Page 60 of Stealing Tink

I pause, looking at the paper for a long while. His hand appears beside the bed, like he wants to write more. So I hand it to him.

My father banished her. Raised me. I didn’t see her for years. Then one day, we were reunited, and, let’s just say, by that point, I’d allowed my father to sink his claws into me. He’d given me a taste for blood, for power as he’d conquered other peoples. Made me his right hand. She thought once we were reunited that we’d be together. But I tricked her. I told my father who she was. I thought when I found her that she was my weakness. I knew she would disapprove of the bloodshed. Of the conquering. And I feared that if I allowed her in my life, she would convince me out of the life I had grown to covet. The luxury I had never had as a child. The freedom. So I betrayed her in the end.

I hold on to the note, my breath quickened. Minutes pass, and I wonder if he’ll think me asleep by the time I finally write, Did you kill her?

I pass the note up and wait for what feels like hours, but in reality, it’s likely only minutes. There’s the scratching of a pen. Then he passes it to me, folded this time. I hold it in my hands, feeling the softness of the parchment, unsure of what I want to find inside.

There’s the part of me—the wicked part, I suppose—that wants to know that he did kill his own mother, that wants to be justified in fearing him for more reasons than simply nightmares. But then there’s the other part. The part I can’t bear to acknowledge.

I unfold the paper.

Inside is one last note:

Quite the opposite, Wanderer. She killed me.

CHAPTER 26

The next morning, it’s as if nothing happened between the Nomad and me—as if no notes were exchanged by candlelight after midnight, as if he hadn’t admitted to me that his mother killed him.

However that works. Legend has it that the Nomad is not originally from this world, so that could have something to do with it. Or, he could simply enjoy the false rumors about himself and be eager to further them.

This morning he’s back to his usual self, sitting across from me at a table in the breakfast cabin. Steaming cheese grits and eggs fill our plates, but when my stomach growls, it’s not from hunger, but the anxiety that borders on nausea every time I look at him.

“Am I looking especially handsome this morning?” he says with a wink.

I roll my eyes and scan the cabin instead of looking at my food, trying to focus on the mission rather than wondering if the man across from me is a ghost. But no; I felt his flesh. I felt him bleed against my fingertips. He’s as alive as I am.

“Wanderer,” the Nomad murmurs, leaning forward, “something bothering you? Because I find it best not to do these sorts of things on an empty stomach.” I snap my gaze back at him, a warning look. He grins. “All right, all right,” he says, taking a sip from his goblet. “Don’t take my advice. It’s not as if I’ve run hundreds”—a server comes to the table, refilling our drinks, and the Nomad effortlessly pivots mid-sentence—“of these business dealings before. Really, you’re always thinking I’m going to squander your parents’ inheritance.”

The server sets the water down and scurries away before she has to witness what I imagine is not her first couple’s argument of the morning.

I let my gaze wander out the window and watch the lush countryside unfold before us. There was a time in my childhood when I dreamed about being on a train such as this one. It seemed so romantic, watching the world rush by.

Now all I can think about is the speed at which we’re flying and how I don’t particularly enjoy the sensation of crushed bones.

“You’ll make the jump,” the Nomad says, reading my mind.

Of course I’ll make the jump.

He sighs heavily, then in a tone a researcher might use if dictating a note for an assistant to transcribe, says, “Compliments and words of encouragement prove ineffective with the subject.”

I roll my eyes at him and scan the cabin once more, tired of watching trees blur together and imagining my probable death today.

Phoenix and Venus are also in the breakfast car, to the right and down a few tables. They’re sitting across from each other, whispering something I can’t hear above the chatter. Two tables down from them are Lars and Acel. They’re supposed to be acting like business partners. Instead, they just look like two disgruntled men forced to sit together due to lack of seating.

I relate more to Lars and Acel this morning than I do the muses.

“Now, Wanderer,” says the Nomad. “Don’t tell me this doesn’t give you at least a hint of a thrill. A smidge?”

I don’t look at him. But I’d be lying to myself if I said my heart was only racing because of the tea I’ve been sipping.

I glance at the clock on the wall. Five till seven.

The Nomad has the plan down to the second, equipping each of us with either a wristwatch or a pocket watch he calibrated this morning. Venus had argued with the plan, thinking it unwise to leave so little room for error, but the Nomad had simply smiled and replied that he works best under pressure, and he finds the same to be the case for those who work for him.

Let’s just hope he’s right. Right now, with the way Venus is fidgeting, twirling the strand of hair that frames her face, I’m not so sure.

“She survived years as a slave to a very wicked man,” says the Nomad. “This is nothing to her.”