“It’s safe.” I point toward the mines. “Haven’t heard the first sound of fighting.”
“Hills block noise.”
“We can’t just sit here. You fight, right?”
He nods. “I fight.”
I grip the wagon to climb up next to him on the driver’s bench. “So, let’s go fight.”
“No.”
I let go and sink back to the ground. “Stubborn oaf!”
“Fragile changeling.”
“I know, okay?” I tug on my braids. “No one has to remind me of that. I’m well aware I can’t outlast a full fae, or even a lesser fae.”
“That’s why you’re here. Safe.”
“But I can dosomething.” I itch with unspent energy, and worry for Gareth gnaws at me even though I’m still royally pissed at him. “I’m not helpless.”
“Like a mewling kitten, you are.” Parnon turns his head sharply to our right and holds up a giant mitt to silence me.
I edge closer to him and whisper, “What?”
He doesn’t respond, just leans in the direction of whatever sound he heard.
I yelp when he grabs me and pulls me onto the sliver of seat beside him. With a loud yell, he whips the mules, and they take off toward the mines.
“What is it?” I can’t see around him. “What’s there?”
“Don’t know. Nothing good. Red eyes.”
My heart seems to stutter, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. “Red eyes?”
“Some creature.”
“A hound?” I grip his arm.
“Don’t worry, changeling. I will prote—”
A huge black shadow jumps onto the mules and rips one of their throats out before turning its glowing red eyes on me and grating out, “Mine.”
11
Gareth
Dodging back from the blade, I reach out and disarm the woman. But more changelings and lesser fae pour from the mansion behind her. This whole thing was a trap, the old changeling the bait.
I back away as their numbers grow. “I’m not a slaver.”
“Sure you aren’t.” The old changeling spits and leads the group, her limp gone. “A high fae like you just came to the mines for sightseeing, eh?”
The slaves behind her laugh. A quick glance tells me they’re all armed with pickaxes or kitchen knives—a haphazard assortment of weapons. Their clothes are dirty, their skin as well. Most of them are skinny to the point of being hard to look at.
“He speaks the truth.” Chastain is wrestled into the courtyard by a stone man, his steps even more thunderous than Parnon’s. “We’ve come from Cranthum—”
Another laugh rises from the crowd. “We all came from Cranthum,” one lesser fae shouts.
