Outside Edan, Southlands
The raucous sound of drunks singing about a loose-thighed siren rang around the taproom. Bottles clinked, glasses shattered and feet stamped along to the tune. The scent of ale and spirits, along with the stench of stale sweat, clung like ivy to the walls of the inn.
Sapphy huddled in a corner booth, hood secured around her face, an untouched tumbler of whiskey glued to the plas-wooden table. A plate littered with crumbs was pushed to the side before she curled her hand around the glass. Her other hand settled on the silver dagger strapped to her thigh beneath the voluminous black cloak.
She’d settled on the inn after trudging the Shahgate Pass—or “Gravemaker Trail” to use the locals’ charming name—for over an hour. Her feet and fingers were tingling, warmth bleeding back in, and her belly, now full of acceptably fried trout, had ceased the gurgling that had started twenty minutes before she’d spotted the Roll Inn.
As she’d suspected when she’d seen the name, the inn wasn’t the sort to print flowers on their shades. More like the imprint of some guy’s head as other patrons shoved him through the door.
Sapphy could handle herself, but she kept her head low, her hood up, and her eyes trained to her glass. In Edan—the capital city in the humans’ Southlands—her reputation was deadlier than a black widow’s. Few would make a move against her, especially when backed by the gang she ran with, known to all as the Hoods.
But out in the sticks, she suspected the rural hulks who scavenged off the land wouldn’t care about her rep or her fae ability to control air. All they’d see was a delicate woman—and a dagger cutting into their dick if they tried anything.
Her friend, Ana, had quipped when she’d gifted her the discreet blade that it’d get Sapphy closer to a man than she had been for months.
Ha ha ha.
Sapphy swished the alcohol around in its cloudy glass, ignoring the burst of unadulterated hilarity from a nearby drunk. The whiskey steered her brooding thoughts to the heart of the matter: This journey was all her friend’s fault. Ana’s resolve in returning to her throne in the phoenix territory had made Sapphy stare squarely into the jaws of her own regrets.
The trials of the Six were coming. The time for running was over.
Sapphy raised the glass and tipped her head back. The alcohol burned her throat, making a grimace tug at the corners of her mouth. Hover-fuel had a less bitter aftertaste, but the hot milk she wanted wouldn’t send the right message. Not in this crowd. Didn’t exactly scream, “Touch me and tomorrow’s earrings will be your balls.”
The spitting fire across the room streaked light across the bull-nosed, square-chinned, ugly sons-of-bitches that gathered around the circular plas-wooden tables like gossiping humans at a wake. Outside, darkness ravaged the land, sucking up any hint of light.
Or was that just her outlook on her journey home?
Sapphy snorted, tapping a fingernail on the glass. Home. Where Lunguard, the restricted fae realm she’d grown up in, might have once meant home, that word now meant the gang she ran with and a broken, twisted neighborhood in Edan, an ironic name for the city, for paradise it wasn’t.
Right about now, the Hoods’ leader, Trick, would be heading patrol around the cracked streets that forged the Maze, nicknamed for its vicious traps that forced innocents into playing cat-and-mouse with the predators that laid them. If not for the Hoods, the Maze would have arrowed into hell a long time ago.
Sapphy let her head fall back against the wall, ignoring the vibration from the nearby group slamming their fists against it in passionate debate. Her decision to return continued to spin in her thoughts in a taunting circle.
Trick was right about it all. She’d known it, even when she’d raised the issue two days ago, hoping he’d pooh-pooh her idea of returning.
She’d caught him in his quarters at Hoods’ HQ, what Ana laughingly called the vamp cave. The elegant vampire had been reclining on his velvet chair, a genuine book in one hand, a flute of blood in the other. Eyes the color of gold bullion had flicked up when she’d strode in, braid swaying, all kick-ass as usual.
She’d flopped onto the couch opposite. “Can we talk?”
“Have a seat.”
Irony. Cute.
Sapphy ignored it. “The fae’s Six is coming.” Jitters shook her like a terrier with a rat at the mere mention of the infamous competition. Her leg danced in place.
“So?”
“Don’t give me that, Trick.” A piercing glance from her blue eyes. “You know.”
The vampire marked his place before setting the book down on the end table parallel to his chair. He took a sip from his glass. “Why are you here, Saph?”
“She’s going to kill again.” A flat answer.
“You think.”
“I know.” Sapphy scrunched a hand on her thigh. Deep in her chest, the answer lodged, unwilling to voice itself.
A pause. Then, again, “Why are you here, Saph?”
A broken laugh jerked from her. “Hoping you’ll talk me out of it.”
“None of my people are cowards. Don’t be the first.”
Back in the present, Sapphy narrowed her eyes at the fire. Should’ve known better than to go to the honorable vampire when it came to righting wrongs. Even if it meant returning to the realm where she’d let somebody die.
