“Was it money or morals stopping you from coming after me further?” I questioned.
He shrugged. “We all got to feed our families, little Nephy. No offense to ye.”
“Oh, that makes it better.” Cold sweat swept over my neck.
Bearing my weight on my hip, I glanced at my rippling reflection in the shallow puddles at my feet. A spark of magic shot through my veins, giving me a small burst of confidence. And an idea…
They couldn’t hand me over if I was one of them.
“I offer you my service.” I twirled my wrists, the Wizard’s associates taking a step back at the fluid spin of my joints. A deathly smirk curled my lip—they didn’t need to know I had no idea what I was doing, that I’d spent the entire summer trying to summon my Source only to fail every time.
The Wizard’s forehead crinkled. He was considering.
“Nah.” With a casual wave of his tattooed hand, he summoned his cronies.
“Wait!” I said again. The dwarves froze midstride, wincing at the power in my voice.
The Wizard raised a salt-and-peppered brow in assessment.
“Give me any job you want,” I said smoothly, pushing back the thoughts about what they might have me doing.
Survival, wasn’t that their big thing? Well, now I was in survival mode, and I’d do just about anything to get out alive—including swearing allegiance to a supernatural syndicate that may or may not have ambushed my friends.
“We don’t offer jobs,” he said. “We offer contracts.”
“Fine.” I spit out the word before I changed my mind. “Give me a contract.”
“Ye’ll be bound by magic.”
“Figured.”
Resting his chin on his knuckles, he tilted his head. “Ye know what kind of tings we do around ’ere? Or do ye need remindin’?”
A shiver wisped up my spine, my gaze lifting from the throne to the skulls strung like a garland across the back wall. He wouldn’t have me kill someone right off the bat… would he? I was too in my head. My confidence was slipping.
“No,” I said simply, even though my voice faltered.
Mischief twinkled in his eye. “Then we ’ave ourselves a deal.”
“Great. What are the terms?”
“Been lookin’ for somethin’. Need ye to find it and steal it.”
Thievery. Better than cold-blooded murder—but still. I crossed my arms.
As if he read the movement, he added, “’Tis this or te pit.”
A casual ultimatum.
I bit the inside of my cheek until the metallic tang of blood coated my mouth. The pain was easier than fear—it kept me from squirming, from revealing everything with one silly flinch.
“Alright,” I ground out. “When do we draft this up?”
“Now.”
“Ok.” My heart fluttered. “You got a pen?”
The Wizard’s mouth drew into a toothy grin. “Oh no, little Nephy. Our contracts aren’t signed wit pens.” He whipped out a metal tool with a pointed tip. My face paled. It was a tattoo gun. “Tey’re signed wit needles.”
