Page 18 of Stealing Tink

I’ve no idea how he can tell what is happening behind him, but that’s the least of my concerns at the moment. It’s not the man’s strange eye that has my pulse racing, but the tattoo stretching up his neck.

Two faerie wings dripping blood. The Company insignia.

These are faerie dust harvesters.

Just hold still and it’ll hurt less, I promise, says a voice from the past. Peter, as he shredded my wings, the first step in harvesting my faerie dust.

The nerves on the ends of my wings fire, phantom pain tingling.

The men make their way toward our table, but I am frozen in time, back in Neverland with Peter, sobbing silent tears, screaming silent screams as the pain rips through me. As he refuses to look at me, so he doesn’t have to see my pain, much less hear it.

“Snap out of it, Wanderer,” says the Nomad, “we’re going to get you out of here.”

The Nomad is the last person I should believe. The first time I realized the man of my nightmares was real, that there was someone out there hunting me down, it had been when I was sixteen. A pair of harvesters had come into town, and we’d overheard them asking the local butcher if he knew of any winged faeries. That part wouldn’t have been so odd, except they’d had a sketch of my face. Luckily, the butcher was a friend and prattled on while my father and I slipped out of the shop.

I don’t know how the Nomad knew what I looked like at that point—probably paid a seer to sketch that drawing. But I know he sent a pair of harvesters after me.

Still, I don’t know what it is about his expression, but when he says he’s getting me out of here, I believe him.

“They said he’d be looking for a faerie who fits her description,” whispers the first man to the second as they walk toward our table, my fae hearing able to pick up on their words.

Great—the Nomad has been looking for me long enough that my description is tied to him. Well, at least the harvesters aren’t after me. Though, it would be unlike any harvesters I’ve met to turn down a chance at kidnapping two people who would be worth their weight in gold just because they were sent for only one.

“You,” says the first, taking the Nomad by the shoulder from behind him. “You’re coming with us.”

“You haven’t seen my face,” says the Nomad from under his hood. “How do you know I’m the man you’re looking for?”

“You should choose less conspicuous travel companions,” says the second.

Not sure what makes me conspicuous, since my wings are hidden. I’d be inclined to be offended, were I not so terrified.

“You don’t truly know who I am, though,” says the Nomad.

“Oh, yeah?” says the first harvester. “And why do you say that?”

“Because if you did, you would have killed me before getting this close.”

Just like that, the Nomad grabs the first man’s arm and yanks him over his shoulder. The man goes careening into the table. I jump out of my seat just in time to avoid the splinters shooting through the air as the man hits the floor, skull-first.

The second man lunges for the Nomad.

This is one of the advantages of being a female. Because the second man might be bulkier than the first, but he’s forgotten one thing.

He’s outnumbered.

He sends a fisted hand toward the Nomad, and it collides with his jaw. The Nomad stumbles back a step, rearing to return the blow, when the harvester reaches for the dagger at his belt.

Except his fingers grasp around nothing but air.

Confused, the man glances down at his belt.

He should be looking at me.

Normally, I’d go for a hilt to the head, but as this man is a harvester who now knows my face, I’d rather not risk him waking up.

He spins around to face me, just as my dagger plunges toward his neck. But it only grazes skin. That would be thanks to the Nomad, who got to him first and has tackled the man to the ground.

I watch them wrestle on the floor, the Nomad’s hands wrapped around the struggling man’s throat. I’m not quite sure how the Nomad is stronger than this bulky fae male, but I don’t have time to ask questions.