Page 44 of A Thief Among Fae

I notch an arrow anyway.

I shoot.

The arrow strikes the outer edge of the target. Heat crawls up my neck.

Desmond clicks his tongue. “At least you have good form. Proper anchor point, backset—Your father taught you well in that regard. Too bad he didn’t teach you good aim.”

I want to argue that he’s taught me other things: how to set traps, quietly move through the forest, and what beasts to watch for. Yet I know none of that will impress these thieves.

“Try it again with your Gift,” Desmond orders.

“What?”

He plucks the arrow from the target and twirls the shaft between his fingers. “I assumed that with such faulty aim, you’d learn to harness your magic as a crutch.”

“And do what with it?”

“Manipulate the arrow midair,” he answers.

I stare at him. The thought had never occurred to me before.

“Let’s try knives,” Desmond says.

I trade my bow for a throwing knife. “You want me to throw it at the target?”

“Or we can stand here and admire it.” He crosses his arms.

“You. . . might want to stand back.”

He laughs. It’s a surprisingly pleasant sound. “Already am.”

I throw. The knife strikes the wall. Mom was right. I can’t aim worth shit. Yet what if I did control the knife’s trajectory with my magic? What then?

“Now use your magic to retrieve it.” Somehow, Desmond glazing over my awful throw feels worse than criticism.

I spin it toward me.

Desmond snatches it. Then he tosses it to me. “You’ll have to be quicker than that.” A shiver rolls down my spine as he circles me with long, confident strides. He watches me like a predator discerning prey. “I see two glaring problems. This first is simple. You’re a liability. The draugr lurking in King Olin’s tomb will make the ones you’ve fought seem like. . .”

“Like puppies?” Finnian suggests.

“Like puppies,” Desmond repeats.

Indignation burns within me, fueled by the shame. “The last draugr I defeated was a wight who could freeze water. And last time I checked, animals can’t wield axes.”

“Tell that to Min,” Finnian says with a laugh.

Min excitedly mrrps in response.

“As I was saying,” Desmond continues, “you’d be first to go down in a fight, which is a problem considering how low a bar Finnian already sets.” He glances at his friend. “No offense meant.”

Finnian grins. “None taken.”

“The second issue is your magic. You have a weak⁠—”

“A weak Gift? You knew I was an Average when you hired me.” I tighten my grip on the knife so I can’t fling it at the wall in frustration. My parents’ disappointment when I manifested as a child left a splinter inside my heart. It dug deeper with each passing year. They were overjoyed that Evie inherited Mom’s water-wielding; she’d be such a help in the fields. I had choked back tears.

Desmond strides close enough that I can smell peppermint tea on his breath. He looms over me, his strong shoulders consuming my vision. “Is that what you think, Cynthia?” he whispers so low that only I can hear, but every word is cold, like ice slipping down my neck. “You’d call your magic weak?”