Page 41 of A Thief Among Fae

He beckons me to follow him outside again. Then he raps on the stone between the gnarled roots, and we wait.

And wait.

I’m about to ask him why he enjoys messing with me when the stone rolls back. A secret entrance? I’m excited to look inside already.

A wizened face peers at us with eyes like black beads of coal. “Prince Desmond,” the creature croaks. “Welcome back.”

He sighs. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“As you wish, Pri—” the creature coughs, but it sounds like a death croak. “As you wish, Desmond.” She steps back to let us in.

She’s a short unseelie faery that reminds me of the hag, but less unnerving. Her nails are clipped a short, practical length. The simple black frock she wears is pristine, each stitch the same length and every seam cleanly pressed. I think she’s a hob, but I figure it would be rude to ask.

The hob regards me with a disgruntled frown. “I see you’ve brought someone with you. Your things, madam.” She holds out her hands with joints as loud as cracking twigs. Her dull brown hair is tied back in a bun, exposing her large, pointed ears. They’re not elegant like Desmond’s. No, more like wood ear fungus than flesh.

I look at Desmond for a prompt. Do I insist that I carry my own things? Hand them over and reduce my only defenses to my fists?

“Refusing would be an insult,” he says. “Even if Nog operates with a paucity of enthusiasm.”

Nog harrumphs. I reluctantly hand over my pack, bow sling, and scabbard. “There’s a lot of delicate things in⁠—”

“Don’t insult me, human,” she growls before trudging off on bare, hairy feet.

“She’s. . .” I struggle to think of a comment. “Pleasant.”

“Indeed.” He strides into the foyer, his shoulders relaxing. “Did you really think we were camping in a cave?”

“This is still a cave,” I retort. But to be honest, the snug grandeur of this foyer can barely be spoken of in the same sentence as “cave.” No, this is far closer to what I’ve always thought a castle might look like.

Metal candelabras as tall as I am stand on either side of the doorway, their dozen candles bathing the room in warm light. A walnut bookshelf boasts so many books that there isn’t an inch to spare, and a hearth crackles with a low fire.

My footfalls are silent on the elk pelts crisscrossing the floor. Tapestries embroidered with metallic thread hang from the stone brick walls, and words are painted in blood-red between two of them.

They who betray shall be hanged.

What a heartwarming welcome.

Bioluminescent mushrooms speckle pots lined against the walls. Desmond nods at them. “Don’t eat those. Maeve grows them for poisons.”

“Dez? You back?” a man hollers from a room past the archway.

Desmond smiles as another fae strolls into the foyer. He’s a few inches shorter than Desmond, and his black hair is perfectly styled into a quiff that shows his pointed ears. He’s clean-shaven, but judging from the impeccable complexion of his olive-toned skin, he doesn’t grow much facial hair, anyway. I think Evie would swoon at the sight of him.

His tunic is a blue so dark that it would look black when shadowed. It hugs his lean frame and is cinched by a belt holding numerous small satchels. Embroidered patches adorn the upper arms of the tunic, rows of tiny four-point stars, and a few illustrated larger ones.

The fae male claps Desmond on the back with a genial grin. The two of them make an odd pair: this fae who doesn’t have a scruff or hair out of place, and Desmond, with wild brown curls and a shadow of afternoon stubble.

“And who is this?” the fae asks. He shakes my hand with so much enthusiasm that my whole arm waves, which is impressive considering how slippery his leather glove is. “I think I’m getting the hang of this human hand-shaking ritual, don’t you? It’s a rather handy skill.”

Desmond reacts with a raised brow. “My brief respite from your puns will be sorely missed.” To me, he says, “It doesn’t matter if you ignore him. He’s persistent.”

“I’m Cyn.” I examine him for weapons when he finally lets go. A single dagger is strapped to his belt.

“Finnian, son of Alain. At your service.” He bows to me. “Bold name.” His gaze flicks to the crescent tattoo, then to the one on Desmond’s wrist.

“She’s joining the crew,” Desmond answers.

“Ah. To help us with our little problem?” Mischief and mirth dance in Finnian’s umber eyes.