Chapter 12 Secrets
Secrets
Afraying rope inside of me—already at its end—snaps. Was Vir Brynn’s common call name? It must be. Did this dagger belong to him? Is that why he eyed it with suspicion in the tavern?
Mavick. Did he take Mavick? Did he hurt them?
My heart beats so violently that it threatens to crack my ribcage.
My blood boils, turning my vision red. I almost made a deal with him.
I let him touch me—and felt a thrill from it.
An unmistakable fire burns through me now.
I think of the disapproval on Brynn’s face when he realized my missing friend was Mavick—
I peer around the corner in time to catch him slinking off toward an alley on the opposite side of the square.
Driven by the storm of hatred now brewing inside of me, I yank my hood over my head and sprint after him.
He is much taller, and I must jog to keep up with his long stride, but I am quite good at sticking to the shadows and remaining unseen after years of practice slipping guards.
He walks with purpose, confident and unconcerned, paying little attention to his surroundings. Not a care in the world. Too comfortable.
Bastard.
I trail him from a distance as he winds along side streets.
I consider following him all the way to his destination, as though wherever he goes will lead me to my friend.
But when the crowd thins out, the sounds of the bazaar fading this far away, my paranoia grows.
God knows what overcomes me now—madness, stupidity, bloodlust—but I remove the dagger from my belt, squeezing the hilt so tightly that my hand aches.
Brynn takes a sharp left, and as soon as I confirm there are no witnesses, I dive at him—
“Blessit!” he hisses in surprise as I knock him off balance, slamming him hard into a stone wall. I hold the dagger—his dagger—to his throat. My hood falls back in the commotion and recognition washes over his face.
His heart thunders in his chest. It rumbles in mine as I lean into him. It’s his turn to say: “What the fuck?”
If looks could kill, he’d already be dead.
“Gods of the seven hells, I know you do not trust me, but this seems a little extreme, does it not?” His molten honey eyes are filled with panic, but also a flicker of—is that delight?
This infuriates me more and I press the blade into his bobbing Adam’s apple.
I have never wielded a weapon, but often played spectator to the attractive, muscular guards’ practice sessions—enough to gather the basic gist. One adapts quickly when fueled by vengeance and spite.
“Vir!” I spit, so much venom packed into the solitary syllable that I do not recognize my own voice. Despite my death grip on him—one hand twisting in the collar of his tunic, the other squeezing the dagger to his throat—he tilts his head to survey me. His amusement drains at whatever he sees.
“Do you think you could put that away so we might talk civilly?” he chides. The razor-sharp bite in his tone makes me contemplate kneeing him in the groin. “I’d much rather you willingly lower your weapon.”
It’s a thinly veiled threat, but as I study his sober expression, I believe him.
I know I am no fighter. He’s pinned by dumb luck.
And he’s fae, with inhuman strength and who knows what magic.
I take a deep breath and for one wild moment, my stubborn hand presses the blade harder, staring at the indentation it makes.
Yet, it does not cut his skin. With a huff, I release him.
I do not possess it—the gall to maim someone.
And I am too weak to even draw a bead of his blood!
An exasperated snarl escapes my throat. I put distance between us to stalk back and forth, fists trembling.
Brynn leans his head against the stone wall in relief, rubbing his throat with two fingers before staring at them as though checking for blood.
He watches my erratic pacing with quiet consideration before finally breaking the silence. “I won’t say I didn’t deserve that, but I feel as though I’m missing something here.”
I throw myself at him again, dagger ready, and his hands rise in defense. I brandish the blade’s hilt in front of his face, jabbing a finger at the inscription.
“Is this yours, Vir?” I hiss.
His burning gaze flits back and forth between the dagger and my face. “Who told you that was mine? It is not.”
“I asked the fish-headed librarian to translate it for me! And the rude green elf woman with the useless wards in the bazaar. Both said Vir. I remembered what that beast called you yesterday—”
“Godsdamnit, Thea. You should learn the proper names of the various Sanc before you get yourself kil—”
He shuts up at the caustic glare I throw his way. “Your common call name is Vir, is it not?” I snap.
