22. Twenty-Two #2
She studied the prints on the ground, identifying three distinct trails of fox feet entering the camp and circling the horses. Out of nowhere, boot prints appeared in the mud before following two fox trails away from their campsite.
“Shifters,” she said, the discovery igniting a quiet rage within her chest, like a breeze blowing on an ember. “They’ve taken the shard.”
Callan rose and stretched a hand down to help her up.
“Come,” he said. “They can’t have gotten far.”
With that, Nova sprang to her feet and mounted Frost, Callan quickly settling in behind her and sending the horse galloping down the muddy cart road with a sharp whistle.
With the stallion’s speed on their side, it wasn’t long before they reached a dense thicket of overgrown shrubs along the road.
Nova threw up a hand, and Callan pulled back on the reins, bringing Frost to a halt.
She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pain sparking in her palm; the shard was close.
Callan dismounted, crouching low and surveying the ground, his inspection confirming that the tracks, both fox and Fae, had left the roadway.
He stood beside his mount. “They’ve entered the thicket,” he whispered, his breath a puff of mist in the cool spring morning.
Nova slid down from the saddle, ready to barge into the brush, but Callan caught her wrist.
“I’ve forgotten my sword,” he growled.
Nova glanced down, noting that he, at least, had his dagger strapped to his thigh.
Patting herself down, she confirmed through the fog of her anger that she, too, carried her dagger, as well as a small throwing knife in the pocket of her cloak.
A peal of laughter cut through the quiet, and she halted for a heartbeat.
She seethed at the sound, at the thieves’ delight in taking what didn’t belong to them.
What belongs to me, the voice hissed in the back of her mind.
“Let us hope it doesn’t come to blades,” she said.
With that, she entered the thicket.
A narrow path, shaped by repeated use, led through the brush and briar.
Branches snagged her cloak as she pressed on, throwing a glance back at Callan, who had to hunch his shoulders considerably to fit.
The laughter grew louder as they went, and the passage dead-ended in the center of the thicket, a dim, den-like chamber opening up before her.
Nova stepped inside, Callan close behind, the two of them scanning the space. Odds and ends lay littered about the shadowy lair, crowded with crates of ale and wine in green glass bottles. Several trunks lay open, clothing and linens spilling out as if they’d been rummaged through.
Peeking out above a low wall formed by the bric-a-brac, Nova spied three heads of red hair.
The trio of males continued to laugh and joke as Nova and Callan crept closer, the tenor of their voices revealing their youth.
The notion bolstered Nova’s confidence, and she stepped into the ring of orange light cast by a single lantern.
“It seems I’ve stumbled on a den of thieves,” she growled, voice low.
The males jumped to their feet, the three of them spinning toward the entryway and scrambling to stand close together. The flash of wide-eyed fear faded from their faces, replaced with lopsided if uneasy grins once they registered her form.
“At your service,” one said with a mocking bow.
The other two shot uncertain glances at the one who had spoken. If he wasn’t the oldest among them, he was certainly the boldest.
“I believe you’ve taken something that belongs to me,” Nova said, donning her mask of calm indifference despite the anger roiling in her gut. “Two saddlebags. Just last night. Return them.”
The bold one laughed. Without thought, Nova slipped her hand into the folds of her cloak, pinching the blade of the concealed throwing knife between her thumb and forefinger.
“Afraid I can’t help you there,” the youth said, shrugging. “Finders keepers and all that.”
The thieves drew back then, bumping up against a stack of wooden crates, and Nova knew Callan had made himself known, stepping into the ring of light behind her.
The shortest of the three tittered nervously before snapping his head to the ringleader. “Just give them their things,” he whispered, his words clearly audible in the tight space.
“No,” the tall one hissed. “Must be valuable if they want them so badly.”
The knife flew from Nova’s hand before she even realized she’d drawn it, embedding itself in one of the crates a hairsbreadth away from the stubborn one’s head.
“Are you prepared to die for what’s in that saddlebag? Because I am.” A chill rippled along her skin at the icy certainty in the statement. The sharp edge to the voice not quite her own.
Nova.
Callan’s cautionary tone prodded at the edge of her awareness, but she ignored it, refusing to cede any ground.
Rather than humbling him, the cocky one’s fear emboldened him, and he snatched up a pitchfork, stepping forward and brandishing the tool like a weaponin front of him to protect the others.
The fool clearly had no idea who he had stolen from.
Nova pulled her dagger from the sheath at her thigh and took a step toward the males who stood huddled closer together.
“What’s all this then?” a female voice asked, the tone far too bright for the circumstances.
“Lady Riven.” The thieves bowed their heads at once.
Nova tossed her head, as if she’d been pulled from a trance. Lowering her hand to her side, she hid the blade from view, unsettled by the realization that she might have used it had she not been interrupted.
“Just Riven,” the Noble clarified, coming to stand at Nova’s side. “Now, what seems to be the trouble here?”
“We woke to find our belongings had been taken, so we came to collect them.” Nova kept her steely gaze trained on the thieves, her tone measured as she struggled to keep her fury at bay.
Riven loosed a huff of feigned surprise. “Is that so?”
“The tracks led us here,” Callan confirmed.
“Well, that is strange.” Riven took a step forward then halted, her hand rising to her chin. “Say, you lot look familiar. You’re Pete’s sons, are you not?”
“Y-yes, my Lady,” the short one stammered before the bold one delivered a smack to the back of his head.
Riven turned to face Nova. “These are simple farm lads—not thieves.” She turned back to the males. “I’m sure this was merely a prank. You saw foreigners traveling and thought you’d have a bit of fun?”
“That’s it!” the third lad said, finally finding his voice. “It was only a bit of fun.”
Riven clapped her hands together, the sharp sound causing the thieves to flinch.
“Then this was all a big misunderstanding,” she concluded. “Lovely. How about you return their things.”
The short one broke away from his brothers, reaching between two crates and hauling out the missing saddlebags. His head bowed sheepishly, he lugged them to the entryway and passed them into Callan’s ready arms.
“Good lad,” Callan murmured as the youth backed away again, his eyes downcast.
“I suppose that’s that,” Riven said, turning to leave. “Oh, and fellas: Don’t mention to anyone you saw us, and I won’t tell Lore what happened to all those crates of ale that went missing from the wagon behind The Wilted Bloom. Understood?”
“Yes, Lady Riven.”
Nova swiftly sheathed her dagger, then charged across the dimly lit space. The trio of fox shifters scattered as she neared. She paid them no mind and simply wrenched her throwing knife free from the crate before she, too, exited the den.
Nova emerged from the thicket to find Bryn standing watch over all of the horses and Riven mounting up beside her.
“What happened?” Bryn asked.
“A misunderstanding,” Nova replied, flexing her hand inside her glove and avoiding Callan’s eye as he fastened their saddlebags and readied the horses to depart.