Page 25 of To Sway a Bard
“To pay my friends,” she answered truthfully, thinking of Issa, who’d scouted for her, and the gangof thieves she owed a share of the cut. They could have the entire purse for all she cared.
“You still owe us,” Scarred Joe hissed.
Zula’s shoulders went stiff. So it was to be like this—one last trick. Stepping back into the circle of thieves, she faced Scarred Joe. “What do you need me to do?”
“It’s time to pay her a visit.”
And a hood was yanked over her head.
Zula clutched the ukulele as they led her through the jungle. Blindfolded, she often tripped over roots and ran into leaves and vines. The silent party led her deeper into the heat, pushing her ahead whenever she slowed down or tripped.
The sack over her head made the humidity worse. Soon, her curls were stuck to her neck, and she felt lightheaded, almost dizzy. She was sure it was their way of punishing her for the delay in retrieving the treasure, but she kept her patience by imagining how much she’d like to punch each one of them in the nose.
At last they slowed down, and with one more push, the sack was snatched off Zula’s head. She blinked, expecting light, not the dusky, dim room of a hut. Her skin crawled. The place was empty, but she had no doubt she’d been there before. The scent of old mushrooms lingered, black feathers lay in the corners, and great globs of mold crept across the ceiling, rendering the hut unlivable. Moss carpeted the floor, the jungle eager to take back the abandoned hut.
Zula held her ukulele tight, fingers buzzing, itching to play, to take herself far, far away. The air shifted with the acrid scent of power as a woman dressed in black walked through the wall.
Womanwas a kind word for the witch. Her shape was vaporous, void, and wrong. Her cheeks were hollow, and her eyes were nothing more than pure black orbs devoid of irises. She glided to a stop across from Zula, maintaining her distance. Nevertheless, Zula felt her suffocating essence fill the room.
“I heard there was a bit of a mix-up with the sheriff,” the witch purred.
Her voice had a lulling note to it, and Zula felt like she was underwater, listening to someone speak above her. “There was,” she heard herself say, as though she were outside of her body and not actively part of the conversion. “But it’s over now.”
“Is that the story you tell yourself?”
Zula tried to banish memories of his kisses from her thoughts, unsure if the witch could read minds. “It’s true,” she said weakly.
“I hoped you’d say the opposite, that you were pining to return to life in the palace, for another invitation to a masquerade. Hopefully you didn’t ruin any of the precious relationships you built with them.”
A sinking sensation rippled through her belly, because she had ruined everything. “I stole the trolls’ treasure. I came to uphold my end of the bargain.”
“You?” The witch laughed, holding her side. “Youstole the treasure?Youreturned to uphold your end of the bargain? Those thieves practically had to drag you. You would have double-crossed me if you had theguts. I was deeply unhappy with your performance, allowing yourself to get caught like that. I made you who you are—the Blue-Feathered Bard, the legendary uncatchable thief! You’ve sullied your reputation and now the trolls will think twice before going to war against the kingdom, all because of that silly sheriff. So, no, you did not complete or uphold your end of the bargain. But I’ll give you one last chance. Bring me the buried harp, and you, and your father, will walk free. It is the treasure of all treasures, buried for thousands of years, so I’ll give you more time. You have thirty days.”
Rage boiled in Zula’s belly. She gritted her teeth, trying to hold back the wails and rants that rose to her lips. It was all unfair. Horribly unfair. “The buried harp has been lost for centuries. It’s impossible to find.”
“Is that so? You should ask your friends at the palace.”
Zula’s throat went dry. “How can I trust that you won’t go back on your word and give me another assignment?”
The witch glided toward the wall, waving her hand—if it could be called a hand. “You don’t have a choice, do you?”
Zula’s shoulders sagged as the witch disappeared, and tears of disappointment stung her eyes. She wrinkled her nose, trying to hold them back, then burst out of the foul hut.
Neo had been right. She should have trusted him.
23
NEO
Head throbbing, Neo moved gingerly through the jungle, conscious of the forthcoming sunset. He sensed the aura of her presence moments before he saw her. Pausing beside a papaya tree, heavy with unripe fruit, he waited for her to notice him.
She grimaced when she saw him, brown eyes widening, then lingering on his bandaged head. Awkwardly, he touched his bandage, aware it made him look more injured than he was, which might be to his advantage.
“My sister made me wear it,” he said by way of greeting.
Zula always looked beautiful to him, but now he sensed her frustration and utter devastation. Something terrible had transpired. Her hair was a wild tangle, her dark eyes red-rimmed, and she radiated an angry aura he’d never felt before. It eclipsed the fury she’d directed at him for capturing her. Her energy had shifted to something feral and desperate.
She limped closer, but he held out a palm, warding her off.