He winces. “You could say that.”
You could say that. He said the same in the tavern when I asked him if he knew Mavick. When we talked about Glo. It’s plain now what it is—a way around a lie.
“You are hiding something,” I accuse.
“Ooh, Thea, I’m hiding a lot of things.” He clicks his tongue bitterly and glares right back at me. “But may I?” he asks in mock politeness, holding his hand out for the hilt of the dagger.
I’m shocked when I allow him to take it, considering he just admitted to having plenty of secrets. I put distance between us once more. In case he attempts to stab me with it. My heart pounds in my ears and, again, I am furious that I cannot think straight in his presence.
“Old Brittle and Madam Pux likely said Vir because, as I told you yesterday, I speak quite a few languages,” he says with haughty contempt.
Odd—I speak a dozen languages and have never heard a thanks quite like that. The memory rings in my ears, clear as day. Realization dawns.
“And this…” he continues, “is a very rare language indeed. High Sanctuarian. I’m likely the only fae in Mayhem that can read it.” His eyes scan the inscription, an incredible smugness blooming on his face. He steps away from the wall and holds the dagger out to me.
I snatch it by the hilt, stuffing it back into my belt loop.
“Where did it come from, anyway? The dagger?”
“I found it in Mavick’s cottage when I found them missing, it—” I stop myself. A thousand thoughts hit me at once, the most prevalent being: don’t give him any more information than necessary. Second being: “Do you know what it says?”
Brynn flinches like I’ve struck him.
“Wait, wait, wait—you thought I took Mavick? Had something to do with them disappearing?” he asks. A glint of hurt flashes across his face as his brow creases. “Fair, I suppose. I see why you tried to murder me, but—”
“Will you just answer the question, Brynn? Do you know what it says?” I ask again, my patience waning.
He winces at my use of his true name. Begrudgingly, he nods. I scowl.
“Will you at least hear me out about yesterday?” he implores. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know if you just let me speak. About the deal I tried to make.”
I can help you here, then you will help me there, his voice rings in my ears. With all of these new revelations, it dawns at once. I jab my finger so hard into Brynn’s chest that he steps back again in alarm. I speak it aloud, “‘I can help you here, then you will help me there.’”
“All right! Fine. Yes, I tried to trick you,” Brynn huffs, his calm, confident composure dissipating before my eyes.
His hands gesture wildly. “Can is a very tricky word. I can help you, but it’s not binding—I don’t have to.
You will help me there. Will is binding.
I could weasel out of it if necessary, while you would be forced to help me in the mortal world.
No, I’m not proud of it, but I needed to have options in case—”
“You said ‘my intentions are good,’” I say, mocking his honeyed tone. “That sounds a lot like a lie, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask. And my intentions are good. Just because you don’t believe it doesn’t make it a lie,” he says. His eyes roll in clear frustration. “But I am desperate, too.”
“Yes, so desperate that you gave me your true name. An idiotic gamble.”
“I’m aware of how idiotic it was,” he says, meeting my sneer with one of his own.
My curiosity momentarily outweighs my rage. “You’re truly that desperate for my help?”
“I think you can see how desperate I am—you threatened me with a blade and yet you’re still breathing.”
The silence grows thick as we glower at each other.
Brynn breaks the tension first. “I didn’t think you would be so godsdamned clever, all right?
I should have known once you said your missing friend was Mavick that there would be no tricking you.
Maybe you should give yourself more credit.
Or maybe I’m shit at deals, I don’t know—I’ve never brokered one before. ”
“Wow,” I say in the most acidic tone I can muster, racking my brain for words that may wound.
But I deflate—like all my hopes of finding Mavick pathetically hinged on this one potential trade.
“I’m assuming the jabbing compliments, the friendly advice, and—and the touching was all a ruse to gain my trust.”
“Well… I’m not proud of it, but maybe I was trying to… to sway you in other ways,” he says, sucking in his lower lip. Now he doesn’t want to meet my gaze.
“You know, this whole act of yours is very convincing. I thought most fae cannot lie—are you an Oathbreaker, then?”
