Page 62 of A Thief Among Fae

Desmond’s grimace slackens into shock. “Conan?” Then he stiffens, looking back and forth at the trees. “Isolde? Adder? Saoirse?” The shock twists into agony.

“Drop your sword, Prince of Death,” Gashil orders.

“Do it!” I shout at Desmond. “I can’t let them die!”

“They’re already dead!” Desmond fires back.

How could he say that? My family is right there, begging for mercy with their wide eyes.

Evie gasps as the sword nicks her neck. Rage shakes me with every drop of blood that rolls down to her collarbone. I clench my hands, my nails biting into my palms. The pain is the only thing that keeps fear from devouring me.

“You’ll let them go?” I plead with our attackers. I’ve never felt so frightened, but a wrongness slithers through me. My magic prickles along my skin. I ignore it, blinking through the hot tears that sting my eyes. “You won’t hurt them. Swear on it!”

Gashil sneers. “I swear, human, but the prince must drop his sword and stay where he stands.”

I can’t trust him, but what choice do I have?

Evie whimpers. “Cyn, I’m scared.”

“Shut it!” the female who’s restraining her snaps.

Desmond shakes his head, stumbling back. “I was desperate to survive. I didn’t think I had a choice.”

“You do have a choice. Choose my family!” I shout.

“Your family?” Desmond frowns, not in refusal, but confusion. He tightens his grip on his sword. “What do you see, Cynthia?”

“My patience is wearing thin,” Gashil warns.

Why is Desmond asking that? What’s going on? “They have my family. We just need to surrender and—” I scream as the female assassin slashes her sword across Evie’s neck.

Blood gushes, painting her nightdress red as she falls to the ground. She draws in one ragged breath as her brown eyes turn glassy. Then she stills.

My world ends.

The other assassins draw their daggers and raise them over my parents’ chests.

“No!” I try to freeze their blades midair. But I can’t feel the blades, too shaken by grief to focus, too slow, too weak.

They slay my parents with quick stabs through their hearts. I shatter. Cries rip from my throat as my magic whips out, uncontrollable. Rocks rise. Dead tree limbs shake. If I hadn’t left. . . If I had stayed with them. . .

Gashil charges me. A gleeful grin crinkles his eyes as he swings his sword. I can’t bring myself to move. Misery consumes every thought, every sense, until all I feel is nothingness. Each shout and step around me plays in slow motion, time having marched on without me.

If I die, I’ll join them. They wouldn’t be alone.

Desmond throws himself before me, his sword narrowly blocking the slash.

I stumble backward, my vision too blurred by tears to see my family’s faces, yet their bloody bodies are still. They’re dead. These killers took my family from me.

Magic bursts out of me again, and I sense the wrongness. But I don’t understand it. I stumble toward Evie, ignoring the other assassins as they unsheathe their swords to kill me.

Evie’s hand is open, fingers stretching out as if reaching for me. Her nightdress is torn, her shoes unlaced.

I reach for her hand, but mine passes through it. There is nothing there but empty air. No dress. No shoes. No lifeless body.

“Thank the gods,” I rasp. One of the attackers is an illusionist.

My family and the three assailants who held them all vanish, part of the illusion.