Page 2 of The Spark that Ignites
Emmery lifted a brow right back, fished another coin from her pouch, and stacked it atop the first with more gusto than necessary. “On second thought, make it a double.”
Her fingers brushed the embroidered elk on the indigo pouch. It had been too easy to tug free from a distracted nobleman’s belt without his notice. A life she could fall into if the guilt weren’t eating her alive. But after dropping her coin in Bagsdead, what choice did she have?
Emmery scanned the pub, searching for whoever had left her the note. The walls covered in tacky oak panelling, were adorned with precariously hung hunting trophies. She glowered at a snarling wild cat. What was it with humans and unnecessary killing?
Maybe they’d mount her head on the wall next.
She watched with both disgust and fascination as a couple practically shoved their tongues down each other's throats. Her gaze lingered, likely too long not to be creepy, before tearing her attention away, her cheeks flaming.
But besides the dancing men sloshing ale onto the floor, there wasn’t anyone of note.
Except him.
At the back of the tavern sat a hooded man in a dark cloak. Between his pale complexion, copious weapons, and predatory stillness, he resembled a wraith amongst the lively tavern. Propped on his knee, his booted foot subtly bobbed to the music, but his firmly crossed arms screamedback away. The frayed stitching on his faded leather armour revealed years of wear.
Was he a mercenary? No ale sat on his table, so he clearly wasn’t there to drink.
Their eyes met and he gave her a miniscule nod toward the empty seat. An invitation to join him?
The barkeeper dragged her attention away as he slid a chipped glass with two fingers of brown liquid to her. “It’s a bit of a rowdy crowd tonight, I’m afraid. Big birthday celebration.”
His false concern brought a sneer to her lips. Besides humans’ astounding inability to understand anything other than themselves, they were vicious, despicable creatures. The last person who had genuinely cared for her was Fionn and, well, that was nearly a century ago. Either way, she could handle herself. Although her heart-shaped face and innocent eyes gave her a youthful look, she was likely double this man’s age.
Emmery exchanged the sneer for a smirk. “I’ll manage.”
The first sip of her drink washed away the stale spirits lingering on her tongue from earlier that day. The second fractionally smoothed her frayed nerves. She downed the rest, relishing in the familiar buzz before promptly ordering another.
Attempting subtlety as she glanced over her shoulder at the wraith-man, she decided to go chat with him and perhaps drop a subtle hint. But how would she broach it? She took a long drag of her drink, and her thoughts muddled. Screw it, she would make it up as she went along.
Her plan was thwarted as a hulking man claimed the seat beside her and signalled for a drink. His attention slid to her.
And locked.
Every muscle in her body went rigid. Time crawled to a stop. And despite her attempt to ignore him, his stare didn’t waver.
Emmery snuck a peek at his tidy, unblemished hands—far too clean to work on the fishing docks—and his neatly pressed uniform. The dismal grey fabric and unmistakable black bear stamped on the breast pocket made her blood ice over.
No. He couldn’t be. Because what business would one of King Silas’s guards have in a shabby tavern at midnight? And the way he was staring—
Shit. What if thiswasa set-up? What if he left that note to lure her here?
Emmery fought with every scrap of self-restraint not to adjust her collar as the guard studied her like he could see the demon lurking beneath her flesh. But that was impossible unless he saw her scars, or her magic flared—or worse, if he’d been there that day in Bagsdead.
“Busy spot here tonight,” the man said, the heavy bass of his voice severing the music. “Are you well this evening?”
Her shoulders tensed at the innocent small talk. “Fine,” she murmured, before adding, “thank you.” Clasping the glass in both hands to hide her quaking fingers, she lifted it to her lips.
To not raise suspicion, she’d finish her drink and make a hasty exit. But as the man smiled hungrily and a slow, oily feeling seeped into her gut, Emmery downed it in one gulp.
The guard lazily slapped two coins onto the counter and slid his stool into her path. “Another round for myself and the lady.”
The moment the barkeeper replaced his silvers with two drinks, the guard thrust it toward her. As the liquor lapped the sides of the glass, she debated what the real cost of that drink would be. Eyeing the liquid as if it were poison, Emmery didn’t dare touch it.
“I need to be going,” she muttered, but he backed her into her seat. Perhaps the shadowy cornerwasn’tthe wisest idea.
“It’s not every day I get to buy a pretty girl a drink,” he drawled and took a long pull from his glass. “I’m Fallon. And you are?”
He extended a hand, which she ignored, and got her first good look at his flawless skin, immaculately styled golden-hair, splatter of freckles across his nose, and cinnamon eyes fringed in thick lashes, nearly the same shade as her sisters. But they weren’t gentle like Maela’s.