“No,” he growls, “that I am not.”
“Then how do you get around it?”
Brynn’s cheeks redden. “It’s—it wasn’t an act.”
My eyes narrow and he looks thoroughly ashamed.
“Don’t make me say it.”
I stare at him, my boot ever tapping on the cobblestones.
“I may have leaned on my lust a bit.” He exhales hard, as if getting this admission out cost him.
“The desire to bed someone is a powerful tool of manipulation for fae—if it’s present, of course.
Most things that could be lies are easily covered by, well, you know—flirtations. You can mislead anyone with—”
“You want to bed me?!” I whisper-shout, my voice spiking an octave. This time, I slam both my palms against his chest to shove him away. He does not budge.
“Yes—no—not—that’s your takeaway here? Not that I used my genuine attraction to manipulate you into a trade with me?” Brynn splutters, incredulous. He finally meets my gaze, and I wish he hadn’t. The molten honey burns me from the inside out.
“Genuine? Ha!” I say, quite stupidly. The heat in my voice is too diminished to carry any real bite.
Great, so all the flattery, the touching—it’s a form of manipulation, too, on top of having to mind and overthink every single word a fae ever speaks.
Good to know. I was so naive. I should have caught on sooner.
What’s worse is that if I hadn’t fled, his charm might have worked.
I shake my head, forbidding the thought.
“Anyway, that’s enough,” Brynn says, evidently too embarrassed to dwell on this any longer.
“Can we move on? The deal. I will do whatever you want. I will translate whatever you need me to translate. I will let you broker the deal if it makes you more comfortable. I will get on my knees and beg. I will tell you a secr—” His face blanches at this.
A secret. He’s said too much. He runs a hand through his hair, frowning at the ground between us.
“While I love the thought of you on your kn—” His eyes snap to my face and my cheeks flush. Stupid. Why did I say that? I clear my throat and continue, “Never mind. A secret does sound very nice.”
Brynn seems as nonplussed at my misstep as I am, his mouth opening and closing ridiculously. Or perhaps it’s a very good secret he does not wish to share. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “All right… and you’ll strike a deal with me?”
“A secret, you translate the inscription, and then I’ll see about striking a deal with you. And, if I do accept—I will word the deal. Construct it. Whatever you call that.”
“Broker, it’s brok—wait, that hardly seems fair—”
“How desperate are you, Brynn? I thought you said you needed me as much as I needed you.” His eyes darken as he simmers. “Those are my terms.”
“Fine,” he snaps. “The inscription might help you to trust me, at least.”
I raise a brow in mild interest, waiting for him to continue.
“‘Fost stel blume et en ril, hut dom et en fille,’” he says, the foreign words pretty in his honeyed tone. “It roughly translates to: ‘this weapon will only harm the wielder’s true enemies.’ Though, it’s—it’s not as eloquent in the common tongue.”
I think back to the miraculous number of times I’ve held the dagger by the blade without slicing my own skin.
Or, when it stabbed me in the hip on my inn bed, but did not draw any blood.
I think back to five minutes ago, when I held it so tightly to Brynn’s throat, yet it didn’t leave so much as a scratch.
So, he’s not my enemy. That must be why he looked so smug when he handed it over.
He knew I couldn’t hurt him with it. This is the lone thought preventing me from whipping it back out to test his translation.
He surveys me, waiting for it to sink in.
“That is interesting,” I concede.
“You can trust me,” Brynn says. He offers a small smirk, as if waving an imaginary white flag.
“Hating you would be easier,” I quip, and his smile grows.
“Well, yes, but—”
“And the secret?” I ask. His smile slips. It’s apparent that by offering the translation first, he hoped I’d be distracted enough to forget the rest.
“Well,” he says, taking a measured step toward me and lowering his voice, like he doesn’t want the empty alleyway to overhear. “Let’s hope it doesn’t change your already illustrious opinion of me.”
I glare up at him, raising a vexed brow. The golden light in his eyes has dimmed, and for the first time, he appears truly troubled. He leans into me and whispers:
“I am… what most Sanctuarians would call… a filthy fucking dimiblood.”