Page 11 of Lana Pecherczyk
“Not my problem, lady.” He skirted his table and physically shoved her away. “Go.”
“I will. But for the record, you’re a bit rude, mate.”
With nowhere else to turn, she continued stumbling through the market. The four crows had now multiplied to six and stalked her like a menacing motorcycle gang on clawed feet.
“Pssst.”
Blake halted and swiveled her head. Hot, prickly waves of nausea crashed over her. She put her cool palm on her forehead. God, she felt awful.
“Over here.”
She dragged her exhausted gaze around until she spotted a woman leaning against a wooden pole that propped up an orange canopy. Behind her was a stall made from rope tied between canvas-covered crates of bleating livestock. The woman herself wore grime like a second skin, her long hair hanging in matted clumps. Floppy deer-like ears twitched atop her head. Several teeth were missing from her smile. She looked far too young to be in such a state of disrepair.
“Are you talking to me?” Blake pointed at herself, shuffling closer.
The woman’s gaze dropped to the sequinned dress, then flicked to the still stalking crows who cawed warnings at anyone venturing too close.
“You a Rosebud Courtesan?” she asked.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Then why are you dressed for attention?”
Rude.
“This is all I have.” Blake threw up her hands, exasperated. “I must have fallen into the river, and it’s a miracle I survived. I’m just looking for a charger for me phone.”It’s my, not me—Jeff’s mocking taunt hit her along with a fresh wave of self-loathing. “A charger formyphone,” she corrected. “Please tell me you have one.”
Logic screamed for her to abandon this crusade, but surrender might crack her sanity. Clinging to common sense was all she had left.
“Are you—” The woman’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “—human?”
“Of course I am.”
“Ahh.” The grimy vendor beckoned Blake closer to a rickety table she stood near, then shouted something unintelligible toward the back of her stall. Someone lurked behind those crates. She popped a long stick of something hay-like into her mouth and chewed. The piece bobbed as she scrutinized Blake with shrewd eyes. Finally, she asked, “Are you one of those old-worlders?”
Old worlder.
Old.
Worlder.
The words reverberated in Blake’s mind. Some kind of primal self-preservation instinct made her shake her head.
“You’re not?” The woman’s gaze narrowed. “You sure seem like one with all that contraband.”
“I mean, Iamhuman. I just … the other man had mentioned contraband, too. Do you mean this?” Blake extended her phone with trembling fingers.
“And the rest of it.” She gestured at Blake’s clothes. “Even the old-worlder queen follows the rules of the Well now. The Seelie High King is a Guardian … you don’t know what a Guardian is, do you?”
Blake shook her head so violently that the dizziness surged. Nausea threatened to spew black goop from her lips. Her hands shot out, grasping the table edge. Her phone clattered against wood.
“Huh.” The woman’s skeptical gaze darted from Blake to the bejeweled phone, then widened at the engagement and wedding ring glinting on Blake’s finger. “A Guardian’s job is to uphold the integrity of the Well.”
“Okay. You mentioned that before. What’s the Well?”
Breathe. Just breathe slowly, and the dizziness will pass.
“You really don’t know, do you?” She spat out the hay, plucked a sequin from Blake’s dress, bit it, and then inhaled its scent. “Yep. This is plastic, alright. You’re in big trouble, lady.”
