The door handle twisted slow enough she almost shouted for him to get on with it. Instead, she rested on the balls of her feet. Her mind spun with every option available. The back door led to a garden, then the hill beyond. A cave of sorts was half a mile away, too far to sprint, but would do if they needed to recover. Weapons of every imaginable size and shape lined the walls and ceiling of her cottage. Some obvious, some not. Swords, maces, and hammers hung on hooks like decorative pieces. Dishware, heavy vases, and lamps were placed around the cottage to always be within two paces.
Being a spy had its advantages, but also its pitfalls. As evidenced by the man behind the now creaking open door. His frame filled the small space and he crouched, wary, as he entered. A glimpse beneath his hood revealed a handsome face shadowed by a day’s worth of stubble. A ragged scar snaked from the corner of his lip to just below his eye. A few strands of blond hair—a shade that reminded her of summers spent in the meadows with Cian, laughing and giggling until their sides hurt—peeked from beneath the black fabric. Her instinct told her to trust this man.
And she’d never been deceived by her instinct.
His eyes, intelligent yet wary, focused on Tug, then swept the room. Before he saw her, she slipped behind him and placed a dagger at his throat. With her free hand, she twisted his right arm up his back. “Who are you?”
The man jerked hard, but stilled when she pressed the dagger into his skin.
“Therron Mistwalker. I mean you no harm.”
Tug’s snort matched her own. “I heard ye at the pub. Ye said you’d kill ’er if ye ever caught up t’er.”
“My giant friend,” Therron’s smooth voice whispered. “You are mistaken. I was looking for someone else, not her.” His head angled toward Rori.
Consternation twisted Tug’s features into a knot of furrows and wrinkles. “But I heard ye.”
“What do you want?” Rori demanded, tired of the game of who said they’d kill whom. She maneuvered him into the room, closing the door with a kick of her boot. “Lock it, Tug. And make sure all the drapes are closed.”
Tug did as told while she hooked a chair with her foot and instructed Tug to find the rope in her shed. The next few minutes were tense as she waited for him to return. Therron didn’t move, nor did he say anything, but she saw his eyes roving over her cottage, noted the crinkling at their edges.
“Something amuses you?”
“Aye. You.”
“Me?” Rori snorted and checked her grip on his wrist. “How so?”
“Either you have a fetish for pain, or a bizarre decorating aesthetic. I’m trying to figure out which.”
He made a fair point. With all of the maces, axes, swords, daggers, and shields on the walls, her cottage did resemble a war room of sorts. But torture chamber? She snuffed a giggle before it reached her lips. Not likely. Although her tolerance to pain was high, higher than most fae she knew, she’d never willingly ask for it.
Tug returned with a length of sturdy rope and held Therron while Rori searched his clothing for weapons. The stash he carried on his person was impressive: four daggers, three throwing knives, six star-shaped hira shuriken, several wooden spikes, an iron awl, and two vials of clear liquid. And he thought her decorating odd. More likely he was mentally shopping.
Rori indicated Tug put him in the chair and Therron sat without comment. Tug looped the rope around his torso and made several knots before giving the rope a firm yank that wobbled Therron’s head. The hood slipped off to reveal slightly tipped ears. Rori stared at him with mortified fascination.
“You’re an elf.” It was more an accusation than a question.
“Guilty.”
“What’s an elf doing here?” Elves rarely involved themselves with fae business. Her already chaotic day just got more complicated.
“I seek the enchantress.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Rori leaned against the table, her ass half on the sturdy wood, arms crossed tightly against her chest. Several long minutes passed as she studied his features. His damn handsome features. Focus, Rori. You’re interrogating a threat. Don’t notice his full lips or the wee crinkles at the corners of those impossibly blue eyes. As though he’s laughing beneath that days’ worth of stubble on his strong chin. Definitely don’t notice how that scar enhances instead of mars his beauty. Why did elves have to be so pretty? Oh, for fuck’s sake! Focus.
The minutes dragged to an awkward silence and Therron met her stern gaze. “Like I said, I’m not here for you, or your friend. I’m looking for Acelyne, the witch who you stole those from. I’ll be needing them, if you don’t mind.” Two fingers indicated the caskets on her table.
Tug moved to stand between Therron and the amulets.
“Why do you need them?” Rori picked up one of his daggers and idly used the tip to clean dirt from beneath her thumbnail. When he didn’t answer, she glanced up with a bemused smile, a question in the raise of her brow. “You come here after possibly telling my friend you want to kill me, insist on taking something that doesn’t belong to you, and for what reason?”
“They don’t belong to you, either.”
She tilted the dagger in his direction and placed it beneath his chin, forcing him to look at her. The blaze of fury in his pupils intrigued her. He hated that he had to come to her and ask for the pendants. But why? And just there, behind the fury, was a flash of something else—fear, perhaps. Or dread.
“You intrigue me, Therron Mistwalker. I think there is much more to this story than you’d ever admit, which leaves me precious few options.” She slid the dagger over his chin to his lips, a little jealous of the blade. “Why were you following the enchantress?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Well then, what can you say? You said there was something we need to discuss. I’m listening.”
