Chapter 3 #3
Frustration boils inside me, clawing its way up my throat.
I scoff, my resolve slipping away. This is a fool’s errand.
He isn’t going to help me. I’ve wasted time accosting a Seelie prince who could ensorcell me with a snap of his fingers.
I’m lucky I’m not dead, or bewitched into servitude, or whatever princes do when someone pisses them off.
All of the warnings my parents gave me to steer clear of fae, and I’ve thrown myself before one of the most powerful of them all.
Evie needs me. I’ll get a bezoar another way.
As I heft my pack and turn away, pain spikes along my shoulder. Warm blood slowly darkens my tunic. Shit. I’ll worry about that later.
“Wait,” the fae prince calls out, an imploring edge to his voice. His hand closes on my wrist when I don’t stop, and I whirl around to face him again.
“What?” I snap. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, I don’t have time for it.”
“I want to warn you against dripping unclaimed blood. You’re asking to be tied up in an unsanctioned spell or have a blood-drinker follow your trail like it’s a treasure map.
” He unsheathes a sword from his hip and cuts a strip from the velvet inner lining of his cloak.
“Here.” He offers it to me, and my eyes blow wide.
“I can’t accept that.” There’s always a cost to unsolicited gifts in faery tales, and it’s his ring that I need.
His jaw ticks. “I was rather fond of this cloak. It would be a shame to have ruined it for nothing.”
“Then you should’ve asked if I wanted it before you cut it up,” I retort, earning a darker glare. Gods, I’ve really pissed him off now. My feet shift, angling so I can dart between the stalls beside us to evade him.
He grabs my arm, tugs it toward him, and examines the blood trickling down my skin.
I stiffen as he wipes the tattered strip up my arm, collecting every drop.
Then he loops it over my shoulder, under my arm, and back over again until the wound is covered.
He ties the makeshift bandage off with a bow.
My mouth opens, but no words come out. Maybe I’ve frozen up in fear, but it feels more like shock. The prince of the Hollowlands just bandaged my shoulder.
He examines his handiwork with a detached stare, as if it was an irksome chore. Then he lets go of me, removes his ring, and places it on his palm. His curls shift as he tilts his head, encouraging me to take it.
As soon as I hold out my hand, his fingers snap over the ring. “I didn’t say it’s free. That statuette would suffice for a trade. Consider it payment for the bandage as well.”
“I thought you said it’s cursed.”
He shrugs. “I asked you if I had mentioned its cursed state. I didn’t say it was cursed.”
I roll my eyes at the wordplay. I’m not surprised that he wants to trade. It’s supposedly a fae custom to never dole charity or receive it. A kiss for a ribbon, an apple for a horseshoe, or your firstborn for an enchanted axe.
I take it out of my pack but keep it tight in my fist. “If you’re lying about giving me the ring. . .”
“I can’t lie,” he says with a wry smile. I’d be a fool to believe him.
We open our hands in unison. I lift both objects with my Gift and swap them midair. The fae’s eyes widen for a brief second.
I don’t know what to say. Definitely not thank you, since that’s said to be against fae etiquette. An expression of gratitude is the same as offering debt to them.
Before I think of anything, he turns and weaves into the crowd.
When I reach the hag’s stall, I present the ring pinched between my fingers.
“Curious.” She drags the tip of her index nail down her table, the noise like a blade scraping stone. My spine stiffens. “But it is not enough. I require that ring, the sapphire, and the bracelet in your bag in exchange for the bezoar you seek.”
We stare each other down. I have a feeling I’m being fleeced. How did she know about the lapis cabochon bracelet? I needed the marks it’s worth for Evie’s dowry.
She won’t need a dowry if she’s dead, I remind myself.
“Deal,” I agree. “Swear to Elowyn that the bezoar is authentic.”
The hag laughs, a high-pitched cackling. “I don’t worship your gods, child.”
My grip on the ring tightens. “Then swear on your own. Danu, perhaps?”
Her bulging eyes narrow so quickly that I almost miss it. Then she blinks, and the animosity vanishes. “I swear it.”
“Hand me the bezoar, and it’s yours.”
She rummages through a chest. The yellowed stone she sets on the table is half the width of my palm. I set the ring, bracelet, and sapphire beside it and cover them with my hands.
When she lets go of the bezoar, I snatch it, leaving my items exposed. She grabs them with the same swiftness and slides the ring onto her gnarled finger. “A pretty thing. Powerful, too.” Yet her expression is the same apathetic stare. Are all unseelies this bizarre?
“Pleasure doing business with you.” The bezoar stays squeezed in my hand as I hurry toward the warehouse entrance, as if it’s a worry stone that can siphon my fear away. All I can do is pray that I’m not too late.