Page 10 of A Thief Among Fae

The tunnel of water trembles around us like geysers about to burst. Evie’s losing her grip on her Gift.

I sprint, almost missing steps, but I keep going. “Just a little further, Evie.” We reach the first chamber of alcoves. The tunnel of water rains until her control lapses entirely, unleashing a downpour. We’re submerged just before I crest the final step. I brace my feet on the steps and push Evie toward the surface. She rises, featherlight in the water.

She surfaces first, then me beside her. “We did it,” I encourage her as I carry her again. “We’ll be back in Nettlerock before you know it.”

Evie coughs up water. “Am I going to die, Cyn?” she croaks.

“Not a chance in hell,” I promise. The darkness creeping into my vision doesn’t stop me from racing into the sunlight. She jostles in my arms, the arrow sinking into her body.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

There is nothing she should apologize for. My willingness to put her in danger is what caused this. But I shove the guilt out of my mind, focusing on nothing but the quickest path to Nettlerock.

I don’t know if she’ll make it.

It’s not a draugr with devastating magic that’s my enemy now. It’s time. And that feels far, far worse.

Chapter 3

Evie’s head falls limp against the apothecary’s spare bed. Her lips are as blue as a sapphire.

“What poison?” Beula asks, her apron already on and her dark curls pulled back in a tight bun.

I blanch. “I have no idea.”

“Who shot her?” She drapes a damp cloth across Evie’s forehead.

“A trap.” There is no going back from this, no hiding it. “In a barrow.”

Beula glares at me with only a fraction of the judgment I’ll get from my parents. “You took your sister into a barrow?” She mutters prayers to Elowyn as she pestles herbs in a mortar with a severity I’ve never seen in her. Beula is the best healer between Slagbend and Mythos because even death at her doorstep doesn’t faze her. This urgency scares me.

“Can I help?” I plead. Evie is too weak to open her eyes. Every breath is a rasp, and sweat trickles from her pores.

She thrusts a needle and catgut at me. “Thread this. There’s nothing else, unless you can materialize a bezoar from thin air.”

Oh, goddess. My hands tremble, and my grip is weakened by the gash in my shoulder. I miss the eyelet once, twice, thrice. I suck in a deep breath and thread it. Beula unbuttons Evie’s tunic, then slices her skin around the arrow.

A bezoar. I know where to get a bezoar.

Beula removes the arrow and takes the needle from me.

“I’ll be back with a bezoar,” I tell her. “Keep her alive. Please. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“She deserves a wiser sister.” Beula harrumphs. She knows the barrow was my idea. It should be me bleeding and shaking on that bed. Me. “You need to get that shoulder wound treated first⁠—”

“There’s no time!” I argue. I sprint outside as fear surges inside me. I’ve raided so many barrows to give my sister the life she deserves, but now I’m her undoing. There’s no time to dig up my stash of coins in our root cellar. What I have in my pack is worth far more than a bezoar. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll pay anything to save her.

The stableboy flinches as I fling open his door. “Help me get a horse ready,” I order. “I’ll pay when I’m back.”

He throws a bridle on a dappled mare, but I don’t waste time saddling her. I mount her and spur her forward into a gallop. The journey is a blur, my hope fraying until the docks come into sight.

On the outskirts, I find a ramshackle stable. There, I dismount the mare and untether coins from my pouch into the stablemaster’s hand. The ride has aggravated my clotting wound into an aching throb, but I shove the pain into the deep recesses of my mind.

The entrance to the black market warehouse is guarded. Before I reach the thugs, a towering figure steps into my path. His body is built like a bull’s, so perhaps he’s an orc. A cloth mask covers his entire head except for a thin slit that reveals silver eyes. His unblinking gaze pins me. He has the look of someone who would maim rather than take no for an answer.

He thrusts a yellowed paper before me with an inked sketch of a face. Written boldly above it is WANTED WITH PROMISE OF REWARD.

I expect to see a thug with a smashed, crooked nose and a brutish scowl, but the face is handsome. A straight nose with a subtly downturned point leads to full lips and a sharp jawline. His tousled curls are shaded dark, and the male’s expression is keen, intelligent, and calm.