Page 34 of A Thief Among Fae

The guard laughs and shifts his weight to his left leg as he leans over the pixie.

“You can help,” Desmond says.

“Help free the pixie?”

“No, you could help me admire this touching scene,” he snipes. “With your Gift, you can⁠—”

“I know how to use my Gift! Why don’t you use yours?”

He shakes his head. “It’s inapplicable.”

A brick in the wall is loose. I pull it free, then snake it through the crowd. The guard is too busy mocking the pixie to notice it. I pull the brick back to build momentum, then wham it into the guard’s right knee. He howls as his leg buckles, and he crashes to the cobblestones.

The pixie shakily rises, then scampers into the crowd.

“Hey! Stop that prisoner!” the guard yells. He staggers to his feet, but the pixie is out of sight.

Desmond’s cold smile makes me shudder. Our shoulders brush when we resume walking, and I feel his dark emotions. He would’ve slain that guard to protect the pixie if it wouldn’t have violated the delicate treaty between the Hollowlands and Avedor.

“Your reward?” he asks me, so quietly I’m not sure if I heard correctly. My brows rise in question, and he says, “You gifted me a favor. Now I owe you one in turn.”

A favor from the fae Prince of Death? I frown. That’s exactly the kind of temptation the village elders warned us about. Fae favors are no different than poison that tastes sweet.

But an unpaid debt from a fae isn’t something I like the sound of either. “Give me an hour at Norwynhald,” I propose. It’s something immediate with no magic involved.

He watches me with narrowed eyes, like that’s not the answer he expected. “Fine. I’ll even buy you one of those teeth-rotting sweet rolls.”

As if on cue, my stomach gurgles. “Sorry,” I blurt out, then blush as I catch my mistake. Do not apologize to fae. They take it as an acceptance of blame, an offer of reparation.

I wait for Desmond to demand something of me, like all the stories say he will. Maybe he’ll ask for something precious to me or order me to speak in song until sunset.

Instead, he sighs. He combs his fingers through his curls, which only makes them messier. “Come on,” he says, already picking up the pace. “We were running behind schedule before you bartered for a delay.”

Chapter 10

We reach the bustle of Grimulf Square. Pennant banners stretch between rooftops, the flags rippling in the light breeze. The timber frame homes bordering the cobblestone square are the largest I’ve seen yet, with flower boxes hanging from fourth-story windows. The first floors are shops with their doors propped open, wealthy denizens milling in and out with full satchels.

A fiddler whose magic amplifies sound plays a brisk folk song I’ve known since I first learned to walk. Dancers skip in lines, linked arm in arm, then swivel to change partners. I nod my head to the rhythm as we walk.

“You’d think they’d hire a singer who could carry a tune,” Desmond mutters.

“What singer?” I slow down to focus on the melody, but I still don’t hear vocals. The bards are hard to see through the crowd.

Desmond pauses. I almost thump into his back. “I forgot how superior fae hearing is to humans,” he says with a smirk.

“It must be from the ridiculous size of your ears.”

His shoulders shake with quiet laughter. At least his mood has recovered enough that he’s no longer patronizing me.

Goblins chatter in self-isolated groups. Their skin varies in shades of gray, and their ears are flared like the fae. They’d look almost human, if it weren’t for their black, glossy eyes. The irises are large and swallow most of the space where white should be.

Three orcs pass us as they chomp on turkey legs and sip ale. Their boisterous laughs overpower the crowd as they stop to watch a juggler. The performer juggles miniature versions of herself, a Gift of either illusion or multiplication.

Yet I don’t see a single fae.

At the southern edge of the square, an Elowynite arch-minister oversees the line of congregants waiting to burn their offerings in the blazing brazier. Two of our gods, Elowyn and Haldren, are praised today in hopes they’ll grant Avedor a bountiful harvest. There’s a faint whiff of charred paper orisons amidst the acrid scent of burnt meat and fruit.

We weave through the crowd toward the eastern side, where the market stalls are. A towering statue of Elowyn overlooks her celebration, arms outstretched and palms cupped toward the sky. Her braid twists down her back, and at her side is Fenris, her sacred wolf companion.