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The need to climb on top of her is so strong that I fist my hands and cross my arms over my chest. The feral roars, but I tamp it down. I will not take her. She has been forced before. That much I know. And I would never hurt her in that way. One day she’ll tell me the names of those who took what was not given, and on that day, I will set out to find them. Each one will suffer before I send them to the Spires. I will paint my hands with their blood and return to my mate with the assurance that all who trespassed upon her are dead.
“Gareth?”
“What?” I answer a bit too gruffly.
“I’m thirsty and hungry.”
My instincts kick in like a shot of adrenaline. I must provide for my mate.
“Come.” I turn over and crawl from beneath the tree. The sun is low on the horizon, soon to set for the evening. We need to reach the edge of the sands before that happens. I can imagine the daytime insects in this part of the jungle are the smaller cousins of the nighttime creatures. And the predators will prowl along our trail, sniffing us out and looking for a meal.
After making sure no threats are imminent, I help Beth from the tree and grab my pike. “Another hour and we should be close enough to the road along the side of the Sea of Sand.”
She holds my hand as we navigate through some ferns. A small stream trickles along the jungle floor, and she licks her lips.
“Too dangerous.” I shake my head and help her over the glistening surface.
“Will the road have water?” She glances at the stream behind us. “Safe water, I mean?”
“No, but there will be travelers.”
“We don’t have any coin.”
“Don’t worry.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll think of something.”
“You’ll think of something, eh?” She shakes her head, and I pull her to my side before she runs into a thorny branch.
“You doubt me?” I bristle.
She smiles, the dirt wrinkling along her cheeks. “Not at all. I’m certain you could forthrightly talk your way into some water … If you were in the winter realm. But here?” A bright bird screeches nearby, and she turns to watch it float through the trees. “Here, this is where my area of expertise will come in handy.”
“And what is your area of expertise, exactly?” I can’t keep the skepticism from my tone.
“Oh, you’ll see.” She winks at me, her mischief back in full force.
I can’t tell if I’m worried or aroused. Perhaps a bit of both. This wily female will either be the death of me or show me what it truly means to live.
17
Beth
Gareth won’t release his death grip on my arm. His stern face is back on, and he shakes his head at me with vehemence.
“Let go,” I yell-whisper.
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
“Will you just trust me?” I yank again, but he won’t lay off. “I’ve been swiping things since I was able to walk. This will be easy.” I jut my chin toward the approaching caravan, the wagons covered with thin white fabric as the horses labor along the sandy road. Night hides us as we wait on the thin line of trees beside the narrow lane.
“I can’t let you—”
“That’s right.” I stomp his foot. “You don’t let me do anything. I just do it.”
He grits his teeth, but his grip doesn’t falter. “Changeling, I’m warning you.”
“And I’m warning you. If you don’t let me go, I’ll scream and that whole caravan will come running.”
“That’s a slaver caravan, Beth. You want them to catch you and add you to their cargo?” As he says it, the first wagon passes by.
It’s dark inside, but I can see scared, tired faces. Too many of them all crammed together, caught and chained like pigs to the slaughter.
“I can get in and out. They won’t see me.”
“We can’t risk it.”
“If I don’t get some water right now, I won’t make it to Cranthum, and you can kiss your fated mate goodbye,” I hiss.
“I can—”
“No, you can’t.” I meet his gaze, his fierce warrior’s face hard and unyielding. “Only I can do this without detection. How do you think I survived Granthos’s house for all those years? I’m small, quick, and I’m a thief. You’re huge, clunky, and you’ve never stolen anything in your eternal life. Trust me, okay?” I finally yank my arm away, though I realize it’s only because he let me.
“This is a bad idea.” He lets out a sigh that seems a bit dramatic, even for him. “If you run into even a hint of trouble, you yell for me. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Promise me.” He holds my gaze.
“I promise.” I mumble the response, but the sizzle of magic tells me it was enough to bind it.
“I’ll be watching.” He steps back, finally giving me room to move. But he isn’t far, and I can feel his eyes on me as I creep along the slight embankment that lifts the road above the reaching vines of the jungle. One of the passing horses snorts at me, but it keeps on pulling its load.
Several wagons rumble along, puffing up a haze of dusty sand in their wake, each one creaking and filled to the brim with humans and lesser fae. Did Clotty travel this road? She probably did. Her old eyes probably wondered at the jungle on one side and the desert on the other. As far as I know, she’s never been outside of the capital. This must be like a new, terrifying world for her.
I pick my steps, easing along slowly until only a few wagons remain. These are different—the fabric along the top is thicker and the wooden wheels seem newer. No slaves here. These wagons must be for the masters.
The first one passes, and I let it go. Peering into the back, I see a flowing curtain and inside, what must be a high fae asleep atop a spread of pillows. A few others are slumbering near him. Whores, no doubt. Not that I’m judging. Survival is survival.
I shrink back as the next set of horses pass. This wagon makes beautiful music—the sound of pots and pans clanging along with the rattle of crockery. With a glance up and down the line, I steel my nerves, then dart out and grab the back of the wagon. A splinter digs into my palm, but I silence my cry of surprise and ignore the pain.
Now a part of the caravan, I sway gently with the horses’ motion. Using what little strength I have left, I pull myself up and peek into the cook’s wagon. A lesser fae snores on a bed of hay, her furry ears twitching as she dreams. With her rotund belly and relatively comfortable environs, she must be a long-serving cook for the slavers. Grease still splatters some of the black cookware, and the entire wagon carries the scent of rotting onions sprinkled with a hint of strong garlic.
The horses pulling the last caravan huff a bit as I ease myself over the lip of the wagon and drop inside.
Once I hit the wooden floor, I crouch and wait.
The cook turns to her side, facing me. Her tiny, button nose whistles as her breath leaves in fits and starts. Her eyes begin to flutter.
I hold my breath.
Her breath catches in her nose, and she wakes. Every bit of me goes cold as she looks right at me.
But then she closes her eyes again, as if she only opened them in sleep and saw nothing. When her mouth pops open, she begins a sawing snore that seems to rattle her large front teeth.