A hand suddenly slapped onto the scarred plas-wood in front of her, making the remaining alcohol in her glass slosh. Sapphy’s muscles tensed like a crouching predator as she slid her dagger free from its straps.
The drunk moved on without a word, staggering to the next table, oblivious to the fact she even existed.
She let out a breath, forcing herself to relax. She’d better beat feet to her room before her edginess spilled into the crowd. From the sounds of them, they were one shove away from insulting each other’s mamas. As anyone with half a brain knew, that was the starting bell for an all-out brawl.
With that in mind, a flick of her hand sent air spinning out in widening circles that ruffled hair and teased skin. It returned immediately, twining around her like a scarf, carrying with it whispers from every corner of the taproom. Her fae ability to control the air, to listen to what rode its waves, confirmed her belief that nobody had noticed her. Even so, there was no point in pushing it.
She’d managed to charm the inn’s owner into renting his last room for the price of a copper coin. She might not want to break her journey and give her thoughts time to circle the drain, but Lunguard was secured tighter than the prison island of Moritian. Getting in required finesse, and more than a little luck. She’d need a clear mind to even attempt it.
A crack of male laughter floated back to her on a soft pulsation of air. Her eyes skimmed sideways. A large human with a barrel chest and short legs slammed his pitcher down onto the bar’s surface. Foam splashed out as he gestured to the two men drinking with him. He stuck out his thumb and jabbed behind him.
She caught the fragments of a sentence. “Gonna…faggot…lesson.”
Sapphy followed the line of his thumb to a man in the opposite corner. His back was to the bar and he sat on a spindly stool that didn’t look capable of holding up what had to be one-seventy pounds of lean muscle.
Light was scarce in the building, electricity being at a premium rate in this part of the Kingdom. Even so, Sapphy watched the mahogany-cum-violet strands shimmer under the lights with fascination. She’d never seen a man’s hair so…well, pretty.
And pretty didn’t stop there. His clothes were as unsuited to this mud pit as a deer with an eye patch. A fine linen shirt the color of purity covered his back, and down his long legs stretched an equally fine pair of black woolen trousers. And honest-to-Gods real leather shoes.
He screamed elegance amongst a grunting mass of pigs. She didn’t question how she hadn’t noticed him before. From the minute she’d set foot in this joint she hadn’t raised her eyes much farther than the floor for fear of starting a fight. But her hormones were definitely noticing him now. Mmm-mmm.
Her eyes returned to the boasting human. He was adjusting his trousers, sliding a wicked little blade out of a pocket.
Resignation descended like a wet blanket. Why hadn’t she gone up to her room five minutes before? Now she’d be banished to sleep in the stable for causing the seemingly inevitable brawl she’d predicted. And the synth-straw scientists had invented to replace hay made her skin itch more than the real thing.
A man at the bar toasted the human, sniggering when his drink slopped over his fingers. “Go get ’im, Fred.”
Fred—undeniably human and undoubtedly stupid—winked. Then, puffing up his chest, he turned with a sneer and charged the elegant man.
Beneath the cover of the table, Sapphy twirled her fingers in a half-circle.
The human’s feet suddenly swept out from under him. With weight redistributed, his torso led the way, his arrogant sneer changing to a panicked shout.
A whirl of movement and the elegant man suddenly countered the drunkard’s pea-sized blade with a greatsword he pulled from the sheath at his side. A harsh metallic clank grated along the air.
He blinked dark eyes and stared at Fred without uttering a sound.
Her hormones purred. Fascinating.
The drunk recovered from his surprise and spat at the man’s feet, a glob landing right next to his genuine leather boots. “Faggot. Whatcha comin’ in ’ere for all fancy-like? You lookin’ for a date?” A smirk twisted thin lips into an ugly expression.
“If you leave now, I won’t kill you.” The man’s lips barely moved, his words toneless.
Brazen, Fred snickered. “I don’t run from faggots.”
The man lowered his greatsword. It was as if he was daring the human to strike.
TSTL—too stupid to live—Fred stabbed out.
His scream sliced the air, halting the taproom’s chatter as everybody craned their necks to ogle the spectacle. The greatsword had swiped Fred’s belly, leaving stained material flapping and a thin line of blood. Definitely not a kill-strike.
Sapphy drew her eyebrows together. If that was Brown Eyes’ best shot, Fred wasn’t the only one TSTL.
Still she hung back, unwilling to get involved any more than necessary. Fae elemental powers were distinctive, and her journey home was top secret.
Under the radar, remember?
Sweat gleamed like oil on Fred’s cheeks. “I’ll kill you, you bastard.” He lashed out at the man, who avoided Fred’s telegraphed moves with ease. Finally, Brown Eyes tapped his fist into the human’s face and Fred collapsed. His little blade clattered on the floor next to him.
One eyebrow—scarred and very sexy—arched as he scanned the room. He stared at Fred’s friends at the bar until they pivoted, shoulders hunched, gazes fixed on their tankards.
