Page 167 of A Thief Among Fae

I grit my teeth, but he plows on.

“I really didn’t think you had it in you, Cyn. As fond of the prince as you were. No matter.” The usual Rune Erickson grin bursts forth as he runs a hand through his dark hair. “I fulfilled my end of the deal and earned my just reward. And you’ve gotten yours, from what Min said. King Olin’s crown, my lucky darling, is no mere trifle. Yet I don’t suppose it holds a candle to whatever Queen Orla has promised for your devout service.”

“Stop it,” I snap. “I didn’t mean to betray them.”

“Then you what?” Rune smirks. “Drank a little too much that night in Mythos? Let it slip to a little birdie, perhaps?”

My dagger is pressed to his throat before I’ve even had the thought. His eyes widen, so close to mine that I see flecks of cerulean. Yet his grin spreads, baring his teeth. He’s too stubborn, too full of himself to take a step backward into his office. It only encourages me to add a little pressure, a bead of blood rolling down my blade.

“You’ve got to learn to keep your cards to yourself,” Rune practically purrs. “All this little outburst did was confirm that I’m right. You told her, didn’t you? Your sister.”

“Fuck you,” I seethe.

He has the audacity to laugh. Finally, he steps back, but with a casual saunter like all this was a silly game to him. Then he sits behind his desk, legs spread with the laxity of a self-absorbed king. “So now that we’re through the pleasantries, how can I be of service?”

I approach until my toes are close enough to touch the desk, then loom over him. “You knew what they were after. You knew they wanted an infallible weapon, and yet you housed them, fed them, supplied them. What ‘just reward’ is worth treason against your own country? Or. . .” I frown, discerning him. “Did Desmond promise you something?”

Rune’s laugh irritates me more than the amused shake of his head. “He promised me his crown—not the rule it signifies, obviously, but the relic itself. Would you care to see?”

Before I can spit out that no, I would not care to see, he spins around and removes a painting from the wall, revealing a safe. He rubs his thumb against the cut on his neck and then holds it out to admire the small stain of blood that colors his fingerprint. “Just a bit of blood magic. With Finnian’s Gift and sticky fingers, mere locks aren’t enough around here. Weren’t enough.” He presses his thumb against the safe.

I’m about to rebuke his insulting use of the past tense when the safe groans as if alive. The door swings open, revealing a crown so elegantly bedazzled that for a moment, I’m speechless.

It’s gold, fashioned as intertwining branches and bramble. The leaves are decorated with emeralds that are the exact shade of the green in Desmond’s hazel eyes. The uncanniness pulls at me like a lure, and I find myself only stepping away when Rune abruptly slams the door shut. “You don’t want to look at that for too long. It has centuries of enchantments on it. Or a millennium.” He shrugs. “Either way, fae court relics have been known to drive mortals mad.”

“Then why did you want it?” I ask, hoping it’ll help me deduce his price.

“I wanted it, dear Cyn, because I could have it. So no one else could have it. Did you know that I come from humble beginnings? No doubt more humble than yours. And what other common-born man could boast that he has in his possession, not only the Pearled Eyes of the Mer, but the crown of the Hollowlands’ prince?” Joy, his greedy sort of it, dances in his eyes.

“Pity the color doesn’t match your eyes,” I reply with thinly veiled sarcasm. Gods, he’s vain. The starkness of his avarice against Desmond’s austere room and dog-eared books is astounding. To believe that Desmond really traded his crown for this man’s help—for the failed plan to save his kingdom.

“Perhaps I’ll make it match,” he says, daring to smile at me.

He wouldn’t dare. “How would you feel about adding an even rarer royal relic to your collection, instead of mistreating Desmond’s?” I ask, forcing a smile onto my face to hide my anger. “Which brings me to my proposition.”

“Proposition?”

Of the treasures I looted from King Olin’s tomb, there are a few that might interest him. I swallow my pride because I hate admitting it, but his aid is the only help I can get. “I need help breaking the fae out of Drottheim Keep.”

“Dead or alive?” he asks as he dabs his thumb against a handkerchief.

“Alive, obviously!”

“Pity. That throws a few complications into the mix. Yet there’s another problem.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “I deal in thievery, not prison breaks.”

“I’m aware of that, but⁠—”

“And has it occurred to you that maybe you shouldn’t rescue them? Perhaps you should try counting the number of lies Prince Desmond fed you.” He mock-counts on his fingers up to ten, then dramatically pauses. “Oh, look at that. I’ve already run out of fingers.”

His words cut deep, but I won’t let them deter me. “They’re my friends. And they lied to me for a reason.” I’m battling the urge to sock Rune’s jaw with how badly I need his help. “I have a plan, but I need a map of the keep, and I need allies. Both of which, I’m sure you can provide.”

To my relief, despite that he keeps his relaxed posture, the mirth falls from his face. It reveals something hard and calculating. “And what do you propose as payment?”

I lift my chin, declaring it with as much pomp as I can gather. “King Olin’s crown.”

“Hmm.”

Hmm is not the reaction I was hoping for. Tension tightens my chest as Rune stands and leisurely walks around the desk until he’s right in front of me.