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“Scathach.”
“Right. She spoke to me.”
“I know. I was there.”
“No. I mean here”—he tapped his temples—“like she was in my brain. Can you do that?” God, that was a thought. Morgan plucking thoughts right out of his head. He polished off the end of his beer on that frightening image.
“No, I can’t mind-speak. Only the true Fey have that ability.”
“Then what can you do?”
She leaned forward, her whiskey-gold stare fired with hostility. “I can separate your head from your shoulders before you have time to blink. And I can track. That’s why Scathach chose me for this mission. I can track magic. What’s known as a mage chaser. It’s a gift. If they use Neuvarvaan and I’m close enough, I’ll feel it.”
He snorted. “Magic. Right.”
She offered him a thin smirk. “A nonbeliever?” She looked around. “See the two men over there in the corner? Keep your eye on the man in the blue coat. He’s going to spill his drink.”
Morgan focused her gaze on her chosen victim. Her lips moved in a silent whisper.
The man across the way raised his pint to his lips, but before he’d taken a swallow, his arm jerked. The tankard sloshed. Fell to the floor.
Cam flashed back to Morgan. “Keep watching,” she urged. “Now the man in gray is going to order fish. Wait for it.”
Again came her whispered words. Again he watched.
The man’s laughing companion waved for the barmaid. She hurried over with a towel. As she wiped up the mess, he said, “Cod if you have it. And another beer for my friend.”
Cam’s stomach rolled. It wasn’t possible. But he’d seen it with his own eyes. The evidence was piling up. Pointin
g toward a conclusion that made no sense.
Morgan laughed. “I added that last bit spur of the moment. I felt sorry for the blighter who’d lost his beer to prove my point.”
“That was your doing?” His throat was dry, his heart thudding at a strange galloping pace.
She gave him a sympathetic look. “There’s a whole world out there you know nothing about. And you don’t have to believe, Cam. I don’t blame you. As Other, I’ve lived with magic my whole life. It’s second nature. Like breathing. I forget not all mortals understand.”
“Scathach used that term—Other. My grandfather told me tales of half mortal/half Fey, but is it true? They exist?”
“You’re staring at one—rather rudely, if you must know.”
He blinked. Dropped his gaze.
“We’re not monsters, Cam. Or freaks. The Fey blood can manifest itself in any of a thousand ways. Sometimes so subtly, the talent isn’t even realized.” She grimaced. “Or in my case, it’s just who you are.”
“I thought I knew who you were.”
“You didn’t know anything about me.” She shook her head, shadows hovering at the corners of her gaze. “We were both pretending, Cam. It just caught up with us in the end.”
He clutched his empty tankard.
How right she was.
They stopped when the rain grew so heavy it was impossible to see. The toll road was a swamp of mud and debris, the rutted lane branching off toward the inn, even worse. Morgan had vague ideas of shaming Cam into pushing on through the worst of it. But even that seemed too much effort after hours of huddling in the saddle, her hands slippery on the reins, her eyes scratchy and heavy from trying to peer through the gloom.
She pulled the oilskin boat cloak tighter around her—thank you, Ruan. Her older brother had given it to her for her last birthday. An odd present, but Ruan knew her better than anyone. And cared less for convention than she did. It was just what she’d wanted.
The yard was packed. A heavy coach sat unharnessed in a corner. Gentlemen’s phaetons and curricles had been pulled willy-nilly wherever there was room, crushed against smaller gigs and even a few wagons. Ostlers hung at the stable doors, just out of the rain. Others moved up and down the aisles checking on the horses, fretful in the storm. She grimaced. Perfect. A crowded yard meant a crowded inn. She’d hoped for the luxury of her own room. Not completely out of the question, even for a married couple. But hope was fading fast.
