoke. It wasn’t just the accent, though he had one, extending each word longer than necessary like someone who hailed from one of the southern continents beyond the Bleeding Sea. There was also a texture to his voice that she’d never encountered.

Regardless, her cover was blown, so she pushed to her feet, still holding her polished and clean dagger, which she hid just behind her hip as she strolled casually from the shadows and out into the moonslight. “I can’t promise the same,” she said lightly, though she could feel the tension, the readiness, through the whole of her body, like a bowstring pulled taut. “Though I don’t know yet whether I have a taste for your kind, as I’m at a disadvantage not knowing your origins.”

As she drew nearer to the large figure, who was wearing a long, dark cloak that mired his features in shadow, he pulled his collar tighter around his neck. “Not everyone feels comfortable in the presence of one like me, but my friend at The Horse’s Rump assures me you are not that kind of person.”

“But you still have your doubts.”

“I’ve been burned before. Forced to leave places I called home. Run out of town like some kind of a monster.”

“And are you? A monster?” She adjusted her angle, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever his cowl was hiding.

He offered a snort that might’ve been a laugh and countered her move by turning further away. “Depends on the definition, I suppose. And also what sort of person you are.”

“The kind looking for justice.”

“You work for the crown?”

“Not exactly.”