Chapter 15 Mayhem #2
“Are you sure?” he asks as he turns, squinting at the obvious lie. He takes a few steps toward me, running his hands through his messy hair in an attempt to tame it. “You have dark circles under your eyes.”
“Thanks. We can’t all be beautiful half-fae, can we?” I blurt. At once, I want to take it back. His eyes, which burn amber in this morning light, narrow.
“Did you just call me beautiful?” he asks with a dubious smirk. “You don’t—”
I’m saved from whatever insult he planned to throw at me by a sudden knock at the door.
“Come in,” Brynn calls, bright eyes pinning me in place.
Silence—no response.
His brow raises before moving to open it. He glances left, then right, but there’s no one there. After a moment, he returns with a bundled package and a scrawled note. Frowning, he trades me the package for my glass.
Clothes for your new friend. Can’t stay. Lying low. See you at the week’s end. Don’t get yourself killed in the meantime (please). - Glo
“Lying low?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Brynn answers with a shrug.
Gleaning nothing from his nonchalance, I retreat to the washroom to dress.
Now that my undergarments are clean and dry, I slip those on first. The gifted black top is a more fitted tunic, with long billowy sleeves.
It ties across the chest and feels scandalously low to me, but it’s flattering.
The wine-colored pants are a stretchy and comfortable material.
They’re skintight, but I cannot complain.
I’m only allowed to don dresses back at the castle, even when riding horseback, so the rebelliousness of them delights me.
I slide my boots on and tame my hair into a single braid over my shoulder.
When I emerge, Brynn surveys my new outfit without comment. Delusionally, I wonder if he prefers me in his tunic. I shake my head as if it will shake the thought. He suggests we visit the bazaar in search of any clues about Mavick’s whereabouts or recent dealings.
We spend our next several mornings much like this.
We meet with different shopkeepers in the bazaar, but no one seems eager to discuss Mavick.
Most show no recognition at the mention of their name.
Though, most are creatures whose beastly faces are harder to read.
But those that admit to knowing Mavick do not yield any useful information we don’t already know.
Oddity. Hermit. Strange fae. Whatever deals Mavick engaged in, they did a good job keeping them private.
And Brynn wasn’t exaggerating—he really does speak an impressive number of languages. I watch his lips intently as he converses in a seductive tongue with a woman who appears to be a cross between a siren and a faerie.
“What are you staring at?” he asks as we leave her stall some time later, having learned no new information.
I distract myself by taking a sweeping glance around the bustling market. “Nothing, really. That was a fascinating language.”
He mumbles something about finding it quite difficult to concentrate when I stare at him like that. I act like I do not hear him.
Our afternoons are spent exploring Mayhem.
Brynn shows me around to some of his favorite places—taverns, restaurants, shops, libraries.
We ask patrons at each about Mavick with even less luck than the bazaar.
We walk the streets sharing spice-dusted grund on a stick.
I tell him everything I can recall about Mavick’s cottage when I found them missing.
We discuss anything useful I may know about Mavick’s history.
I answer random questions about Castle Gale and my duties there, lying when required.
In return, he gives me history lessons on Sanctuary, educating me on the names and temperaments of various fae that I resist gaping at.
We stay up late arguing and laughing over a ridiculous card game called Flipship he spent an hour teaching me to play.
The one topic he refuses to let me broach is his mortal mother.
When I mention her, he is quick to steer the conversation elsewhere.
I also omit the fact that I drugged my father for my afternoon in Aston. I cannot say why, but I suspect Brynn would disapprove.
Over dinner in his apartment tonight, I ask why he knows so many languages.
Brynn prods at the colorful salad before him with his fork. I’ve studied his face enough now to recognize the pensive lines between his brows. It’s a look he dons whenever considering how much to trust me with.
“Tell me something in return,” he says, his expression smoothing as though he has settled some inner conflict. I eye him critically and he smiles, warm and expectant.
