Chapter 7 Serendipity
Serendipity
My first instinct should be to run, but my stubborn feet are planted firmly.
Either I am frozen in fear, or my temper boils.
It’s a strange mix, fear and stubbornness.
Despite being a language I don’t understand, it’s clear by his tone that whatever he said is meant to be offensive.
Now may arguably be the worst moment to find that resolute courage I always hoped for, but, I guess there’s no time like the present.
My hand slides beneath my cloak, pawing for the hilt of the dagger, in case I am forced to use it.
“CHUR BHIRK FLOOK ER SCOST!” he huffs down at me, his beastly breath hot on the top of my head.
I meet his rabid gaze, as though doing so will help me understand him whatsoever.
Again, I do not back down, but of course, neither does he.
Several passersby slow at the loud commotion, but no one seems eager to intervene.
“Apologies—sir—” I’m unsure if this is the correct way to address a minotaur, or if he understands anything I say at all, but I continue in defiance even as he snorts. “I was distracted and did not see you pause.”
“Plurs fed bleet rashin sek,” he tries again, this time with an accusatory finger wagging too close to my face.
Obviously my apologies fall on deaf ears.
I weigh my options. My rational brain says brandishing a dagger at a minotaur is an incredibly unwise idea, while the panicked, fear-stricken side says you’re cornered with few other options.
Then there’s the unyielding, stubborn side of me that—wholly unhelpfully—says how fucking dare he.
My sweaty grip meets the hilt of the dagger and—
“Glart pint vis erger,” a low, honeyed voice comes from behind me.
Whoever they are, they tower over me too, but they carry a far more calming aura.
The minotaur’s black eyes shift from me to this newcomer and soften imperceptibly.
A warm hand hovers near the small of my back, inviting me to step away from the angry beast. It doesn’t work.
I stay put, squeezing the dagger so hard my palm has gone numb.
The stranger moves to my left, abandoning the guiding hand at my back, and I look up into a familiar face—the messy-haired man from Aston.
Except the glamours are dropped, I suspect, as small black horns now protrude from his forehead above his brow.
And if his strange eyes were liquid honey in my world, they are molten here.
Something glows from within the golden irises.
Disarming is no longer the right descriptor.
They’re hypnotic. Captivating. Mesmerizing.
My sharp intake of breath is audible. And embarrassing. He doesn’t even look my way.
“Icun lure blist mor, Vir,” the minotaur says, his gruff voice considerably calmer. With a nod, he begins to retreat.
“Nuvin dorn bask!” says my unexpected savior, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. I glance between the two figures, stunned. They exchange several more words, and I swear something akin to a grin spreads across the beast’s face.
I am more stunned when the minotaur presents his thick hand to the young man, and they shake on it.
But I am arguably most stunned when this horned man’s hand engulfs mine as he pulls me, I assume, to follow him.
His legs are much longer than mine and he practically drags me in his wake.
I am not sure where he’s leading me, or better yet, why I’m allowing him to lead me anywhere.
After a few minutes of winding in and out of the blurring crowd—my trapped hand as well as my temper growing hotter—he guides me into a deserted side street between an empty stall and closed butcher shop.
My reason returns as soon as we’re out of the masses and I can breathe again.
I stop abruptly, yanking myself from his grip.
The stranger turns on his heel and stares down his straight nose at me.
“What the fuck?” I hiss. I refuse to meet his intense gaze and instead glare at the fancy buttons of his coat. He wears a white tunic, plain black pants and boots, and a dark emerald coat with square buttons that appear to be made of onyx gemstones.
“Odd—I speak a dozen languages and have never heard a thanks quite like that,” he says. I can’t stop myself. I crane my neck to scowl at him. Just as in Aston, he stands too close.
My mind reels. Ten minutes in Sanctuary and I’ve almost been taken down by an irate minotaur. I’m not mad at this man, he came to my aid after all, but the fact that I required saving this soon? It’s a bruise already purpling my ego. I sigh in frustration.
“Could I offer you some free advice?” he asks in a cool tone—the antithesis of his warm, probing eyes.
I say nothing, as it seems he’ll share regardless of my answer.
“Never apologize to a fae. Not like that.”
I’m incredibly stupid.
Mavick mentioned in passing that Sanctuarians found apologies offensive.
It had something to do with how an apology, much like a thank you, disrupts their delicate balance of debt and repayment.
Good to know the beast could understand me, at least. But no wonder he was about to skin me alive.
He believed I was mocking him, being purposefully disrespectful.
I chew my lip, fighting the urge to angry cry.
The young man does not break eye contact as he reaches behind my head to remove my hood.
Without a word, he boldly frees my curls from beneath my cloak with a gentle hand.
Not bold. Ballsy. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine when his slender fingers graze my neck, despite the fact that I am far too warm.
It’s not panic that quickens my breathing, but a new, similar flutter. My cheeks redden.
“Ah, I thought I recognized you from the mortal market,” he says, at last breaking our gaze only to take the rest of me in. “You’re hard to forget.”
Despite his burning survey of me, this sounds more like an insult than a compliment. I clear my throat and step away, putting a much-needed distance between us.
