Chapter 10 #2
I meander toward the other hopeful singles, scouting them out as they likewise scrutinize me. An orc winks, his dark hair dashingly pulled back into a low ponytail and pectorals straining against his thin, white tunic. I wave back, but someone grasps my elbow and spins me around.
“May I have you for this dance?” a human male asks me, sweeping into a bow. When he straightens, familiar teal eyes smile at me.
The last time I saw him, he slipped his hand into my sister’s pocket in the draper’s shop. Days have passed, and yet my anger burns just as hot.
“You,” I seethe. My fist clenches as I weigh the satisfaction of punching him with the risk of arrest for assault.
A common thief is despicable enough, but I remember the draper’s warnings about him.
How can he walk in broad daylight through a festival teeming with guards and not face arrest himself?
“That’s not the warm greeting I anticipated.
” Guildmaster Erickson’s broad hands guide my arms into position, then his feet effortlessly join the steps of the dance.
“Animosity will only serve to make a scene.” He nods at the clapping children who watch us from outside the ring.
“Surely I’m not so disagreeable that you can’t bear my presence for a single dance. ”
I join the steps, if only to confront him. “You owe me five silver marks.”
We spin. Erickson shrugs as our hands let go. “I owe lots of creatures many things. If I repaid them all, what would I be left with? The trick is to outrun your debts, my dear.”
I scoff. “I am not ‘your dear’.”
“That remains to be seen.” He winks. The charm oozing off him is odious.
“If I take five marks from you, you won’t mind so long as I outrun you?”
He laughs like the metaphorical snare I’ve set for him is nothing more than another step in the dance. “I suppose not,” he says, dodging it. “Tell me, why are you back in Mythos so soon? And with the high fae prince, no less.”
“How did you—” I look into the crowd as we cross the ring in timed diagonals, but Desmond is nowhere in sight. I don’t know why I expected him to be, with how much he loathes being here. With the hood hiding Desmond’s ears, there’s only one way Erickson could know who he is. They’ve met.
“It’s part of my occupation to know everything and everyone,” Erickson says, confirming my suspicion. “I have to warn you. That fae is rather unscrupulous.”
“Like you’re not, guildmaster of thieves?” I counter. “You racketeer innocent shopkeepers and flirt more shamelessly than a streetwalker.”
He throws his head back and laughs, his dark hair swaying as we kick in time with the jig. His grip is irritatingly pleasant as he spins me around him. “A fair rebuttal,” he admits. “But at least I’m not a walking weapon.”
I glare. “I don’t have high opinions of men who pickpocket unsuspecting peasant girls.” Yet his second remark bothers me, because it makes the rumors echo through my mind.
Prince of Death. Slayer in the Shadows. Walking-weapon.
What exactly am I getting into? As far as I know, I’ve never once seen Desmond use his Gift. Unlike Erickson, he doesn’t walk with the machismo of a man who thinks he owns the world. Instead, he wields a foreboding quietness. The shadows are where the fiercest predators lurk.
Maybe Erickson will tell me more.
We part for several steps as followers circle their leaders, then rejoin hands.
“You strike me as the type to have high opinions of no one at all,” Erickson says. “Would a crown prince even satisfy your standards?” He nods at the dais. “Eldon may appear quite the charmer. But believe me, any eldest heir is counting the days until mommy or daddy dearest drops dead.”
He’s right about Prince Eldon, if last night was any indication.
Now, Eldon dances atop the dais with a young girl missing her front teeth.
He stoops to spin her round and round. Ronan dances with a woman his age, but each step and even his smile is wooden.
Queen Orla and Princess Cara clap as they watch.
“Gods, what I wouldn’t do to swipe their crowns off their vainglorious heads.” Erickson grins.
I’ll have to remember just how avaricious he is. “And why is the high prince a walking weapon?”
“And here I thought you were interested in learning more about me,” he says, then dramatically sighs.
“The list of victims from his war crimes is far longer than those affected by my guild. I daresay, Avedor is foolish for permitting him to live.” His answer stuns me long enough that he changes the subject.
“And what am I doing in Mythos, you asked?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I didn’t ask.”