He swallowed and glanced at the dagger. Apprehension crossed his features. A satisfied smirk curled her lips. This was better, much better than fawning like a schoolgirl over his good looks.
“I find it’s easier to have an amicable chat when everyone is, shall we say, amicable. Would you mind?” His sky colored eyes darkened as they flashed from his blade back to her face.
Rori straightened, arms loose at her sides, ready. “Is this amicable enough for you?”
A curt laugh came from those wretchedly kissable lips. “For our purposes, yes.”
Focus, Rori.
“For our purposes? What’s that supposed to mean?” Rori had the distinct impression Therron was in control and not her, despite him being tied to a chair. This wasn’t going well and she was at a loss how to take the advantage. She’d never encountered a situation quite like this. And that damned mirth was back in his eyes. As if he were laughing at her still. Blasted bloody man.
Therron’s hands spread, hampered by the tight ropes. “I certainly wouldn’t mind a plate of whatever you’ve got over there.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “It smells wonderful.”
Tug moved toward the table, but Rori stopped him. “Not until we’ve got our answers.” The nerve of the man. To ask for food when he was the one being interrogated. A dreadful chill started down her neck, curling into a circle at the base of her spine, where it spun out in all directions and prickled her skin.
Therron watched her, not Tug, his eyes never leaving her face. “How about a cup of tea for the first answer?” He lowered his head in a silent challenge.
She could deny him—then what? He’d ask again. She knew this game.
“I don’t negotiate with those who are trying to kill me.” Best to set the tone from the outset. Regain control. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tug balancing a mug in one hand, the kettle in another. Sweet, sweet Tug. He was nothing but a giant softy. After a moment’s hesitation, he set both mug and kettle on the counter.
The interplay between Therron and Tug intrigued Rori. It was as if Tug were completely under his spell. She studied the pair. Elves were uncommon enough in Faerie that she doubted Tug had ever seen one. He probably thought they were a myth, until now.
Therron’s clothes were typical kit: sturdy boots, layers of dark fabrics from cotton shirt to sturdy tunic and trousers. Indistinguishable from any other man in Faerie. The only thing that set him apart would be the embroidered tree on his black leather coat. Still, she would guess he blended well with his surroundings. Almost as if he were trying hard not to be noticed.
Rori stood straighter, her focus solely on Therron’s face. The laughter in his eyes faded, replaced by a guarded wariness. She studied his dagger—the shape, size, and metal of the blade. This was not elven made. Nor was it forged by dwarves. Stamped just beneath the hilt was a symbol few in Faerie understood.
Not only was Therron an elf, he belonged to a thieves’ guild sworn to serve the Unseelie queen. A force not entirely her own compelled her to place the soft part of her forefinger against the tip and press down. A challenge to the elf, yes. Of course that’s what it was. Her gaze flicked to Therron, whose impassive face stared at her. She continued to press until the skin began to tear. A slip of pain ricocheted to her heart. As she’d guessed, the blade had either been dipped in poison, or had an enchantment placed on it. Her bet was the former. Now, it was a matter of whether or not Therron would let her continue or whether he’d—
“If you value your life, you won’t proceed.” Still reticent, curiosity had entered his eyes.
Rori released her finger and resisted the urge to suck the drop of blood that formed there. Pain radiated from the tiny hole in her skin, far too much pain for a simple prick. She figured she had about three minutes before the poison entered her bloodstream and reached her heart.
Rori gambled her life to see whether Therron could be trusted. Her instincts had said he could, but an elf thief loyal to Midna raised grave concerns. It might be extreme, but she had to know where Therron’s loyalties lay.
Tug wavered by the table, his eyes darting from Rori to Therron. Rori watched them both. Her friend was definitely under some form of enchantment, but she began to suspect it wasn’t from Therron.
Her prisoner struggled against the ropes without making any progress. Tug was known for his skill at knots. In fact, many a fisherman had hired the giant to fix their nets. Despite the size of his hands, and sausage-like fingers, Tug’s dexterity was legend.
Again and again Therron twisted, a madness settling over his features.
Something wasn’t right.
Tug inched closer to the boxes and Rori shook her head, warning him not to touch them. The whimpering was clue enough, but when her friend drooped his shoulders to pout, Rori’s senses went on full alert. Even Therron started to whine. Like two stray puppies, their pitiful cries were meant to elicit sympathy from her, but they did the exact opposite.
Without warning, the pair stopped making noises.
Rori tensed, her attention torn between the two men. What the bloody futnucker hell was going on here?
The answer came to her like a siren blasting through her brain. The men were under an enchantment. They had to be. But who—or what—was controlling the spell? Her gaze slid to the amulets. If this was Acelyne’s doing, the enchantress had to be near.
“Tug.” Rori stepped between her friend and the caskets. “I need you to do me a favor.”
Dark pupils filled his eyes. This was serious magic.
Fully aware of the ticking clock and the scant amount of poison now in her system, Rori took Tug’s hand and led him to her sofa. “Stay here.”