“What? Like a secret?” I ask, setting my own fork down.
Brynn shrugs. “If you want. A truth, I suppose.”
I do not care for the inflection he places on truth. “Despite your apparent paranoia, I rarely lie. That would be exhausting—lying all the time.”
Brynn’s head tilts, waiting. Challenging. I sigh.
“I’m attracted to women.”
This is not the truth he expected. Brynn chokes on the large bite of leafy greens he just shoved into his mouth. I push my glass of water across the table to him, as his sits empty. He gulps it down at once.
“It’s not that shocking, is it?” I ask, unblushing. “I mean, I like men as well. I am not ashamed.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Brynn coughs out. “Just… caught me off guard. What I know of mortals is that they’re very… traditional, typically. Old-fashioned.”
I squint at him. “And that they’re habitual liars, of course.”
Brynn is right, though. Mortals are conservative, to say the least. Mavick had shared that Sanctuarians were free to love, marry, and fuck whoever pleased them.
Yet from my recent conversations with Jasmeen and Brynn, crossbreeding between fae and mortals was clearly frowned upon, forbidden.
I had only ever confessed my affection for women to Mavick.
Such an admission to someone like Alma could have earned me a lashing, had she been loose-tongued.
Glad I never shared that part of myself with her.
Her actions confirmed she was the backstabber I always feared she might be.
“So…” I try again. “I gave you my truth. Why must you know so many languages?”
He takes another bite, delaying an answer. I eye his throat as he works to swallow.
“Ah, is it because you’re a pompous ass?” I tease.
This elicits an unexpected chuckle from Brynn. “Surprisingly, no.”
“Is it to impress potential partners? I’ve seen how expertly your tongue moves.” The words slip from my own tongue before I realize how inappropriate they are.
He gives a slight shake of his chin, the flush of his cheeks unmistakable. “You were staring earlier.”
“Fascinating language,” I repeat with a small grin. “But perhaps I was more interested in the siren.”
Brynn’s lips purse, twisting his face into a familiar, cryptic guise I have yet to decipher. His gaze flits to my mouth, and I wonder if a piece of our dinner is stuck in my teeth. I clear my throat.
“It’s part of my job,” he says, his eyes dropping to the plate in front of him one last time before pushing it away. “Speaking of,” he adds, rising from the table before I can challenge this half-answer, “I must run some errands.”
I blink. The shock of his definitive announcement wipes away any trace of the question he all but dodged.
We’ve spent almost every waking hour together for nearly a week—I don’t want to admit how easy it feels.
How comfortable we have grown. Reluctant allies, yes, but maybe even friends.
Brynn kept his promise and has not laid a finger on me since making our deal.
I may actually trust him. His surly attitude has eased, but every now and then, I catch a hint of restlessness creeping into his mask.
There’s a chance he too has ascertained how difficult it may be to locate Mavick. To fulfill his side of the deal.
“All right,” I say flatly. His commanding tone of finality cuts through me, leaving little room for response.
It reminds me of my father’s habitual dismissals, and I react with listless submission rather than my usual zest. His eyes meet mine, wide with surprise, as though he expected me to object. “I’ll stay here. Behave.”
“You’ll behave or are you telling me to behave?” he asks with a wry chuckle.
“I will behave—I assume you don’t wish to take me along?” I ask, my cheeks reddening. It wasn’t my intention to sound so wistful, so clingy. I take a moody bite of bread.
“Ah,” Brynn says, his gaze softening. He sighs. “I wish to, but I cannot.”
He hesitates, hovering by the table, uncertain how to bid me goodbye.
“I won’t be too late, but either way—don’t wait up,” he says in a breath. He shrugs into his dark coat. “I’ll see you in the morning. Glo should be back tomorrow, too.”
He’s been hopeful about Glo’s return, as though she can somehow help us in this increasingly worrisome endeavor. I swallow my mouthful and offer a small nod.
With that, Brynn slips into the night.