Page 11 of Fortune's Blade

I stared into his eyes, and they were big and sincere and pained, and for some reason, that hurt me, too. But I did not want to lie to him. I did not like to lie.

“Ray, I don’t even know—” I broke off.

“Know what?”

I looked around, my gaze suddenly almost as agitated as his had been. All I saw were tall tree trunks, the muffling canopy far overhead that blocked out most of the stars, and the groups of fey camped in the center of the road and spread out for half a mile in either direction. For there were things that prowled in the night here; things that even the fey had learned to fear.

It wasn’t the prettiest sight I’d ever seen, but it was real, solid, and completely unlike the hazy half world I had inhabited in my old form.

Here, I could feel the fire’s warmth on my skin, the coolness of the night air, the dirt beneath my fingertips. Could smell the few scraps of meat still adhering to the bones of my dinner, interspersed with the spiciness of the ale. I could taste the latter, too, a memory on my lips, like the faint buzz that still danced on my tongue.

I wanted this, wanted more of it, wanted everything I had never had and was suddenly, fiercely afraid that I’d never have again. These last weeks, traveling with the Wanderers, had been the most time I’d known as a person in my own right since childhood, yet it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

I wanted a life, but wasn’t sure whether I was entitled to one. And whether I wasn’t just setting myself up for heartbreak by even daring to think of such a thing. I don’t even know if I really exist, I thought at Ray, knowing that he would pick it up.

“You exist,” he told me in a fervent whisper, his forehead coming down to mine. “And you’re very real to me.”

Chapter Four

I glanced over at Ray now as we jounced along on crab back, and found him slouched down with a large straw-hat drooping over his face. I didn’t think it was for the little bit of sun that made it through the tree cover to splatter the road, none of which would hurt him as the fey sun did not carry Earth’s curse. I thought it was more likely to make it look like he was asleep so that Marlowe, the vampire in the cage, would stop talking to him.

But if it was for that reason, it did not work.

“I know you’re listening,” the curly haired vampire said.

The mop on Marlowe’s head was dark to match his eyes and goatee, and he had very long lashes for a man. He was handsome, or was maintaining a glamourie to appear so, although I doubted the latter. It would have been a waste of energy as he was filthy, having been a fey captive for some time, to the point that his features were hardly discernable. The effort did not seem worthwhile.

But he could probably afford the power drain, being a first level master and a member of the North American Vampire Senate. What such an illustrious being was doing here, slumming with the dark fey, was anyone’s guess, although he was also the consul’s chief spy. Perhaps he was spying on the fey?

If so, it was not going well.

He had told me a story about searching for my father. But since he had also said that my father was in Faerie looking for my mother, who had died centuries ago, I had decided that he was lying. From what Dory had said of him, he did that a lot.

“And you know their weird patois,” he added, after Ray continued to feign sleep. “Tell me where we’re going and what the hell is going on or I’ll keep up a running commentary all the damned way.”

He waited.

Ray let out what I guessed was supposed to be a snore.

Marlowe growled. “You asked for it,” he said. And then did worse than he had threatened. He began to sing.

I believe the tune was meant to be Greensleeves, but it was hard to tell as it was terribly off key and also very loud. Loud enough that it startled the giant crab he was riding on top of, which jumped enough to rock the cage. And then did a strange little scurrying motion ahead and bumped into our ride.

That was a problem as we were not sitting on our crab’s sleek shell but rather on something that looked vaguely like an old-fashioned buggy seat, albeit made of hides and furs and ropes, and it was already more unsteady than I’d have liked. That was especially the case as the crabs sometimes headed for the trees when startled, using their pincers to grasp the trunks and allow them to make for the shelter of the canopy above. This one did not do that, thankfully, although it did whirl about and snap at the one that had just bumped into us.

I thought that was more of a warning, a ‘be careful there’ in crab speech, as no blood was shed. But the other didn’t take it that way and immediately snapped back, causing the two to begin fighting. That involved a lot of circling and clicking of pincers, and rearing back in attempts to climb on top of each other, which made our driver curse and whip our mount with the leather strop he carried, not that it did any good.

That sort of thing might have worked on horses, with their much thinner skins, but the crab’s shell was as hard as stone and I wasn’t sure that it even felt it. If it did, it did not stop snapping at the other one, or slinging us around, or screaming when the larger crab with Marlowe’s cage started crawling on top of it. And thus, on top of us.

I reached out and tried to push the creature off, which Ray was also doing on the other side of the bench. Only it weighed more than I had thought and was strong besides, bracing on its sturdy back legs and using the two huge front ones to wrestle with its opponent, while the ones in between kept the fey at bay who had run up to help from all directions. And, all the while, Marlowe sang on.

“Would you shut the hell up?” Ray screeched, holding back a giant pincer with difficulty.

“You really are very bad,” I added, trying to shame Marlowe into silence.

Neither approached worked.

But the fey were less kind, sticking spears through the cage bars, threatening to skewer him, I guessed being under the impression that his terrible vocals were what was causing all of the ruckus. They weren’t wrong, because the crabs’ fury definitely increased with every attempted high note. But reasoning, or even threatening, a master wasn’t likely to work.

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