Chapter Eighteen
It didn’t matter how he arranged them: the strings dug into Cas’s shoulders and arms, biting into his flesh even through the fabric of his shirt. They hurt.
He scowled down at the four full flagons that were strung on a makeshift net over his shoulders. In theory, the net made it easier for him to carry them. Actually, the net just made it possible for him to carry them. This left Matilda’s hands free, which she insisted was necessary in case she had to defend them from Faulkner.
Maybe she was right, but Cas felt that making a pack donkey of him was more for her amusement than anything else.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take one of these?” he called to her. “I really don’t mind.”
Matilda ignored him, again. She’d been doing that more and more over the course of the