“Yes, and how could I forget?” I ask bitingly, crossing my arms over my chest as his eyes roam down my body. “You and your friend robbed me.”
At this, his eyes snap back to my face and he barks a laugh. I start at the jarring sound.
“I did not rob you.” He pauses, his brow creasing with mild concern. “I cannot speak for Glo.” Ah, that must be the girl. Glo. She was too quick for me to sense any glamours on her, but she must belong to this world, too. “But what in the seven hells brings you here now?”
“Look, I appreciate you stepping in—for whatever just happened back there.” I gesture in the general direction of the chaos we escaped. “But I must—”
Are you wise enough to request aid?
The line from the riddle floods my mind unexpectedly.
My mouth gapes, opening and closing like a fish without water, while I flounder whatever excuse I struggle to invent.
Wise. How wise is it to trust this pretty face?
This fae who was using glamours to hide in plain sight in the mortal world, for who knows what reason?
This man whose thieving friend robbed me? This stranger I don’t know whatsoever?
But I don’t need to trust him to request his help.
Befriend a fae, and they’ll never sting, Mavick’s voice repeats.
It is glaringly apparent that he has some sort of sway around here for the beast to have backed down without a fight.
Imaginary Mavick tuts in my head. A thin line lies between what’s wise and what’s foolish.
But it seems nothing more than my pride, as ornery as that minotaur, rests there.
“I can see you puzzling over something in that pretty head of yours—if you’re wondering whether you owe me, don’t,” he says, his molten gaze ripping me from my thoughts like a flame pulls a moth.
I read between the lines but deduce nothing.
“Though, I will praise you for standing up to a minotaur like that, even most fae would have run. It was… stupid. Nonetheless, impressi—”
“I’m Thea,” I blurt. I’m no master at making friends.
In the mortal world or Sanctuary. And I’m unsure how to ask for help from anyone.
But, interacting with this stranger twice now in such a short time feels too serendipitous to ignore.
It would be idiotic to dismiss that without investigation first, right?
Forging a bond here may be a good starting point if I am to navigate Sanctuary.
If I am to have any chance at finding Mavick. I offer my hand for a shake.
Perhaps that’s overdoing it.
His brows rise, his horns with them, in a look of marked confusion.
His peculiar eyes study my outstretched palm, as though he worries I am somehow luring him into an unsavory deal.
For a beat, I fear he will reject it. But he must conclude that I’m a simple, mortal girl.
I can’t initiate a magical deal like a fae.
He takes my hand and shakes it—the apprehension on his face almost comical.
“Another piece of free advice, Thea,” he says, and I fight not to fold at the honeyed way he says my name, “offering your true name to a fae is extremely… intimate. I wouldn’t give that up unless you really trust them.”
My heart threatens to beat its way out of its cage.
After a moment too long, I release his hand.
My palm is clammy, and I don’t much like the way his eyes bore into mine, as though he’s learned everything he needs to know about me from my name alone.
I remind myself that I am mortal. Giving him my name is safe. He holds no power over me whatsoever.
He opens his mouth before pausing again, mulling something curious over. Conflict flickers across his brow as he decides.
“My name is Brynn,” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches like he fights the urge to grimace.
If this is his true name, he just handed me influence over him.
Mavick once explained the difference between true names and common call names.
Call names are like nicknames, made up monikers that hold no value—for common use.
True names are magical. Knowing a fae’s true name allows the knower to command them.
I’m a mortal. He has no command over me even knowing my true name, yet—I hold both power and his trust. This is an unforeseen advantage, and I cannot quell the spark of hope it ignites.
“Brynn,” I say, tasting his name on my tongue. It’s my turn to see him squirm—see something dim the glow of his eyes—so quick that maybe I imagined it. “This is your true name?”
Brynn nods, jaw clenched. He appears to be holding his breath. If he’s fae, he cannot lie. I wait. He finally exhales. “Brynn is my true name.”
“I knew you were using glamours in Aston,” I blurt, my gaze traveling to his horns. At this, he is taken aback. Perhaps commenting on one’s appearance is offensive here, too.
“Is there a question in there that I’m missing?” he huffs, his full lips pursing.
“Is there anything else you’re hiding?” I ask, despite recognizing I possess no right to expect an answer to this very personal question. But for all I know, he also has goat legs. A third eye. A tail.
His eyes narrow. “Are you this charming with everyone you first meet?”
“In truth, I don’t meet a lot of people—can we get a drink?”
If I thought Brynn was confused before, now he’s downright bewildered. He takes in the seriousness of my face though, and an uncertain smile blooms on his lips. “I know a place, but it can get rowdy. If this is your first time here, I’m not sure it’s the place for you.”
“How do you know it’s my first time here?” I ask, but the anxiety in my voice betrays me. I was aiming for nonchalance. Instead, I sound like a child caught doing something they’re not supposed to be doing.
“A wild guess,” Brynn says with a wary chuckle. “Shall we go now, or…?”
I nod, unsure of what else to say. He pauses as though he may offer his arm but thinks better of it. He does, however, step closer. I freeze as he quietly lifts the hood over my wild hair again. I stare up into his face, puzzled and breathless.
“You’ll be safe with me,” he answers my unasked question, “but… in case it makes you feel better. Being in a new place and all.”