Page 85 of A Thief Among Fae

“Three,” another murmurs. “D’you reckon any of them were fae?”

The guards swivel toward us, but Finnian has already drawn his hood over his ears. No one stops us as we descend the hill, away from the dancing firelight.

Chapter 25

When we return to the hideout, Desmond looks up from his book. He shuts it and regards the three of us with frigid anger that unnerves me. He meets Brandur, Finnian, and Maeve’s gaze first. They each lower their heads in deference. Then it’s my turn for his wrath.

“Do I have to say it?” Desmond demands, holding my gaze. He gestures at the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around Finnian’s swollen calf. His voice jolts pain through my skull, and the glow of the lanterns only makes it worse.

Finnian swallows. “I take full responsibility,” he says, but Desmond doesn’t look at him.

He remains silent, watching me expectantly. I uneasily shift, but I keep my back to the wall so no one notices I’m injured. The new moon’s darkness hid the blood when we were outside. But now, one wrong turn, and everyone will see.

“Dez—” Finnian starts, his voice cracking.

This isn’t right. I can’t let Finnian take the fall for this. “I pushed him into bringing me along and disobeyed their orders,” I admit.

“I know,” Desmond snaps.

Everyone flinches.

Desmond’s jaw ticks. He’s still watching me.

“We don’t have time to argue whose fault it is!” Maeve interrupts. Her face is flushed with agitation. “Brandur, go tend the horses! Desmond, get Finnian to my alchemy room.”

Brandur’s lip curls, though he heads outside without complaint.

Desmond loops his arm underneath Finnian’s shoulders. He levels his glare at me. “I’ll deal with you later.”

A chill shudders through me. I swallow the lump in my throat caused by the punitive thrum in the bond between us. The coldness is as sharp as a slap after his rejection last night.

We hurry to the alchemy room. Since I’m at the rear, no one notices me grimacing as my back throbs. I should be lying down, not walking. Yet now isn’t the time to mention it. Finnian’s leg needs to be cleaned before it becomes purulent.

Maeve’s alchemy room is bathed in an ominous blue glow from the mage lights hovering overhead. Shelves of bottles and beakers cover the stone walls, and pots of fungi make maze-like corridors along the room’s edges. Instead of a hearth and cauldron, the brewing apparatus is a hip-height stone table with a wide basin and a small brazier underneath it. Maeve lights it, then gathers an armful of bottles.

Finnian sits on the low bed against the wall. He hisses as Desmond unwraps the bandages, careful not to brush the wound.

Maeve sucks in a breath. Finnian’s calf is a swollen mass of black, purple, and yellow. The semicircle of teethmarks is stained by clotting blood. I clench my jaw to keep from wincing.

“It. . . could be worse,” Maeve says.

“Can I help?” Desmond asks, the concern in his tone surprising me.

“Wash the wound,” Maeve replies as she dumps powders and fluids into the basin, forming a thick lilac mixture. Then she stirs. Runic engravings in the stone glow with a strange orange light, reflecting a dancing aurora of gold on the ceiling.

“What is that?” I ask, hoping the distraction will help me withstand the pain.

Maeve fills a beaker and feeds its straw-thin pipe into the basin. “An ancient alchemy table,” she replies without looking up. “Rune stole it from the College of the Arcane.”

“Which only happens to be the most exclusive college on the continent,” Desmond dryly says as he washes Finnian’s leg with disinfectant. “Less than a hundred people are allowed inside, and I guarantee Rune isn’t on that list.”

“Nothing’s a struggle for Rune,” Maeve says, then sniffs the mixture. “We’re getting there!”

“The college isn’t just a rumor?” I stroke the rim of the table, too fascinated to give Desmond the same cold shoulder he’s shown me. The elders in Nettlerock were adamant that it wasn’t real. Then again, they also said the first fae I met would glamour me into blind adoration and steal me away.

“It’s no more a rumor than King Olin’s tomb,” Desmond answers.

“Shh,” Maeve scolds. “You’ll scare my cordyceps.” She points at a pot of tiny fungi growing out of. . . dead ants?