Page 47 of Tricks for Free

“You,” I said, voice low. “What are you doing here?”

Sam blinked. “Uh,” he said. “Hello to you, too. Gosh, I missed you. No, don’t worry about it, I’d love to come into your apartment and have this conversation in front of a total stranger. That sounds like a bucket of fun. Everybody loves a bucket of fun.”

“I live here,” said Fern, sounding squeakily affronted. She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes, which for Fern was the equivalent of a full-on glare. It was adorable. Telling her that probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. “Who are you? Why were you kissing—” Then she stopped, glare transforming into a look of stricken confusion as she realized she didn’t know what to call me in front of him.

I laughed. I couldn’t stop myself. Fern looked hurt, and I laughed even harder, which was rude of me, but after the day I’d had, I thought I was owed a brief moment of healing hysteria. Sometimes the rational, reasonable thing isn’t the thing to do after all.

Sam sighed heavily. “You broke her,” he accused, looking at Fern. “I left her alone for six months, and you broke her. This probably voids the warranty.”

“Lowry Security will have you out of here so fast that you’ll leave behind those gross flip-flops like you’re in a cartoon,” said Fern.

I glanced at Sam’s feet. He was, in fact, wearing flip-flops, which seemed like the best possible compromise between his natural disdain for footwear and the human world’s tendency to insist that people without shoes on are not to be trusted. They looked like they’d been stolen from a resort pool. The urge to start laughing again rose in my throat. I swallowed it down. Healing hysteria might be nice, but if I spent too much time indulging myself, I wasn’t going to get anything done.

“No calling Security,” I said. “Fern, this is Sam Taylor, my . . .” I trailed off. We’d never formalized anything. I’d been too busy running away before the Covenant could use me as an excuse to kill Sam and everyone he’d ever cared about.

“I’m her boyfriend,” said Sam gruffly.

“Boyfriend,” I concluded. My stomach did a flip that had nothing to do with the trouble I might or might not be in, and everything to do with the way Sam kept glancing at me, quick, sharp-edged looks, like he was cataloging every inch. My hands itched, not with heat, but with the desire to touch him and keep touching, tactilely reassuring myself that he was really here, that this wasn’t some sort of cruel dream cooked up by my overstimulated subconscious. “Sam, this is Fern. She’s one of my roommates.”

“Wait,” said Fern, eyes going wide again. “This is the boyfriend? This?” She waved her hands, encompassing the whole of him. “I didn’t think this was your type.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Meaning what, exactly?” he asked, in a dangerous tone.

“Hobo,” said Fern.

“Uh, have you met her?” Sam pointed to me. “Hobo is precisely her type. Especially since last time I checked, she was running away from everyone in the world who cared about what happened to her. Dating someone like me just means she’s sticking with her theme.”

Listening to the two of them avoid using my name was already getting old. “Sam, Fern knew me before I went undercover. Fern, Sam knows my real name, remember?”

“Wait, you told her about me?” Sam looked obscurely pleased.

“You were serious about that?” asked Fern.

“I was.” I looked between the two of them. Normally, I’m against revealing cryptids, even to each other. That sort of thing is private. Normally, they’re not both standing in my living room, eyeing each other with anger and mistrust. This was my fault. I needed to fix it. “He also knows what I do for a living. I mean he understands.”

That was about as broadly as I was willing to hint. Fern’s eyes narrowed, studying Sam with a new intensity. Sam took a half-step back.

“Is she going to turn inside out and start waving weird tendrils of flesh at me?” he asked.

“What?” I said. “No. Fern’s not . . . I don’t think I know of anything that does that. Have you seen something that does that? Where?” I shook my head. “No, don’t tell me. We’re getting off-topic.”

“Annie, is your boyfriend human?” Fern’s tone was icy. “I think you should have to tell me if he isn’t.”

This was escalating quickly. I glanced at Sam. He nodded. Looking back to Fern, I said, with some relief, “No. He’s not.”

“I didn’t think so.” Fern returned her attention to Sam. “He stands wrong for a human.”

“I do not,” said Sam. “I stand perfectly fine.”

“You don’t,” said Fern. “But that’s okay. I don’t stand right either. I’m a sylph.”

“I thought you might be.” Sam smiled—a quick, relieved expression. “We had a couple of sylphs with the carnival when I was a kid. When they did the flying silks, nobody could even come close.”

“So if we’re all done glaring at each other, can we get back to me figuring out how pissed I am?” I asked. “Sam, what are you doing here?”

“Mary found me.” He didn’t even have the grace to look contrite. “She said you were in trouble. I came running.”

“Mary?” asked Fern. “Your dead aunt really went looking for your hobo boyfriend because a parade fell on people? Because I thought she was kidding.”