Page 179 of A Thief Among Fae

Brandur’s enchanted attire is not the same one he wore in the carriage. Now it’s a crimson much darker than his hair. As he examines the suit with a fanged grimace, I notice subtle rose motifs that match Auri’s.

She notices, too, and raises a brow. “I hope it’s obvious that you’re not my type.”

He harrumphs.

“Devoid,” Min says, interrupting them. Her stealthwear transforms into a black gown with a shimmering iridescent hue, a provocative slit along one thigh. The neckline curls up and around her neck, with a wider slit between her breasts that highlights their heavy curves.

Finnian’s throat bobs. I expect him to comment, but all he does is repeat Rune’s “knave.” He blinks in shock as his gambeson thins into a doublet with the same shifting colors—dark green, violet, and black. A sheer cape flows down his back as gold embroidery decorates his collar, following the buttons down his chest.

He admires the suit, but grimaces when he holds out his arms. “Least the sleeve covers the tourniquet. It still hurts like hell, even after drinking Maeve’s tonic.” His voice cracks.

“Tourniquet or not, you are handsome,” Min says, solemnly curtsying before him.

“Handsome?” he stammers.

I hate to ruin their moment, but the longer we’re here, the more likely we are to be caught. “Desmond, your word is ‘brooding.’”

Who knew Nog had a sense of humor?

Desmond shakes his head, a fond smile playing at his lips. His gaze grows more melancholic the longer it lingers on Finnian. “Brooding.”

My pulse flutters as his clothing transforms into a suit that complements my gown. The intricate, swirling silver embroidery winding from the midnight blue doublet’s hem glistens like starlight, and the crisp shirt underneath matches the moon-gray of my underskirt. The mask that scrolls across his face bears similar scrollwork to my own, but it’s wider, cut in masculine angles.

I don’t know if I want to tell Nog off for making us look like a couple, or squeeze her with a hug. Either way, she’d threaten to snack on my toes.

Desmond runs a hand through his curls, pensive as he finds no tangles or crusts of blood. “How long will it last?”

“Midnight,” Rune says with a conspiratorial smirk. “Just like the faerytales.” He reaches into a pouch and molds clay to Finnian’s ears, then moves on to Auri. She bares her teeth at him but acquiesces. Last, he grabs a glob matching Desmond’s skin and rounds his ears.

“There,” Rune says, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “I advise you all to dance a little, drink and eat merrily, for the ball has just begun. Leaving so early would cast suspicion on you.”

“Suspicions on us?” My brows furrow. He’s plotting something. “Are you not coming with?”

Rune grins. “This is where I depart for my detour.”

His hair recedes into his scalp until it’s as short as Kieran’s. His skin bunches and stretches like putty in a child’s hands, and when the morphing is finished, he looks identical to the male guard he slew.

He winks at me. “Don’t forget your promise.”

Desmond’s eyes narrow. “Promise?”

But Rune is already dashing off.

He didn’t. He didn’t just ditch the plan.

“This is why you don’t do a job in a job,” Brandur mutters.

Desmond offers me his arm. I link mine in his, swallowing back my nerves as we walk down the hall. The symphony’s melodic waltz is muffled by the closed door at the end. That door is all that stands between us and freedom, if we’re lucky enough not to be caught.

I swallow. I hope our disguises are enough to fool the guards.

“Cynthia,” Desmond whispers. He gently tips my chin up and smiles. Even with his mask, I can see the sorrowful yearning in his hazel eyes, and I don’t understand it. Why is he sad?

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

My pulse stutters from surprise. This might be the first time he’s thanked me, and he said it directly instead of the roundabout way of the fae.

Too stunned to speak, I nod. I would’ve rescued him no matter if he was grateful or not. Nothing would’ve stopped me until I could see him again and hear his voice again.