Dylan—I refuse to believe that’s his actual name—sits down at a picnic table, somewhat hidden by a cluster of trees. I stop a few paces away from the table.
“Glad to see you’ve decided to take me up on my offer,” he says without greeting.
“I didn’t say I had.”
“You are here, are you not?”
“Maybe I’m just here because I want to be,” I fire back.
His lips lift a bit in a soft smile. “Let us not waste each other’s time.”
I huff out a breath of frustration and reluctantly sit across from him. I hate picnic tables. They’re so awkward to get in and out of, but somehow the wraith managed to do it gracefully. I, on the other hand, not so much.
I glare at him once I’m settled in. “So get to the point.” I avert my eyes after I say it, remembering just who I’m talking to. I did some research after making a deal with the devil, and based on what I know about him, I probably shouldn’t poke at him. He’s not just any wraith. He’s a song wraith, one of the strongest and rarest known to fae kind.
He cocks his head to the side in that preternatural way at my sudden change in demeanor, but he doesn’t comment.
“Are you going to tell me what I need to steal?” I ask, forcing a more polite tone.
The corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Tears that strongly flow, released in grief’s throe, a stone that only grows, where a seed never sows, blood taken, from the ascended,” he recites.
“Excuse me?” From my research, song wraiths are partial to poetry and music or any combination thereof.
“It’s what I need you to steal.”
“A poem?”
“No, it’s a list of ingredients.”
“Why not just tell me what the ingredients are?” I demand. “Being cryptic isn’t going to help you get what you want any faster.” So much for polite.
“Hmm.” He shrugs. “I am a patient creature.”
I continue to glare, unable to help myself.
“I shall be quick, then, for your sake. The poem is a list of ingredients that I need. I have not yet determined exactly what they all are, except the first. Tears.”
“Tears?” I ask when he doesn’t elaborate. Quick my ass.
“I need you to collect Wrath’s tears,” he says as if it’s obvious.
“Histears?” I ask again. “What for?”
“That part is not any of your concern. But fae with ties to the water element have very strong tears. I need his.”
“So is Wrath a water nymph, or a water elemental or something?” That will help narrow down who the guy actually is. “I still haven’t agreed to this,” I remind him.
He quirks an eyebrow at me but says nothing.
“I’m not going to do anything that will harm anyone. I need to know what you’re using the tears for.”
“I cannot tell you that. But I will promise that no harm shall come to you or Wrath. And a wraith’s promise is binding.”
“No harm can come to anyone,” I respond, crossing my arms. What if tears from certain fae are extremely dangerous? This is something Liz would probably have lots of information on, but I never studied potions or anything similar.
“I promise I mean no innocents any harm, and I promise no harm shall come to you or Wrath. That is the best I can do.”
My gut twists.
