Page 45 of A Thief Among Fae

I’m struggling to breathe, his proximity unnerving me. Yet I meet his gaze. “That’s why there are five classes, right? Not all of us can be Elites.” Like you. I let those unspoken words burn through my glare.

He huffs a laugh. “I expected more from you. To think that the woman who knowingly accosted the Prince of Death to save her dying sister would so readily demean herself before him.”

I draw in a sharp breath. “You have no idea what having the wrong magic is like!”

“I will only say this once.” His face hardens into a mask of marble. “The five classes do not matter. They’re a construct built by a kingdom bent on controlling its people. A Gift is defined by how you use it.”

His emotions leak into me, a deep pool of shame that constricts my chest. It’s not unlike my own. My lips part. How could he have that in common with me?

Then he steps away, and the feeling is gone.

I slacken, relieved by the space now between us. “Then what did you mean by ‘weak’?”

“You have a weak understanding of your Gift, and you don’t know how to wield it beyond the simplest applications,” he answers loud enough that the others can hear. “Imagine yourself with a dozen knives, all hovering behind you. You could strike a dozen enemies. Or one enemy a dozen times instantaneously. You’ll become a force to be reckoned with if you embrace your Gift. And that’s only the beginning.”

“The beginning?” I echo. How could I aim twelve knives at once when I can’t even manage one?

“What do you call your Gift?”

“Untethering.”

He nods. “It’s an uncommon Gift. Most wielders call it far-reach, but we’ll go with untethering. Your Gift moves inanimate objects, but you may have the potential to move not just objects, but the material within them as separate entities.”

“Untethering isn’t an Elite Gift,” I argue. “That would take power I don’t have.”

Desmond stops. His voice is assured as he says, “Power isn’t born. It’s made.”

The lynx and Finnian trade a too-meaningful glance, something unspoken bouncing between them.

“We haven’t even touched your strength.” Desmond pauses. “Lift me.” When I step toward him, he clarifies, “With your Gift.”

“I can’t.” My fingers curl. “Like you just said, it doesn’t work on living things.”

“What about dead things?” Finnian asks.

“Dead things, I can move.”

“Then lift this.” Desmond kicks the wooden target over and steps atop it. He spreads his feet into a wide, confident stance. Yet it’s his expectant frown that tells me this is why I’m here. This is the ultimate test. But why?

“What trap did you hire me to disarm?” I deserve to know why I’m here.

“That doesn’t matter, as long as you’ll do whatever it takes,” Desmond replies.

“Whatever it takes? I’m not about to go murder a village for you.”

“We’ll see. It would be a good test of mettle,” he replies.

“He’s joking,” Finnian says. “Unless we find a little commune of chickens.”

At this, the lynx’s ears perk, and she licks her lips.

“Good luck,” Maeve says. “I need to attend to the potions I’m brewing.” She smiles, then tromps out of the room. That leaves me with Desmond, Finnian, and the lynx.

I can do it. I breathe in, then out. How hard can it be? I focus my magic, feeling it wrap around the target like a fifth limb. It budges, scooting rather than lifting. Sweat beads on my brow.

Desmond taps his foot. “Is something the matter?”

“Let me concentrate!” Lifting is harder than pushing. Gravity itself fights me, determined to break me. White-hot pressure builds in my head as I lift the board six inches. Eight.