The silks fling open, and sunlight pours into the tent like a spotlight.
Well shit.
Two robed guards close in. They’re draped in layers of crimson and molten-orange fabrics that shimmer like fire in the sunlight, the hems heavy with copper coins and ruby beads that chime softly as they move. Broadswords hang at their hips, hilts wrapped in crimson leather, the pommels shaped like flames.
They look like characters out of a fantasy epic filmed on an unlimited budget. Also like they’re absolutely about to murder us.
“I knew it,” Not Tarek growls, stomping forward, hand on the hilt of his blade. “Saw the sand burst all the way from the other side of camp. Only spies would have the gall to lurk this far from the stage during rehearsal. Have you traveled here from Cups like the others?”
Declan and I shake our heads in unison.
“Pentacles, then.” The guard’s bushy eyebrows furrow like two angry caterpillars.
Declan looks at me. I look back.
“No,” we say together. At least we see eye to eye on something.
“Swords?” he tries again, the thick ropes of beads and amulets around his neck clinking together like wind chimes.
“Wait.” I tilt my chin. “Are you listing tarot suits?”
If so, that’s weirdly on brand for the way my week is going.
“We’re not spies,” Declan says, stepping squarely in front of me like some kind of tall, sweaty, muscled human shield.
“I can speak for myself.”
He doesn’t look at me, but the tension in his shoulders ratchets tighter.
“They do not look to be spies,” Tarek offers cheerfully from behind the lead guard.
“And how are spies meant to look?” the other guard growls.
Tarek shrugs. “Not like them.”
“We’re not spies,” I repeat, rising onto my toes to peek over Declan’s unnecessarily broad shoulder. “We’re from Manhattan.”
“Manhattan?” the first man repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue like loose marbles.
“Oh!” Tarek brightens and snaps his fingers, jeweled cuffs glinting on his wrists. “Dav, I would wager these are the new performers!”
“Tarek,” Dav groans, dragging a hand down his tanned face.
“What?” Tarek blinks, wide-eyed and unfazed.
“If theywerespies, they would now know to say they are the new performers.”
“Well,” Tarek responds with a helpless shrug, “they said they weren’t.”
“And we’re not,” I reiterate with all the confidence I can muster while covered in sand in a world I don’t recognize, and half sheltered behind a man I technically met an hour ago.
“We shall see about that,” Dav mutters.
With a sharp jerk of his wide chin, we’re flanked—him in front, Tarek bringing up the rear like a kid on a field trip—and herded out of the tent.
We’re led through the heart of the camp, flames leaping from massive copper braziers lining the path and casting our shadows like spindly monsters against the silk walls. Wind snaps the fabric canopies. Incense winds through the air in thick ribbons while somewhere in the distance, drums pulse a slow, ominous beat.
“I take back what I said before.Thisis kidnapping,” I hiss under my breath.
