I swallow hard. “Yes.”
39
The kelpie leaps off the dock and into the sea, disappearing from view. All I can hear are waves and the pounding of my own heart as I watch the ocean, the ship, unable to see anything taking place on it from here.
With bated breath, I stand vigil as several anxious minutes pass. With every inhale I take, doubts creep in, and I begin to wonder if the kelpie had been tricking me. He only insinuated that he’d bring Mr. Duveau to me at once, but a specific timeline wasn’t part of the bargain. In fact, we never even agreed on who exactly I sought. Then again, the kelpie must have some strange ability to track travelers. He found me when I called for help in the coral cage, then located Aspen soon after on his rampage toward Sableton.
Sweat pools under my arms, behind my neck, despite the chill in the air. Several more agonizing minutes pass and there’s still no sign of the kelpie. I begin to pace, ready to curse the kelpie and myself for making such a reckless bargain. Then motion stirs in front of the dock, sending my heart into my throat. I inch forward for a closer look, only to leap back as the kelpie suddenly breaches the surface. I stare open mouthed as he pulls himself onto the dock with a male figure locked on his back.
Terror and delight mingle in my gut as I watch Mr. Duveau gasp for breath from the kelpie’s back, sputtering water from his blue lips. His elegant evening attire is dripping seawater, his hands and neck red where the kelpie’s mane strangles his flesh.
“I brought you the one you hate,” the kelpie says. His mane begins to shift, slithering from around Mr. Duveau like the coils of a snake. Once freed from the kelpie’s bonds, the councilman falls to the dock at my feet.
Mr. Duveau coughs up water as he pushes himself to his hands and knees. Before he can do anything else, I’m upon him, my blade at his throat as I push him onto his back. His eyes are wide as he blinks the water from them, holding his palms out in surrender.
“Miss Fairfield?” His tone is laced with surprise, his voice rough from swallowing so much saltwater.
I press the blade closer until it knicks his flesh and heave myself over him. With my free hand, I reach beneath his jacket and retrieve his revolver. I chuck it over the other side of the dock and return to my search, bringing up two knives, which also make it into the sea. Further digging proves fruitless, as his pockets are empty of the one thing I’m looking for. “Where is the Chariot?”
“Please don’t hurt me,” he gasps.
“Wrong answer.” I press the dagger closer, drawing a stream of crimson to trail down his throat. I avert my gaze, seeking something else of the same hue. Then I find it—a strand of red rowan beads circling his left wrist. Lifting my blade from his neck, I slice the bracelet off and toss it behind me.
Now the fear truly shows in his eyes as I lower my face toward his. He blinks rapidly, his chest heaving with his sharp, shallow breaths.
“Stop blinking or I’ll cut your eyelids off.”
“I’ll tell you anything,” he says, lids still fluttering. “Do anything.”
“I know you will.” I bring the dagger to the corner of his eye, letting the tip pierce his skin. “Now. Stop. Blinking.”
Trembling, he obeys, face going a sickly shade paler.
I lock my eyes with his, drawing his attention to me. The imagery of the bird doesn’t come, which makes me wonder if he’s hiding rowan elsewhere on his body. Then I recall my difficulties connecting to the elements, the magic of Faerwyvae. Does that mean I can’t glamour him?
No. I have him. He’s not getting away.
I bring my face even closer until our noses nearly touch. His pupils grow so wide, they devour his irises. I focus on that black void, summoning my rage, my fury, my inner fire. The flame I touch is barely a flicker, but it’s there. I call it forth, let it wrap around me, move through me, growing as large as it can despite this world without magic that threatens to tamp it back down.
Maintaining a steady awareness on my inner flame, I again seek the imagery of the bird in the cage, drawing his eyes to me, locking his attention in my grip…
There.
His consciousness becomes a bird, and my will is its cage, grasping him tight within my hands.
I have him.
His face goes slack, but his body remains rigid. My control over him feels tenuous at best, but at least it’s something.
“Where is the Chariot you stole?” I ask.
His body trembles beneath me, but he answers without hesitation. “I gave it to King Grigory.”
Fury courses through my veins as my lips peel back from my teeth.
“It won’t work from Bretton anyway,” he adds, as if that makes his treachery any better.
“And the Parvanovae?”
