Chapter Thirty One

There was no give in his father once he’d decided on the proper course, and everyone who tried to stand in his way would be knocked aside as easily as bowling pins. Toby disliked being a bowling pin. Mutely, he stared at his father. The old bard smiled a little. “Fine,” said Toby in English. “Fine.”

She raised her chin. “I’l try not to slow you down.” And he felt as if she’d hit him in the stomach; he’d managed to make her feel

unwanted, which hadn’t been his intent at all. He had no gift for words, but he tried to mend things anyway.

“I am not worried that you’ll slow me down,” he told her. “Dad’s right. With this leg, I’m not going to be breaking any speed records. This isn’t going to be fun, not in those mountains in winter.”

He didn’t want her to see him kill again. Sometimes it was alright, and they fought him, like Leo had fought. But sometimes they cried and begged. And he still had to kill them.

“Alright,” Lauren said. The tightness in her voice told him that he hadn’t undone