Page 23 of The Sorcerer's Thief
“Coin, I know.” I place my palm over my chest. “Out of the goodness of my heart this time, promise.”
He blows an irritated breath from his nose. “Why would you do that?”
“Boredom. Do you have a better idea to pass the time?”
The slow once-over caressing me from head to toe suggests he does.
Only my iron willpower keeps the warmth from my cheeks, but he’s not serious. Probably just getting me back for the pillow talk at the pub.
He relents. “Fine. I was trying to conjure flame, but it’s pointless. I’ve never been able to, so I don’t know why I tried now.”
“With sticks?”
“What else? Wood burns.”
If he was honest about how much magic he possesses, then teaching him flame shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s the first elemental magic most fae learn as children. Fire loves to be conjured. The problem lies more in snuffing it out than calling it forth.
“You won’t need sticks. Just your hand.”
“Won’t it burn me?”
No one’s ever taught him the most basic rules, then. What a shame. “Fire you call won’t hurt you, only others.”
“Oh.”
I reach out. “Give me your hand. I’ll conjure a flame so you can see what it feels like.”
“But ifyouconjure it, then itcanburn me.”
“Not if I don’t want it to.”
“So, I’m supposed to trust you?”
“In this, yes.”
Stalemate. I drop my hand. An eery hum rises from Cricket’s chest, monotone and the same note witches use in their protection chants. Not his chest. His inner vest pocket.
The coin.
We lock eyes.
“It’s warning me,” he says. “I shouldn’t trust you.”
The tone rises in pitch, vibrating as if it disagrees.
“Maybe it’s saying the opposite.” Promptly, the hum softens. My jaw hangs open stupidly. I didn’t expect to be right about that. “Does it often communicate with you?”
“Once in a while.”
A thousand questions spring to mind, but Cricket’s expression tells me he’s open to none of them. “Let me see it.”
“No.”
The sound is gone. And as much as I’d prefer to discuss the coin over the basics of elemental magic, now isn’t the time. He’s shutting down.
“Lessons, then.” I hold out my hand again, palm up. “Cricket, I can conjure a flame with or without your hand. There’s no point in questioning my motives. If I want to try and hurt you, I will. If the coin seeks to protect you, so be it. But this is no trick. My offer is genuine.”
The only sound is the steady trickle of the nearby stream as water carves her path ever deeper into the earth. The coin stays silent.
