Page 9 of For the Strange and Surprising

I thought the rough guards were the icing on top of my shitty day cake. How silly of me.

That trophy goes to the asshole of a Mongrel prince walking on my left side with a death grip on my upper arm.

I don’t like people enough to be touched like this. I don’t know the politics of this place—or how Isolde would react—well enough to be violent. But I’m thinking about how good it would feel to punch this guy in the dick for manhandling me.

I’ve had it with being dragged around.

Hitting him would probably make me feel like shit, though.

When I think I’ve been cooperative enough to get away with it, I jerk my arm, trying to break his grip. It doesn’t work, and he squeezes harder.

“You’re hurting me.” I grind, my teeth clenching as I glare at him.

“And?” he questions.

“I would appreciate it if you would lessen your hold so that I have minimal bruises tomorrow when I go to talk to your mother. How would you like me to respond when she asks me where they came from?”

He pulls me into an empty alcove and slams my back against the wooden wall. I wish I could say that he was glaring at me, but I can’t tell through his helmet. The deep eye sockets loom over me, and I can sense his gaze as he looks for my tics. He’s studying every breath I take, every blink of my eyes, every expression that I display.

And I don’t know why the thought crosses my mind, but it does, and I can’t let it go.

The Mongrel prince doesn’t scare me.

He’s trying to, but he’s failing.

My dad was a sniper in the Marines. The only man in my life that I’ve ever loved had a body count. There were more ghosts in his eyes than happy memories. He taught me so many lessons, including how to read the true intentions of a person.

The Mongrel before me may be a monster, but he’s not going to kill me.

Ecaeris rips the helmet off his head, showing me the angry flare of his mismatched irises. His intense gaze is mesmerizing, sucking all the oxygen out of my lungs and making me feel a little lightheaded all over again.

“I don’t care what you tell her,” he growls at me. “How did the Shades get you into our village?”

I squint at him. “What?”

He tracks every minuscule movement that rolls over my face before he backs up to look at me with suspicion. “You’re not a Shade?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I snap. “What is a Shade?”

“Why are you here?”

He surveys my body, from my teal and black Chocos to my black Nike shorts and my gray Tampa Bay Aquatics t-shirt. I gaze at his tight white linen shirt and his fuzzy fucking boots before I scoff.

“I don’t know that either. I know sort of how I got here, but some of it is fuzzy and unbelievable.”

His left brow raises as I shrug.

“Fuzzy?”

“Yes. It means that—”

“I know what it means,” he cuts me off. “I’m positive you’re a Shade. Your story sounds too familiar. ”

“Fantastic,” I respond dryly. “Are you going to tell me what a Shade is, or should I assume it’s the equivalent of you calling me a bitch?”

A slow smirk lifts his lips. “You can assume for now. Come.”

“I’m not a dog.” I huff but walk beside him. “Where are we going?”