As the background noise gradually resumed, Sapphy let her eyes wander back. In her line of work, surprises came as often as no-strings favors. That Fred still breathed—albeit through a broken nose—was darned intriguing. She knew plenty others who’d kill if you looked sideways at them.
Brown Eyes’ gaze was probing the crowd, as though he could tell something was off. As light smoothed over his unquestionable beauty, recognition slammed into her.
Those graceful features, the almost dainty lines of his face. The white scar that slashed his right eyebrow in half.
As his head swiveled, the hint of a pointed fae ear poked through the mahogany-violet strands of his hair.
Fricking hell.
Sweat, cold and scenting of fear, began to spread across her nape.
Nathe Amergin, ambassador and commander of the queen’s royal guard. Also one of the few tasked with tracking down those who broke fae law—which she had kinda, sorta done when she’d left Lunguard. The strictest of all laws since the realm had been created stated no fae, unless given royal permission, could leave. Ever.
If he zeroed in on her, she’d get dragged to the capital in chains. Her cover would be blown to hell—not to mention the trial and possible imprisonment for having escaped five years ago.
And she still had a mission to accomplish.
She tore her eyes away from that beautiful face, black curses bubbling on her tongue. He wouldn’t ignore another fae; it was his fricking job to track down renegades and haul their asses back to stand trial. Prison stripes would do nothing for her straight-up, straight-down body.
Sapphy curled her hand back around her glass, tightening until her knuckles turned white. She concentrated on her breathing as those dark eyes swept in her direction. Every nerve in her body tripped as his gaze landed on her.
Her fingers trembled with the urge to yank the hood’s lip down as she kept her eyes averted. Keep the suspicious movement on the DL, Saph.
The wind sang of movement. He was heading her way.
Frick, frick, frick.
Sapphy’s eyes darted from side to side. Panic began to circle like a vulture.
A plan, a plan, my kingdom for a plan.
The drunk who’d stumbled into her table before was headed back, slurring a shanty about a love he’d lost in the Kingdom Wars. He weaved as though playing the old human game of football, hand clasped around a glass of dull amber liquid.
Her eyes narrowed. Bingo.
Her free hand began to swirl the air in discreet circles.
Nathe was perhaps three tables away now. She swore his footsteps echoed through the taproom, reaching past the roar of its patrons, each step ticking off precious seconds she needed for the drunk to get to her. Her hand shook from the pressure of holding the air back, a restraining hand on a catapult’s lever.
The drunk launched into the chorus as he reached her, smiling crookedly, his glass tilted to his lips.
Now.
The air catapulted toward him. Amber splashed over Nathe’s white shirt as the drunk toppled and plastered his body against the fae’s for balance.
“S’ sorry, mate.” The drunk hiccupped as he clutched at Nathe’s shirt. More alcohol sloshed over the rim. “The fl’s movin’, y’know.”
Sapphy gestured again, sweat gathering in her hairline from drawing this much energy when she had little to spare after her long journey. Both Nathe and the drunk staggered back until they rebounded off another table, its legs skidding with a protesting screech.
The large human who occupied it roared like a wounded demon, shoving his chair back as he surged to his feet. He grabbed hold of Nathe’s shirt and hauled him up on his toes.
Nathe stared. “Don’t,” he advised.
The large human snorted and slammed his fist forward.
Nathe batted it away and broke the human’s hold. With bored but graceful movements, he countered the man’s attacks, finally thrusting the heel of a hand into his nose.
Cartilage snapped like a crushed nut. The human squawked, cupping a hand around his broken nose, reeling back as blood began to gush. The man’s friend roared and flung himself onto Nathe’s back.
Shouts of encouragement exploded in the taproom as everybody pulled up a chair to watch or join the fight. Side bets began to be placed as bookies slunk around the room with their elec-pads.
Sapphy didn’t hang around. She needed to get to the boundary before Nathe could send up an alert.
With deliberate calm, she secured her satchel at her hip and adjusted her hood. As she slipped from behind the table and around the edges of the room, a throbbing ache began to pulse at her temples. Her fault—she’d overused her ability when her energy levels were circle-the-drain low. Time to pay the piper.
Her nape suddenly shivered, heat drawing one finger slowly down her spine. Drawn to look despite the instinct not to, Sapphy turned her head to meet Nathe’s gaze.
Brown eyes locked with blue from across the brawling mob. Life around them slowed. Dimmed. Hushed.
Silenced.
Deep and rich as hot milk, lust kindled in her belly as his eyes blistered her. Every delicate line of his face, the curve of his jaw, the slice of his cheekbones, even the plush lips, was pulled taut in speculation. Her heart squeezed.
A fist slammed into Nathe’s cheek. His head whipped to the side, ripping the unnerving connection they’d shared to shreds.
Sapphy tugged her hood tighter around her face with fingers that quivered. Not wanting to risk herself further, she tore her gaze away and slipped into the night.