Page 117 of Stealing Tink

Now Acel has nothing, except for the Nomad’s corpse at his feet. It occurs to him, somewhat wryly, that this is not particularly valueless. The Nomad is the most wanted criminal in the world. Acel could drag him back to his queen. He would be rewarded. Not enough to buy a royal medallion, but a noble one, perhaps.

Still not enough to buy back the respect in his queen’s eyes.

Not enough to buy a chance with the princess.

Still, a nice bounty.

Acel stares down at the Nomad and sighs. He knows that if the situation were reversed, the Nomad would not hesitate to turn in Acel’s body for a reward. Acel can hear the Nomad’s voice in his head now. “It’s not as if he’s using it.”

If Acel knew for certain that the Nomad had betrayed them, he would not hesitate either. He would sell the Nomad’s body faster than Tink had thrust him through.

But Acel has been watching. Noticing.

It was his job, for quite some time. To notice. And habits are difficult to kick. The Nomad could only steal so many glances at Tink when he thought no one was looking, before someone actually did.

So no, Acel does not believe that the Nomad betrayed her. He does not need an explanation. An alternative to the events he witnessed unfold.

Acel takes the body and leaves.

No one stops him.

There is a package waiting for Acel when he returns home. There is also a significant amount of dust waiting, but that is more expected than the package.

Whether it is more invited than the package will depend.

Acel’s years as the queen’s bodyguard have trained him to be suspicious of unmarked packages. Then again, the Nomad and Tink blew up most of the world’s supply of faerie dust, so this package shouldn’t contain any explosives. Theoretically.

Who is Acel kidding? He is no longer important enough to be assassinated.

Sure, Acel made plenty of enemies when he was within the queen’s employ. There are lots of criminals whose friends had been hunted down by Acel—and subsequently hanged—who would like to see him suffer. But explosives are hardly ever an avenger’s weapon of choice. Too quick of a death. The only time they’re utilized is if the avenger wants to blow up the family of an enemy.

And it’s not as if Acel has one of those.

Feeling his mood slip at the thought, Acel picks up the package and turns it over in his hand. It’s heavier than he would have expected. He brings it across the room and sets it on his dusty kitchen table. He used to daydream about Princess Aditai perched in the chair across from him, waiting impatiently as he cooked her favorite dinner for her birthday.

He doesn’t bother fetching his letter opener. The dagger in his belt will do just fine.

When he slides it across the leather of the package, the slit reveals a golden shimmer.

Acel dumps the contents over, and a pile of gold coins slides over the table.

If Acel were the type to gasp, he would. But he is not the type to gasp, so instead, he blinks. Just once.

An explosive would have been less surprising.

Acel rummages through the coins, then brings one up to the light, examining its every detail. Acel has spotted a fair amount of forgeries in his day, but this one even gleams the faintest sea-green when turned at a forty-five-degree angle away from the light, a detail even the best of forgers can’t seem to replicate.

He looks inside the package. Inside, is an envelope. Unmarked.

When he unseals it and out slips a letter, Acel can’t help but let out a low laugh.

Acel is still sitting at his kitchen table, glancing back and forth between the letter in his hand and the gold on the table, when a knock sounds at his door.

With the grace of a skilled assassin, he disposes the pile of coins into the package and stores it underneath a loose floorboard, almost laughing at how his life’s savings—a sum not to be mocked and also tucked underneath the floorboard—look like pennies in comparison to his new stash of riches.

Acel is a man trained for anything. But when he opens his door, his heart might as well be pierced through.

She stands there before him. In servants’ attire, of all things. Must have borrowed them from her lady’s maid. Her hood is pulled over her hair, but it doesn’t stop the rain from reaching her face, streaming down her perfect, smooth cheeks in rivulets.