31
“Eat it,” Manon said, holding out the raw leg of mutton to Abraxos. The day was bright, but the wind off the snowy peaks of the Fangs still carried a brutal chill. They’d been going outside the mountain for little spurts to stretch his legs, using the back door that opened onto a narrow road leading into the mountains. She’d guided him by the giant chain—as if it would do anything to stop him from taking off—up a sharp incline, and then onto the meadow atop a plateau.
“Eat it,” she said, shaking the freezing meat at Abraxos, who was now lying on his belly in the meadow, huffing at the first grasses and flowers to poke through the melting ice. “It’s your reward,” she said through her teeth. “You earned it.”
Abraxos sniffed at a cluster of purple flowers, then flicked his eyes to her. No meat, he seemed to say.
“It’s good for you,” she said, and he went right back to sniffing the violets or whatever they were. If a plant wasn’t good for poisoning or healing or keeping her alive if she were starving, she’d never bothered to learn its name—especially not wildflowers.
She tossed the leg right in front of his massive mouth and tucked her hands into the folds of her red cloak. He snuffed at it, his new iron teeth glinting in the radiant light, then stretched out one massive, claw-tipped wing and—
Shoved it aside.
Manon rubbed her eyes. “Is it not fresh enough?”
He moved to sniff some white-and-yellow flowers.
A nightmare. This was a nightmare. “You can’t really like flowers.”
Again those dark eyes shifted to her. Blinked once. I most certainly do, he seemed to say.
She splayed her arms. “You never even smelled a flower until yesterday. What’s wrong with the meat now?” He needed to eat tons and tons of meat to put on the muscle he was lacking.
When he went back to sniffing the flowers rather delicately—the insufferable, useless worm—she stalked to the leg of mutton and hauled it up. “If you won’t eat it,” she snarled at him, hoisting it up with both hands to her mouth and popping her iron teeth down, “then I will.”
Abraxos watched her with those bemused dark eyes as she bit into the icy, raw meat. And spat it everywhere.
“What in the Mother’s dark shadow—” She sniffed at the meat. It wasn’t rancid, but like the men here, it tasted off. The sheep were raised inside the mountain, so maybe it was something in the water. As soon as she got back, she’d give the Thirteen the order not to touch the men—not until she knew what in hell was making them taste and smell that way.
Regardless, Abraxos had to eat, because he had to get strong—so she could be Wing Leader, so she could see the look on Iskra’s face when she ripped her apart at the War Games. And if this was the only way to get the worm to eat . . .
“Fine,” she said, chucking the leg away. “You want fresh meat?” She scanned the mountains towering around them, eyeing the gray stones. “Then we’re going to have to hunt.”
•