Therron’s blank gaze stayed rooted on the boxes. Damn her for taking a stupid risk. She let her bravado get the best of her and it might backfire. If the poison on Therron’s blade wasn’t one she was immune to, well, her day would end a lot quicker than she’d planned. When she pricked her finger, she hadn’t planned on Acelyne enchanting Tug and Therron. She needed to know what poison she’d ingested to make an antidote—just in case it wasn’t one of the one hundred thirty-seven.
“Therron, you can feel her, can’t you?” She stood in front of him, hands on knees, their faces a foot apart.
The elf shook his head, apparently not wanting to look at her or answer. Rori took his chin between her fingertips and forced him to look at her.
“She’s here?” He gave the slightest of nods. “And she wants you to bring her the amulets?” Another brief movement. “Tug, don’t move.” Her friend shifted on the sofa, a pained expression on his large face. His black hair stuck straight up, as if even it were trying to obey the enchantress.
Rori sifted through possibilities. She knew every exit in town, but with Tug and Therron enchanted, she couldn’t take them with her. Leaving the pair wasn’t an option either, as Tug would most likely untie Therron the moment she left the cottage; then she’d have both men and Acelyne to contend with. Her options were limited.
“Why isn’t her enchantment working on me?” The words floated from her lips, a half-formed thought made solid.
“Poison.” Therron choked out the word as if he fought against himself to speak. “Counteracts.”
The amount of effort it took for him to say those two words worried Rori. Acelyne was powerful. Too powerful for Rori to handle on her own. With a dagger, Rori would win hands down, but with magic? What she possessed, and her skill at weaving spells, was infantile compared to what she guessed the enchantress capable of.
Seconds ticked by.
“What poison is on your blade, Therron?”
His eyes narrowed and lips thinned until they were a firm white line. Deep in his pupils, Rori saw the golden waves of Acelyne’s hair.
“Therron, please.”
The whispered words softened the tightness in his features. Between gritted teeth, he said, “Cassaneira.”
Thank the gods, it was one she was immune to. To be safe, she threw several ingredients into a mug and poured steaming water over the mess. Immunity or not, with the way her day had been going, she wasn’t taking any chances.
Rori returned to Therron and stared directly into the blue depths of his eyes, past his discomfort, to the connection with Acelyne.
“You’ll not get the amulets, witch. I will hunt you far and wide and once caught, you’ll stand trial before the Seelie queen.”
Hollow laughter echoed through the room, the same she’d heard when she was alone in the forest. It came from Therron’s lips, but it was not his voice that followed. “You? Barely out of the Academy and think you can take me on? You’ll never equal your brother, will you? He would never have let himself get captured.” More laughter, this time tinged with madness. “Bring me the amulets.”
A sound, much like a gong, reverberated in Rori’s mind.
The witch knew exactly what to say to make Rori’s confidence shatter. And it did. Right there, in her cottage, Rori thought for the first time that day about giving up. Something in the way the elf’s eyes softened, the slight pinching at the edges as if he were pained to hear the words coming from his lips, steadied her resolve.
She stared deep into Therron’s eyes. “Like hell I will.” Rori drew back and swung her right arm with all the force she could muster. Her open hand connected with Therron’s cheek. Shards of pain streaked up her arm. The impact knocked the elf sideways and he toppled to the floor with a string of obscenities.
A moment of stunned silence followed.
“A little warning might’ve been nice,” Therron grumbled, his face reddened from her slap. “Drink that mess you made. Do it now.” Behind the gruffness, concern laced his words.
Rori didn’t want to admit how much hearing his voice relieved her. Refused to let herself feel the emotion that welled up inside her heart. Therron didn’t know she was immune to the poison, and despite his concern, there wasn’t time to explain. In a show of haste and worry, she darted to the counter where she’d left the brew and picked up the mug with both hands.
In one long gulp, she drank the foul liquid, grimacing at the taste as it slithered down her throat to settle in her gut. Gods, but why couldn’t healers come up with better-tasting cures to life’s ailments? Instantly, the poisonous burn simmered to a nuisance, nothing more. As far as Therron knew, he’d helped save her life. The realization made her belly spasm. Or it was the aftereffects of the antidote. At least, that’s what she told herself. No sense in letting silly emotions get even further out of control. It was bad enough his very presence made her nerves jumpy and heart stutter.
Hopefully, he could shed light on how the poison had kept Acelyne from enchanting her, but that would have to wait. First, she needed to get the pendants safely to Queen Eirlys. Immediately, her mind raced with plans, options, details, and maneuvers she might need to achieve her objective.
“A little help would be nice.”
Still bound to the chair, Therron lay on his side, hair askew, that handsome face full of— Was that rat bastard laughing at her? She glared harder. He was. Jerk.
But, she reminded herself, that rat bastard also—even through Acelyne’s enchantment—made certain she drank the antidote.
Tug, who’d been sitting on the couch, immobile, stood suddenly and lumbered toward the caskets. Rori lunged at the table and reached them first. She gathered the leather bag and wrapped her arms around the bundle, her mind plotting how to escape. Just then, everything went black.