“Sit down.” Yarrow’s tone is mild, despite the threatening words. “If you run, I’ll have to chase you.”
“Why do you have to chase me?” Folly hugs himself. “Why did you bring me here? Why did you and Moriath come to the carnival?” He takes a deep breath before his voice breaks. “Please, I don’t want anything to do with fae. I haven’t done anything. I just want to be left alone.”
Yarrow tilts his head, looking more interested than angry at Folly’s outburst. Like Folly is as fascinatingly foreign to Yarrow as Yarrow is to Folly. “I was hunting Moriath. Do you know what a shapestealer is?”
Folly shakes his head.
“He killed the fae whose image you saw,” Yarrow says. “Same with the witch. That’s what shapestealers do—they kill other creatures to take their shapes and powers.”
“So why was he after…” Folly touches his left cheek and looks away. “My eye.”
That’s what’s off about this conversation. Yarrow has been looking him in the face the entire time, without gawking at Folly’s eye. Folly can’t remember the last time someone talked to him without making him feel like a freak.
“What does your eye do?” Yarrow asks.
Folly hasn’t answered that question truthfully since he was a child. “I can see fae, even when you’re disguised.”
“Useful trick. I’ve never liked glamours.” Yarrow winks and gestures to himself. “Why cover up this masterpiece?”
Confidence must be nice to have. Folly would love to hide his eye without needing a patch. But for once, Folly’s eye is the least of his worries. Yarrow explained why Moriath was after him, but Moriath isn’t the one who abducted Folly into another realm.
Yarrow hasn’t explained that part yet.
Folly glances around. The patch of earth seems a foot or two larger in diameter, and there are tiny yellow flowers interspersed with the long grass. Like the space is slowly growing.
The carnival caravan has never sounded so appealing.
Yarrow leans back on his hands, perfectly relaxed. “I can see why the shapestealer wanted you, with an eye like that. How long did you talk with him? What else did he tell you?”
Folly opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. Yarrow wants information, which means Folly has leverage. He has to use it, even if his insides have turned to cold jelly.
Just like bargaining with a shopkeeper. Forget that you’re terrified of shopkeepers, too.
“I’ll answer your questions about the shapestealer,” Folly says carefully. “If you take me back to the human realm first.”
Yarrow’s laughter is like music. Too loud and bright for Elsewhere’s gray. “You’re clever for a human. I would happily agree to your proposition. However.” Yarrow rises to his feet. He walks two steps closer, leaving the axe behind him. “There’s a problem. I can’t take you back.”
Hand itching for his knife, Folly revises his estimate of Yarrow’s height upwards. Six five at least. He shouldn’t have thrown all his nails at the shapestealer. “What do you want with me?”
“Nothing you wouldn’t happily give.” Yarrow winks. “But it’s not about what I want. I spoke true—Ican’ttake you back. Just before I arrived in the human realm, do you remember the shapestealer casting a spell?”
Folly’s memories are a blur. He sifts through the chaos. There was a spell, yes, but it didn’t do anything. “You interrupted it with your big glowy door thing.”
“I interrupted it, but the spell still worked,” Yarrow says. “Though not as the shapestealer intended. I assume Moriath wanted to keep you near him—instead, he tethered the two of us together.”
“What do you mean?” Folly asks. He’s too desperate to keep quiet.
“You felt the pain too.” Yarrow touches his stomach. “We’re bound together. We have to stay within twenty feet of each other, as long as the curse lasts.”
Of all Folly’s memories, the pain is clear. “That can’t be true,” Folly says, because he doesn’t want it to be.
Yarrow sighs. “Dreadfully inconvenient, but true. You can test it if you want. The ground has grown enough.”
Folly turns to find a longer stretch of dirt and grass behind him than he remembers. The grass is silvery near the blurred edges. He’s tempted to run, but he doesn’t want to turn his back on the fae.
Fuck. He’s spent seventeen years avoiding fae, and now he’s stuck with one.
“How long does it last?” Folly asks. “Can we break it?”
