Page 58 of A Thief Among Fae

“You mind if I follow you outside?” I ask Min.

“Not at all.”

After I strap my throwing knives to my body, we leave our room and head to the foyer. Maeve waits for her cakes in the kitchen, waving as we pass, but otherwise, the rooms are empty. Our steps are eerily loud.

The boulder that seals the entrance rolls back as we approach, and the hearthlight leaks into the inky black of the forest. “Thanks for listening,” I tell Min.

“You are welcome,” she says, expressionless. Then she shrinks into her lynx form. Crickets chirp and leaves sway in the night breeze as Min bounds off through the trees.

Branches crackle to the right, and a large animal sprints away. It’s gone too quickly for me to make out details. Goosebumps prickle my neck, but as I search the tree line, I don’t notice anything amiss. We probably startled a sleeping doe.

Behind me, the boulder rolls back, leaving me in the faint glow of the waning half-moon.

I tromp into the trees for a good place to practice. My shoulders release their tension, every distant call of an owl and scent of dry autumn leaves comforting me in a way I didn’t know I needed. As much as I hate admitting it to myself, the sylvan ambience soothes me because it reminds me of home.

Reaching a clearing between the trees, I untether two knives and will them to float before me. My magic caresses each from hilt to tip. I gauge their weight, their balance, and then aim at the knot in an oak across from me.

Like a taut string released, both knives soar.

Thunk. Thunk.

They strike the tree, one six inches above the other. Neither struck the knot.

Frustrated, I untether a third and throw again.

Thunk.

It misses. Shit. I call all three back to me, wipe the sweat off my forehead, and try again. And again. And again, until dozens of crisscrossing cuts mar the bark, each a sign of my failure. None of them mark the knot.

What would Desmond say if he saw me struggling like this? The frustration burning inside me is even worse than before. Untethering is no good in combat if I can’t aim.

I dig my heels into the ground. My hands shake as I hover all six knives in an arc behind me. I fling them one after the other, never taking my sight off the tree. Three strike in a vertical row, the middle one piercing the knot. One misses the trunk, striking a wayward branch. The last two land in the bushes, startling a dove that bursts into flight.

Those are not going to be easy to find. Sighing, I trudge into the brush, looking for a glint of metal in the moonlight. Desmond’s voice trickles in and out of my mind, but I’m too busy swearing to process the words. What does it matter? His critiques bother me enough when I toss and turn in bed.

Then his voice ceases. Seconds later, it starts again. I stand, straining to listen. I’m not imagining him. The words are muffled because he’s in the woods nearby. I huff a laugh. And here I was starting to think I’m going mad.

There is only one reason he’d meet with someone outside the guild’s cave. He doesn’t want anyone to know about it.

Looking down at the crescent on my wrist, I press my lips into a firm line. If he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me what he wants from Olin’s tomb, I’ll live with it. If he wants to hide whatever affinity he has for Auri, I’ll live with that too.

What I don’t understand is the vow. Why would the prince of the Hollowlands bind his soul to my own? I don’t believe that it was only so I wouldn’t betray him. There’s something more. Something he doesn’t want me to know.

And if he’s tied his soul to mine, then I have a right to the truth.

My jaw tightens. I’ve failed enough for one day. Floundering with my magic, missing every mark with my knives. I can’t fail again.

If he won’t tell me his secrets, I’ll take them.

I lock onto the sound of Desmond’s voice and follow.

Chapter 18

Slowly, I weigh every step against the dry grass. I cling to Desmond’s voice like a will-o’-wisp guiding me forward. Is he meeting with Prince Eldon again?

“And how is Deitra faring?” Desmond asks.

I strain to hear the response of whomever he’s speaking to, but an owl’s throaty call covers it.