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I slowly let out a breath and take another, trying to force my raging heart to settle back into a survivable rhythm. Without leaving my spot at the rear of the wagon, I scan the contents and make a plan for what I can take. Going near the cook is a definite no. But if I scoot to the right, I’ll be able to grab a couple of potatoes and some bones that still have marrow and some dry meat clinging to them. There are some carrots and a moldy hunk of cheese a little farther in, but I can’t risk it. Even though I love cheese, the cook is too near.
Hoping my knees don’t creak and my joints don’t pop, I edge to the side of the wagon. Only a few small shuffling movements carry me to the sideboard. I grab the potatoes with ease and stuff them inside my shirt, then tie a knot at the bottom so nothing falls out. The bones come along easily, too, though I’m careful not to let them knock against each other. Above my head, three skins of liquid hang in a row. Probably water, or if I’m lucky, wine.
I rise slowly, my hand pressing against one of the wooden ribs that keeps the dingy canopy aloft. The wagon jostles over a bump in the road, and some of the pots clang. I wince and stare at the cook. She doesn’t move, and the snore’s tempo remains the same.
The first skin comes down easy, and I keep the narrow neck of it clenched in my palm. I should go. One skin is enough. But the second one is plumper. It probably has enough water to last us for days. I eye the rounded leather, the promise of a good drink and an easier journey. All I have to do is take one more step inside and I’ll be able to nab it.
Gareth wouldn’t try it. He’s wise, level-headed. I should be more like Gareth, I tell myself. I lick my lips as the fat skin sways when we hit another bump. Now’s my chance. I reach for it and snag it from its rusty hook. Triumph!
It’s heavy.
I’m giddy.
I take a step back when I realize the snoring has stopped.
The cook stares up at me, her jaw slack as she takes in a huge breath and lets out a blood-curdling scream.
“Weren’t you telling me how stealthy you are?” Gareth pants as he backtracks through the jungle with me slung over his shoulder, the stolen potatoes pressing into my stomach and making me want to vomit with each step he takes.
A shout goes up behind us, and Gareth moves even faster, deftly avoiding the thorny vines while he picks his path away from the road at an angle.
“You said you were small and quick. An experienced thief, you said.” His grumble is low, but I can still hear it.
“I got the goods, okay?” My dry sponge of a tongue flops against the roof of my mouth.
“And woke the entire bloody caravan!” He curses in the old language and slides down a rise until we’re in a small valley with ferns that are almost as tall as I am.
Dropping to a knee, he puts me down in front of him and presses one finger to his lips. I eye the skin of water and wonder if I could silently have a taste, but he gives me a look that is one hair shy of murder, so I don’t try it.
The voices grow louder, and then heavy footsteps land nearby. Gareth’s hand tightens on his pike.
“Can’t see the first thing in this leafy hole.” A haughty voice—must be the high fae in charge. “They may well be halfway to the Spires by now.”
“Lickskillet said it was a human. A dirty one, but young enough to get a fair sum for her at the mines.” The other slaver spits, and the wad lands on a nearby leaf.
I wrinkle my nose but don’t make a sound.
“Lickskillet can barely make an edible dinner, so forgive me if I don’t trust her slave valuations.” The snobby one sighs. “Let’s get back.”
“My lord, if we search for just a bit longer, we may—”
“I said we’re going back. Lord Zatran won’t like a late shipment. Our slaves are meant for tomorrow’s market. If we don’t reach Cranthum on time, I won’t be the one to bear the brunt of Zatran’s wrath. But you will.” His arrogant tone brooks no argument, and the footsteps begin to fade. Before long, the rumble of the caravan starts anew.
I pop the lid on the largest skin and go to take a drink, but Gareth swipes it from me.
“Could be poisoned.” He sniffs.
“At this point, I will drink poison. Just give it to me!” I paw for it, my thirst raging now that relief is within my reach.
He takes a ginger sip.
I growl and try to smack his blocking hand away. “I’m warning you…”
He takes another sip and rolls the liquid around in his mouth.
“We’re never going to have that first mating because I will kill you if you don’t—”
He shoves the skin into my hand. “Safe.”
I upend it, drinking down the cheapest, sourest swill I’ve ever tasted.
It. Is. Glorious.
“Not too fast.” He lowers the skin so the wine flows slower.
I would excoriate him with every naughty word I know, but I can’t give up the vinegary treat flowing down my throat.
He takes the other skin and sniffs it, then repeats his taste test. With a jerk, he snatches my skin and swaps it for the smaller one. “Water.”
No argument from me. As long as it’s wet, I’m all for it. He waits until I drink my fill, then swallows a few mouthfuls before re-sealing the lid.
“That’s all you need?” A blush creeps into my cheeks at how much I took.
“Better to conserve as much as possible.” He snaps one of the bones I stole in half, breaks it again longways, then uses his finger to scrape out the marrow, which he then offers to me. “Eat.”
“You should have it.” My mouth waters as my tongue returns to its normal dimensions.
He holds it closer to my mouth.
I try to be a decent changeling, to not devour it like a total pig, so I wait one more second before taking it from him and tossing it down my gullet. I close my eyes as the taste of rich meatiness melts on my tongue.
He scrapes the second bone and offers me the marrow.
“You eat.”
“I am.” He takes a bite of the raw potato and crunches it between his teeth. “Now you.”
We both know the marrow is the choice item at this little feast. I shouldn’t take it all. “You should—”
He grunts and thrusts it to my mouth. “Open.”
I do. Because I’m weak. And hungry. He presses the marrow onto my tongue. I lick the tips of his fingers, and his eyes go golden. A low purr reverberates between us, and I press my thighs together to ease the ache it sets off.
He pulls his fingers back, his gaze on my mouth.
I shift on the moss and take the water skin again. “Your eyes go gold when the feral shows up.” Taking just a sip, I then close it up.
He hands me the second potato, his eyes fading back to dark green.
“Gold?” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Huh.”
“Yeah.” I nibble the potato, eating only half before handing it back to him.
Of course, he won’t take it.
“Gareth, you need to eat. You can’t give me all the food.” I keep holding the potato out.
He takes it and pockets it. “For you. Later.” He stands and offers me his hand.
I take it as a high-pitched scream cuts through the insect sounds. Chillbumps erupt along my body. “What was that?”
