Hunted Warrior by Lindsey Piper

of the mattress. It lay on a hardwood floor that pierced splinters into his soles. He’d donned his shoes and a new pair of jeans just after bathing.
    Jeans, too, were a compromise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dressed so simply. All of the supplies he’d acquired for him and Avyi were of the barest necessity. She had stayed in the hostel—and kept their weapons out of sight—while he traded with locals for additional supplies. He hadn’t asked her to accompany him, not after the out-of-character fear he’d seen in her eyes and in her, like an animal readying to flee. What was he to make of her story? Just another clever ruse from a woman who spoke in riddles and insinuations?
    But no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape one fact. She had predicted that with his dying breath, he would whisper the name of his long-dead mistress. The future was not to be trusted. That she knew Pollakioh’s name at all was beyond belief . . . but very, very real.
    He gingerly touched the skin forming over his injury, his mind re-creating a host of sensations. The initial slice. The throbbing gush of blood. Avyi’s fingers holding his in place. And finally, the electrical strike he’d managed despite his slip toward unconsciousness.
    It could have been far worse.
    He had every reason to be more cautious than before, but that was a matter of physical and mental alertness, which he could supply in abundance. His foreboding now was different and inexplicable, with Avyi at its heart.
    He’d been called the Usurper for his entire reign as Giva. They whispered the moniker in his trailing wake and thought he couldn’t hear, or didn’t know. He knew. But he’d never thought the resulting suspicion and resentment might boil over toward thoughts of rebellion—let alone an actual attempt on his life. Somehow, he had to make contact with Nynn and the underground rebel faction. Maybe they could shed light on the reasons behind violence that would mean far more than his death.
    He kicked off his shoes and flopped wearily onto the mattress, which offered so little padding that his skull sank through to the hardwood. Grousing, he tried to find a comfortable position for sleep. He had food in his belly, and had swallowed bottle after bottle of water. A sponge bath and a fresh change of clothes should’ve been enough. Just sleep . He needed it, although he couldn’t afford to let down his guard for long. Neither could he let fatigue cloud is judgment.
    In the end, he had no choice in the matter. Sleep refused.
    With a frustrated sigh, he turned onto his back once again. The ceiling was covered with dingy paint that might’ve once been white, where condensation had bubbled its texture. A large crack exposed wires that dangled across one corner. He refrained from lighting the room, even as darkness settled inside its walls. He didn’t need another brush with the temptation of electricity in his veins. It was a drug unlike any other. Ecstasy was in its release.
    The unapologetic knock at his door could only be one person. She was a demon stalking him as surely as a shadow.
    The room was so small that he could kneel at the foot of the mattress and flip the lock. Why he had locked it . . . beyond him. Humans wouldn’t last long if they intruded. Dragon Kings would bust through. He had his sword at the ready to deal with them.
    Avyi opened the door and entered as if he’d invited her to an official Council meeting. Her posture was no-nonsense. She sat on a rickety wooden chair, the room’s only furniture other than a small wooden sink cabinet with a faucet that leaked.
    â€œWho tried to kill you?” she asked.
    Her lack of preamble was as surprising as it was refreshing, but it was no longer so off-putting. Politicians and even human beings could spend minutes, even hours, building up to the point. Mal was ready to keep up, if only