Page 11 of The Sorcerer's Thief
Perhaps I’ll pack up and sneak away. Get a head start and test both his ability and resolve to follow me.
Yes, I’ll do that. Carefully I open my travel bag and pack my things.
Julian grunts drowsily. “Go to sleep, Cricket. I promise not to molest you in your dreams… Unless you ask me to, of course.”
Snail’s slime. “Of course.”
Giving up, I crumple to my bedroll, but I won’t turn away. Got to keep my eyes on him. Don’t trust weird, meatless, eight-fingered sorcerers.
Don’t trust anybody.
Chapter 4
Julian
Following the little mortal around becomes tedious fast.
But instead of wallowing in self-pity, I focus on the best part.
Orparts, as it were. Specifically, the two perky globes of his finely shaped bottom. Those and the lean muscles flexing in his shoulders as he hoists himself over a fallen tree trunk.
Yes, those parts are quite nice.
I haven’t walked this far in an age. I take portaling for granted and gate anywhere I need to go. In the process, I must have forgotten I had legs because now they ache from the long sunstrides we’ve traveled since the crack of dawn. Best not to dwell on pain lest it worsen.
Turns out, Cricket is a jumpy creature, all too easily startled, and pricklier than a rose bush. I don’t think he slept a wink. He’s been in a terrible mood today, even though the weather is favorable, the birds are chirping merrily, and there’s nary a cloud in the sky.
If anyone should be in a bad mood, it’s me.
My magic doesn’t work on Cricket, which annoys me to no end. I keep trying. A little zap here, a nudge there. Nothing. He’s totally unaffected.
That and we’re going south. And though I’d planned to head in this direction, I hate the south with a passion more fiery than a cornered pogglewump.
And no, I didn’t make them up, even if Cricket thinks I did. They’re as real as nillyslugs, but far more vicious, with three upper rows and two bottom rows of fanged teeth and breath that would wake the dead and make them beg to return to their coffins.
I’ve never let one get close enough to bite off a finger, but nobody needs to know the real story but me.
Cricket is an ass for asking.
And we’ve come full circle. Back to Cricket’s ass, which bounces ahead of me as if to say, “Yes, I know you’re staring. You can look, but you can’t touch.”
Yet my mood is light despite my grievances. I’m within spitting distance of the coin I’ve been searching for. All I need to do is convince Cricket to hand it over. I’m clever, resourceful, and persistent, so it’s only a matter of time.
To distract myself from the walking, I use my magic to search for edible plants. It requires complicated spellwork I developed from scratch, thus the skill brings a pleasant swell of pride each time I use it. Already I’ve collected four plums and a bag full of various nuts and seeds for whenever my cattle driver of a guide deems it time for a break.
Which I’m beginning to think will never happen, and as I’m sensing sweet sucker berries not far off the trail, it’s best to take matters into my own hands. “Cricket, wait.”
“Why should I?” he snaps from a dozen paces ahead, a stubborn distance he insists on by adjusting his pace if I get too close.
So rude.
But sharing is caring or some such, and I intend to win him over. “Aren’t you hungry?” Other than some hard bread this morning, he hasn’t eaten anything all day, and the sun is already sliding toward the horizon.
“It can wait until we camp.”
We.
Inwardly, I chuckle. He’s adapting to my presence, whether he wants to or not. “You’ll regret not stopping when my belly is full of delicious berries and yours isn’t.”
