“In an emergency, throw the book,” the raven croaks, swooping back toward us, and it sounds as if he’s laughing.
“You’d never,” Olm says.
“We’re not friends,” I remind him.
“Yet you like me.”
“I’m not sure I do. You’re whiny and don’t make sense. You?—”
“Watch out!” The lioness shoves me aside and I go sprawling with a surprisedoofon the broken street, skinning my palms and knees as the raven flaps his wings, croaking.
Meanwhile, Roane pulls out two curved swords.Scimitars, I think,that’s what they are called,and I’ve never seen anyone use them in my life.
Until now.
“What are those creatures?” I scoot back on my ass as the lioness prowls before me, pacing back and forth, tail swishing against her hindlegs.
“Goblins. Sometimes armies of them roam the city.”
“Goblins, as in… lesser fairies?”
“If bylesseryou mean misshapen by magic, yes. If you meansmall, no, these are large specimens.”
“You talk like a librarian,” I mutter. “Educated. Well-read.”
“Large vocabulary,” she says. “Wise beyond my years. I know.”
As it turns out, the lioness is right. These don’t look like the small, lesser fae we get on the plains, occasionally raiding markets and destroying our vegetable patches, sneaking into our houses to steal food or torment animals, the children or the old.
These are tall, taller than Roane, skeletal and horrifically twisted, with horned heads and hooves and partly furred or scaly. They are how I imagine the dark fae to be when they lean into their magic, turning into monsters.
And they run at himen masse. There are at least fifteen of them, and there’s only one of him.
Horror rises in me in an icy wave.
“Stay here,” the lioness says and lopes toward Roane. The raven is already there, attacking the creatures, a blur of dark feathers and wicked claws, and I…
What am I doing, sprawled in the dirt, holding this haunted book, with no way to defend myself? The lioness was right. This is awful. I need to do something about it.
“Let’s leave this horrible place,” Olm instantly agrees. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Shush. I need a weapon.”
“Weapon? What, you imagine yourself a warrior now? You’re an herbalist and a storyteller!”
“That reminds me of a story,” I whisper. “Kiara and the Well of Longing.”
“What about it? Hide yourself before you get killed!”
“She wasn’t a warrior but when the time came to defend her family, she used any object she found lying about as a weapon, any sharp or heavy object.”
“This isn’t your family. Save yourself!”
Bending, I grab a stone and weigh it in my hand. “Yeah, this will do nicely.”
“What? No.”
The melee looks like an eddy, a maelstrom at sea that swallows boats and ships, with Roane at its center. Running toward them, I pull my hand back and throw the stone at the goblins. “You, ugly face! Over here!”
