He dodges, but I’m rewarded with a hiss of pain as the sudden movement tweaks his stab wound. He pulls my knife out of his flesh, inspects it, and flips it in midair. “I like this one. I think I’ll keep it.”
“Like hell you will.” I lunge for him, but he takes off running up the tiled slope of the roof.
For a second I think about following him, but when I try climbing the slanted rooftop, blood pours from my injury. My ass feels like it’s on fire.
“Chickenshit!” I yell at his retreating figure.
He doesn’t answer. He’s gone.
I pick up his knife and limp back along the ledge. First I’ve got to get back to ground level. Then I need to find Witch and get her to heal me. After that—normally I’d make it my mission to find this man and destroy him. But the Annordun job is too important. It requires my full attention.
When I get back, I’ll warn the others about the intruder. We’ll be more watchful in the coming days. But finding andpunishing him will have to wait until our mission in Faerie is complete. I won’t let anything jeopardize the plan.
Still, I hate that the bastard saved me. And I hate that I let him live.
3
THE MORNING OF
MIDWINTER’S EVE
“So how does this thing work?” I stare doubtfully at the Doras Álainn. It looks like a simple piece of art, a circle carved from moonstone, engraved with clusters of mushrooms, and adorned with a frame of tiny, twisted black roots.
“Remember that book Wringer gave you a while back? The one with the picture of the Doras Álainn pasted inside?” asks Maven.
“Yes.”
“That was the only source of information I could find on the device. I couldn’t find any references to it anywhere else.”
“Is that normal?”
She shrugs. “Not all Fae-Hunter devices are registered or known. Some groups design their own traps and create their own unique spelled objects. We’re lucky to have any information on it at all. According to the book from Wringer, we’re supposed to set it on the ground and speak the name of the place where we want to go while picturing the location.”
“Is that all?” asks Flex. “Judging by the stories you tell, I was expecting a blood ritual of some kind.”
“And you’re not wrong,” Maven replies. “We do have to paint a little of our blood on it, a drop for each person who wants to pass through. Then you’ll see what happens.”
Scriv eyes her and the device suspiciously. “Doyouknow what will happen?”
“Not exactly. But I have a general understanding of how it’s supposed to work. There will be some kind of portal.”
“And then we just… walk through?” I ask.
“We just walk through.”
“Seems easy enough.” I cast a glance over my shoulder toward the high-backed chair where Candle sits silently, covered in her favorite crocheted blanket. Normally she would be over here with us, standing by the big table where we do most of our planning, contributing questions and ideas. But I think those days are past.
After my encounter with the intruder, I went to Witch for healing and asked her to come to the Hearth later that day to check on Candle. When she came around, Witch told me that theprevious evening, while we were at the pub, Candle must have had a spasm in her brain, something that caused damage.
A good healer like Witch can repair most injuries, but they have to be tended as soon as possible, or they settle in the body and can’t be mended with magic. If I’d gotten home earlier last night and summoned Witch immediately, she might have been able to fix the injury to Candle’s mind, but because I waited until the next morning, the damage became irreversible. Witch told me that Candle will still have moments of clarity, but she may also suffer periods of confusion and vagueness, where she can’t communicate properly.
I haven’t forgiven myself for not recognizing that something was wrong, for not summoning Witch right away. But I didn’t know anything serious had happened. I thought Candle was simply tired and had fallen asleep where she sat, as she often does.
Guilt over her condition weighs on my heart, but I haven’t really been able to face it, nor have I taken the time to plan for her future care. I’m fixated on this job, because if it succeeds, I’ll have enough money to take care of myself and Candle, for as long as we live.
Witch will be checking on her within the hour, after we’ve left for Faerie. I didn’t tell Witch where we were going, or for how long, but I gave her my key to the Hearth and promised she’d be well-paid for keeping an eye on Candle.
Truthfully, I don’t know when—or if—we’ll return. I may not like Scriv, but he’s right about one thing—this job in Faerie is an extremely dangerous venture.