“I’m here for an antiquities auction this evening.” We cross the ring again, our hands clasped as we dip every fourth step. “And you and the fae prince? What brings you here? Dare I say, could he be your partner?” He feigns a scandalous gasp. “Lucky bastard.”
“It’s none of your business,” I retort. When Erickson wiggles his brows, I add, “And he’s insufferable. Just like you are.”
“Insufferable.” Erickson laughs, even more unabashed. “I’ll be sure to tell him next time we cross paths.”
“How do you know each other?” I ask, unable to keep the accusing edge out of my voice.
“Business, of course. Which is why I can confidently say you do not want to be involved with his.”
We part again. I step and clap across the entire ring with the other followers until we reach our leaders again with a spinning step.
The hands that grasp mine are callused, cold rings pressing against my fingers. My heart stutters. “Desmond?” I look up into hazel eyes that regard me with insouciant boredom. I trip, but he catches me and leads us into the next step.
My surprise gives way to annoyance. Now I won’t know the full extent of Erickson’s warning, even if it was fueled by an ulterior motive. I glare at Desmond. “I don’t recall inviting you to cut in.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to live with the guilt of being uninvited.”
“Were you jealous?” I quip.
A thrum of envy lurks beneath his unaffected facade. “Hardly. Do you wish that I were?”
“No, I thought you wouldn’t dance.” Yet my response felt too quick to be true, even to me.
“When did I give that impression?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When we perused the stalls, you looked like you’d rather dive into a pit of snakes than be here? Where’s our stuff, anyway?”
“In good hands.”
We break apart to clap. His hand flexes before rejoining mine.
“What did Erickson want?” he asks.
Right to the point. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is an interrogation, not a dance. “He wanted to warn me about you. He also declined to return the five silver marks he owes me.”
“I’ll make sure you get them back.” He studies me. “What did you tell him of our plans?”
“Nothing. I don’t trust him. Not that I trust you, either.”
He spins me, and when he laughs, my breath catches in surprise. I stumble, but he rights me with gentle ease. “Wise decision,” he says.
“You’re good at this.” I wince. That sounded moronic.
“I’m a quick study.”
We part as I encircle the leaders of other couples. When we rejoin, I forget the next step.
“You seemed proficient a minute ago,” he states.
I restrain my urge to shove him and sabotage his proficiency. “Have you ever had a dance partner who didn’t slap you by the end?”
The hint of a dimple flashes. “Whether you slap me or not, you would be the first.”
“Your first. . . dance partner? But you’re a prince.”
He shrugs, but it’s graceful as if part of the dance.
I huff a surprised laugh. “You must be just as intolerable to the fae as you are to me.”
We part again, but he continues when we reunite. “Or I avoid dancing because books make better conversation than people.” He glances at me. “Most people.”
I roll my eyes.
The music accelerates, the jig progressing toward its tumultuous end. “Brace yourself,” he says as our steps and kicks quicken. Then his arm wraps around my back.
He dips me. His face eclipses the sun and sky. Soft, messy curls dangle free from his hood. Curiosity swirls in his darkened eyes, so close to mine that it’s all I see. I stare up at him, the music deafening as time slows until it’s meaningless.
A high fae prince. A walking, smirking trove of secrets. A vow. An undoing.
Looking up at him feels like standing atop a cliff over water. The moment before your feet leave the ground. The second before the air sings in your ears. It’s a liminal penumbra between backing away and embracing the free fall.
Our vow pulses against my wrist. I’ve sworn to go with him and seize my dream of freedom. . . or die trying.
His lips curve in a knowing smile, as if sensing my sudden apprehension. Then he pulls me up and draws me to his chest. I know it’s the last move of the dance; I’ve done it before with men back home. But his warmth mingling with mine feels different.
All conversation dims to hushed whispers.
His hood fell back after the dip.
The shocked expressions, some wide-eyed with curiosity, others narrowing in disdain, curdle my stomach.
“Cover your ears. It makes it harder for them to glamour,” a mother warns her two daughters. Guards emerge from the crowd, keeping their distance per the treaty, but all the same. . . They’re surrounding us.
Desmond pulls the hood up. His expression is indifferent, his voice remarkably steady as he says, “Let’s go.”
This time, I don’t argue.