Stealing Tink (Lost Girl #5)

Chapter 1

The first time I glimpsed the Nomad’s cold blue eyes, I was seven, and he was killing me.

If I remember correctly, the dream had been pleasant up to that point.

Something innocuous: my parents—rather, their dream versions, familiar yet not—taking me to the beach for the day so I could fly off my abundant energy in the warm breeze wafting off the ocean.

I was old enough to have mastery over my wings, but by that point, the climate in our home kingdom of Kruschi had turned cold against the winged faeries.

Once it was discovered that faerie dust could be harvested for its economically beneficial properties, our people thought we would gain status in the world.

The opposite had occurred. And so, I suppose it’s no surprise that the seven-year-old me, inexperienced as I was, dreamed not only of flying, but falling.

I’d hit the rocks wings-first. A harrowing crack had sounded in my ears, out-ringing the sound of the waves. My parents cried out to me, my father shouting my name as he waded out to the shelf where I had fallen.

But then the dream had shifted, as all dreams do, and my gentle father was no longer himself, but a man with sandy hair and blue eyes.

I hadn’t thought of them as cold—not at first, at least. As a child, I’d simply been enchanted by the depth of them, the sense that his irises went on forever, that his perception went on forever.

He had smiled at me, and I, having only known the love of gentle parents up to that point, had not realized that smiles could be unkind.

The stranger had examined my wings, his brow narrowed in concern as he observed the blood pouring from my wounds. I was shaking from either pain or shock when he told me everything was going to be okay.

The stranger even tucked a strand of hair behind my ear before he stabbed me.

The sensation was a strange one. How could it not be to a child? Even most adults did not have a habit of being stabbed, so how was I to know that the sudden pain in my abdomen was not an onset of sickness?

My tiny hand found the origin of the pain. The blood was slick and warm and red against my palms. The way it stained the ocean reminded me of rinsing my paint brushes lest they harden to the point of disuse.

Still, I sensed no murder in the man before me, not even when my hands found the hilt of the dagger jutting from my belly. I even cried out to him for help.

It was when I looked up and met his gaze, only to find that the smile had slipped from the corners of not just his lips but his eyes—that was the moment I learned to be afraid.

Had it been a single nightmare, I might have discounted it. It had been too vivid to forget, forever branded into the darkest corners of my mind, ready to be relived during midnight wakings.

But it had not been a single nightmare.

The next night, the man came for me again, this time with a noose. He strangled me silently, his cheek pressed against mine, his stubble sharp against my jawline, his breathing heavy as I struggled.

By my eighth birthday, I couldn’t sleep unless it was between my parents. Even then, I woke them nightly with my screams.

But I’m no longer eight, and I no longer have my parents’ bed to crawl into.

Despite all I’ve lost, those blue eyes remain. Except here, in reality, I’m unprotected by the ephemeral nature of dreams.

I’m on my knees in Madame Whittaker’s garden, surrounded by her neatly trimmed hedges.

Funny, over the past year, these hedges provided me with a sense of comfort.

As if manicured branches and sharply pointed leaves ever stood a chance of keeping my fate at bay.

As if my nightmares couldn’t slip between their tendrils as easily as the breeze.

They certainly did nothing to keep Peter out, although he’s taken care of now. At least one of my nightmares won’t be haunting me anymore.

The Nomad—that’s what Wendy called the man of my nightmares—stares down at me, blinking twice.

He never blinks in my dreams. I wonder if it’s from the shock at having just witnessed me hack off Peter’s wing.

But why should the man of my nightmares be shocked?

He’s the one who goaded me. I could have run, could have grasped for my freedom.

All my life, I’ve been running from this man.

But he’s been chasing me just as long. Which, I suppose, is why he knew I couldn’t resist the catharsis of making Peter experience a fragment of the pain he inflicted on me while he held me captive in Neverland.

I’d had the chance to run. But then the Nomad had offered me a blade, an opportunity at revenge.

I’d taken the blade.

My hands are still slick with Peter’s blood when the Nomad reaches down and scoops me into his arms.

I’ve never quite learned to fight back—feet too heavy to run, lips that won’t scream, fingers too clumsy to lock the door between us.

Still, I always thought that when the day came to meet my murderer, I’d at least struggle. What fight I had left, I’ve spent on Peter. What strength I had left in my legs, I’ve spent fleeing Neverland.

What a waste.

My side is pressed against his firm chest. It’s warmer than it is in my dreams, though I suppose that’s because the man carrying me to my death is flesh and blood, not a vision set on stealing my sanity. I’m limp in his arms; this much is the same as in the dreams.

If I’m being honest with myself, it’s not a waking nightmare, a sleeplike paralysis that has my arms hanging limp at my sides. Soon, the Nomad will carry me out of the garden, away from the only remaining people in the world who care for me.

I’m just so tired.

Tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of falling asleep, only to find no respite there.

Perhaps this is why the Nomad has frequented my dreams since childhood. Perhaps he knew all along that if he could steal the rest from my slumber, make me crave the nothingness experienced by everyone else, then when this day came, and it was time to take my life, I’d be more than happy to let him.

Just as long as death is quiet. Just as long as death has no dreams.

“Don’t fret, Wanderer,” he says. “I’ve got you now.”

Wanderer.

He calls me that sometimes before he bleeds me.