Page 22 of A City of Emeralds and Envy
He shakes his head, sunlight glinting on bright blue earrings. “I have been robbed of my magic and my strength, such as it is.”
I lift an eyebrow, surveying his lean, toned figure. “You look strong to me.”
“Not strong enough. Please go, before they devour you too.” His eyes dart to the left, and my gaze follows.
One of the dead crows lies there. As I watch, its beak clicks shut, and its claws stretch out. The limp wings twitch.
In the distance, against the blue sky and the creamy clouds, black-winged shapes are rising, one after another, wheeling through the morning air.
Fuck, they’re not dead. All the bodies I saw on the way here—they’re living birds. And I’m out here, weak from hunger, weaponless, alone with this helpless Scarecrow.
Where is Riordan? Did he give up on me so easily?
Struggling up the slope of the hill, I duck behind the Scarecrow and pick frantically at the knots. Why are there so many of them?
“It’s not that I’m ungrateful,” says the Scarecrow, “but if you do this, you’ll die as well.”
“I won’t let you be eaten to bones just so we can get to the forest.” I manage to loosen a loop of the knot holding one of his arms to the crossbeam. “I wish I had a knife, or Fae teeth, or magic—”
An idea springs into my mind—a mad idea, but it’s the only one I’ve got. As Caer once said, everyone’s mad in Faerie.
I dart to the crow that’s twitching awake and seize its body in both my hands. It flails suddenly, emitting a croaking screech that’s cut off by a skillful flex of my fingers and thesnapof its neck. I’m a farmer’s daughter. I know how to kill a bird.
Holding its body with one hand, I pinch its head between the fingers of my other hand, forcing its beak open. The serrated edges are just what I need—and I’m shocked to find there are tiny rows of actual teeth inside the crow’s beak, too.
Frantically I saw at the ropes around the Scarecrow’s ankles, but my actions have stirred the nearby birds, and they’re rising. One after another they hop upright, stretch their wings, and take to the sky. They fly in slow circles at first, but their speed and the intensity of their cries increase with every passing second. The sound of their flapping wings fills the air, a thunderous threat.
The Fae’s ankles are free. Now for the ropes around his thighs. His pants have been torn nearly off him, and as I work on his bonds, I notice ravens in flight, tattooed along the inside of his right leg.
“So many tattoos,” I mutter, breathless with the effort of sawing as fast as I can.
“I’ve been marked for sacrifice since I was very young,” he replies. “I will beg you one more time, sweet stranger, to leave me and run.”
“No.”
His thighs are free, but the crows are a thick tempest now, darkening the sky in a storm of midnight wings. None of them have descended toward us, though—they just keep whirling round and round in a cyclical formation. Strange.
As I move behind him and set to work on the ropes binding his arms, two figures emerge from the cornfield onto the grassy knoll—Riordan in his armor and Dorothy, her eyes fixed on the sky. She has managed to sling the basket onto her back, and both her hands are lifted, her fingers crooked with tension. Fiero trots at her heels.
“Hurry,” she says. “I have them in a holding pattern, but I’m not sure how long I can maintain it.”
I’d forgotten that she has two variants of her ability—moving the inner molecules of a non-living substance, and speeding up movements that living things are already performing.
“That’s brilliant!” I exclaim. “Keep it up! Riordan, help me get him down.”
“You’ll get us all killed,” he growls, but he climbs the hill, towering over the young Fae bound to the post. He slices through two of the ropes with one slash of his sharp metal fingers.
The Scarecrow falls forward, crashing onto his hands and knees. As I help him up, his scent rushes over me—warm and sweet and wholesome, like summer grass and freshly baked bread. His skin is soft, hot, and smooth. He manages to stand, one arm draped over my shoulders. With his other hand he tears off the straw hat that was hanging against his back. The crown and the top of the brim have been painted with strange symbols—probably another spell.
He tosses the hat away as Dorothy says, in a strained voice, “We should probably start running for the woods now.”
A rumble of frustration issues from Riordan’s helmet. “Since you refuse to leave him behind…” He steps in and picks up the Scarecrow in his metal-plated arms, like a knight carrying a damsel in a fairytale. “Go,” he says tersely. “You and Dorothy run north, and I’ll bring up the rear.”
“Don’t abandon him, Riordan. Please.” I stare into the eyeholes of his helmet, wishing I could see those molten scarlet eyes of his.
“Run,” is his only answer, and Dorothy races past me with a panicked, “Run, Alice!”
Her cry is punctuated by a shift in the air, and the sudden enraged screams of a thousand ravenous crows.
