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Bloodsinger said he wanted to draw out my torment, but the man had hardly raised a hand to me, let alone a blade. I didn’t know his game, but he put a great deal of thought into keeping me under watch by two of his crew—I wasn’t entirely convinced Erik Bloodsinger wanted me dead as much as he insisted.
The clink of metal against wood sounded as Celine and Larsson adjusted their weapons and sat on ale-stained wooden chairs. Near the table, a hunched fae with a tattered cloak around his shoulders played a melancholy tune on a pan pipe, occasionally humming along.
I smiled. The music, simple as it was, soothed a bit of my unease.
Through the dim light, I strained to catch any glimpse of Bloodsinger. No one lifted a gaze to us, no one even seemed to note a new crew had washed ashore. It was as if the patrons didn’t even realize their king was nearby.
“Larsson Bonekeeper.” A woman approached from behind and draped her plump arms around Larsson’s shoulders. She pulled out a chain from inside his tunic. White, polished beads—no, hollowed out finger bones—were threaded on the silver.
Bonekeeper. He kept the bones from his kills.
The woman grinned sweetly as she fiddled with one of the bone beads. Her face was lovely but overpainted in reds and pinks. She had her hair in tight curls piled over her head, and slid her fingertips down the front of Larsson’s tunic, groping his chest. “Been so long since you last came. Care for a visit?”
Larsson lifted the woman’s palm and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Not today, Pesha.”
She pouted her full lips. “All this way and not even a dance?”
“On the king’s order, my girl.” Larsson removed his leather hat and used one of the edges to point at me. “I’ll be staying put for now.”
Pesha narrowed her dark eyes at me; she bared her teeth to reveal several serrated points. Oddly positioned, as though every other tooth grew like a dagger. She huffed, then sauntered through the crowd, seeking company elsewhere.
“She’s part merfolk. Rare, since it’s not often a sea fae rides a male with a fin.” Celine snickered and poured a tin cup filled with crimson wine. She plopped the cup in front of Larsson. “Makes Pesha a favorite here, and Larsson is fortunate enough to beherfavorite. Sorry, mate. Drink up, you’ve had quite a loss tonight.”
He frowned but took a long gulp.
“Ah.” I feigned a bit of sympathy. “Playing my captor ruined your plans with bedmates.”
Larsson paused the cup to his lips. “Trust me, lady, if I want to take time to bed someone, I’ll do it. And thoroughly.”
A sudden ache for Jonas and his haughty bravado struck me like a molten bolt. I craved my friends. Hells, what a different sight this place would be if they were here. Instead of terrifying, drinking and laughing in an Ever alehouse would be a vibrant kind of adventure.
I faced the somber musician again. His tune was warm and comforting.
Celine and Larsson spoke on the state of the Tower. They commented on the number of patrons, and traders, and unfamiliar fae. Sometimes they’d laugh at their fellow crewmen as they stumbled over their own drunken feet.
They ignored me. I didn’t mind and kept focused on the delightful music. The minstrel lifted his eyes, as if sensing my study, and grinned. He gained a touch of energy from my attention and swayed his slender shoulders.
Now that I could make out his face, the musician wasn’t as hardened on the outside as I thought. He was, in fact, terribly captivating. Strong features, a sharp jaw, a divot in the center of his radiant chin.
“You do not hail from these seas?” His voice was gentle as a summer’s night and rich as an autumn afternoon.
“No.” I couldn’t recall a time I’d heard a sweeter voice than his. Every note flowed through my body, heating my blood, pooling deep in my belly until I . . . all hells, I had to clench my thighs together when a rush of unbidden need throbbed between my legs.
I sighed to keep from moaning.
“Beautiful.” I applauded, silently pleading for more of the man’s song.
“What’s beaut—” Celine tracked to where my gaze lingered and shot up from her chair. “Shit!”
I cried out when her rough hands clamped over my ears. The minstrel rose to his feet, eyes on me, that pipe growing louder. I clawed at Celine’s hands. How dare she try to block such a marvelous sound.
“You hear the call,” the man sang.
He didn’t speak it—no. Not even his spoken words could be so bland and tedious as normal conversation. Every sound was a melody. A sensual, delicious melody that had my chest heaving, my skin boiling in a desire I’d not felt since . . . since Bloodsinger had fooled me in my chamber.
“No, earth fae,” Celine screeched. “Shut it out. Larsson, get the king. Get the king!”
I shoved Celine away and stood. Part of my mind was wholly aware patrons had paused their revelry to observe the struggle. I didn’t care. How was it that the longer he played the more youthful he seemed? His skin was the color of tilled soil, his hair golden like sweet pears.
