Page 3 of A Thief Among Fae

The thugs slump in relief as I enter the warehouse. I smirk, then pause as my eyes adjust to the dimness. Sunlight spills in thin rays from missing roof tiles, and wooden stalls crammed together form narrow alleys. It’s a different feeling from the Mythos market. Tense. Quiet. Nefarious. A shiver ices my spine.

Goblins tend the first three stalls, so I pass them. I have a rule never to sell to goblins after what happened the first time I was here. Further down, an orc’s stall has no customers, but a cloaked man lingers beside it with his hood drawn. I avoid him as I approach the orc’s stall. Anyone who needs to hide their face is trouble.

I open my rucksack and show the orc a delicate copper cuff. It’s engraved with winding vines and set with an amethyst the size of a fish eye. “Ten silver marks.”

The orc’s brows furrow as he inspects it. Amethyst isn’t worth much. But anyone who takes one look at my dirt-encrusted nails and my patched clothes would think a peasant like me can’t afford even the dullest of gemstones. They’d assume I stole it. Yet does stealing from the dead really count as thievery?

Seconds pass that feel like minutes. He regards me with suspicion, but since we’re surrounded by illicit goods, he doesn’t ask where I got it. “Eight,” he barters.

“Nine.”

“Eight.”

“Fine.” I hand him the cuff and scoop up the marks he offers me. Arguing would be a waste of time. Evie’s alone, and if we linger much longer, we’ll be walking home after sundown. In Avedor, that’s asking for trouble.

“Excuse me,” the cloaked man says. “That cuff is from the seventh era. Am I mistaken?”

I’m taken aback by his tall stature, the sharp cut of his jawline, and the shadow of stubble along his medium-brown skin. Dark, loose curls brush against his brows, soft and shining even in the dim light. His piercing hazel eyes are the color of the forests back home, a warm brown like the boughs I’d climb as a child, emerald-green like the rustling summer leaves. They widen at the sight of me.

I force a laugh. “The era of the seventh king? Where would I have gotten a thing like that?”

“You. . .” He looks me over as if I’m a spectre, then clears his throat. “You stole it from a tomb.”

The orc stallkeeper raises a brow.

Not good. This may be a black market, but few would purchase loot from a tomb. Raiding is sacrilege, an offense to our god of Death. And I don’t have any idea how old the cuff is, only that jewelry always has value.

I turn on my heel, but a strong hand grasps my elbow.

“Wait,” the cloaked man says. His fingers drift along my forearm, and a shiver ripples through me in their wake. “I’ve been looking for someone like you.” He watches me with an astute glint that flips my stomach.

I pull away from him, but not before I notice a silver ring embedded with a bone shard on his index finger and the gold band on his third. Whoever he is, he has more wealth on his fingers than I’ll earn in a lifetime.

My instincts scream to run. What could he possibly want with a tomb raider? Nothing good, I’d bet.

“You’re mistaken,” I reply. Then I weave into the crowd, praying that he won’t follow me. I need to get out of this warehouse before anyone else can ask me another damning question.

There’s a reason I don’t tell my family what I’ve been up to.

When I enter the drapery, a man is speaking with the shopkeeper. Their voices are hushed, and she looks distraught. Evie watches them, clutching the brocade as if it’s a shield. “What’s going on?” I ask her.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “Maybe he brought her bad news?”

Their conversation finishes, and the man turns. My jaw almost drops. He’s devastatingly handsome, and I have to glance at his human ears to make sure he’s not fae. A goatee accents his square jaw, and half of his black hair is swept up in a bun. The rest falls to his shoulders in soft waves. His narrowed eyes have monolids, and his irises are a bright, penetrating teal like the dragonflies that lick the lake behind our village.

Dark pants hug cords of rugged muscle, and his leather jerkin stops at his shoulders, revealing biceps that rival blacksmiths’. And I’ve seen some beautiful blacksmiths in Mythos.

Two handsome men in one day? I should really venture to Mythos more often. Too bad one was in the city’s seediest market.

My heart skips a beat when he winks at us. This man’s rakish charm is a siren’s song for women to make very bad decisions with him.

“Here to do some shopping?” he asks as he strides toward the door.

Evie blinks herself out of her own awed stupor and smiles at him. “Yes, we won’t be in Mythos for long.”

“Your smile. . .” he stops before Evie and bends to one knee. “No fabric, nor the stars in the heavens, could compare to your beauty.” He reaches for her hand, and she relents, blushing as he kisses it.

The draper stiffens, her eyes widening. Her mouth opens to speak, but no sound comes out.