Page 9 of The Sorcerer's Thief
“Well, we can’t always have what we’d prefer.”
Julian plucks a gray woolen blanket from thin air and spreads it right next to me. Too close. He settles with an elegant movement a man as tall and lanky as he shouldn’t be capable of and stretches his long legs toward the flames, one ankle crossed over the other.
Casually he leans back on his elbows as though he belongs here. As though we’re travel partners, journeying together, about to share a meal and a drink before bed. As though we’ve done this countless times. As though this is our routine.
I could scream. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting comfortable.” He rolls his eyes. “I should think that much was obvious.”
Both the fire and my temper heat my face. I don’t deem that worthy of a response, so we stew in silence.
When Julian speaks again, his voice has softened. “I’d like to know your name, and before you say, ‘You can’t always get what you’d like,’ take a moment to consider. I’ll have to call you something. Would you rather I come up with a moniker myself? Or would you prefer to be called by your proper name?”
By the weeds, he’s irritating. “Cricket.”
Julian hums. “Nice name. Suits you.” He smiles. A real-looking smile this time, which only serves to stoke my simmering anger.
“We’re not friends.”
“Not in the slightest,” he agrees all too amicably. “My magic doesn’t work on you, which makes me dislike you on principle.”
I narrow my gaze. “Then why are you acting like we’re friends?”
“Would you rather I be unpleasant at you? I’m happy to accommodate.”
“I’m sure you are. And no. If you insist on hanging around, you may as well be pleasant.”
“That’s what I thought. Where are you headed?”
“Home.”
“Which is…?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because wherever you’re going, that’s where I’m going. Until you hand over the coin, that is. If you want to be rid of me, that’s the quickest way.”
My thoughts flick to the dagger hidden in my boot. “Or I could kill you in your sleep.”
A full-belly laugh asserts his confidence. “I’d love to see you try.”
Maybe Ishouldtry, if only to wipe the cocky smirk off his know-it-all face.
“But, in truth, don’t. I can’t be held responsible for defending myself when awoken by an attacker. Whether you believe me or not, I don’t wish you harm.”
“I don’t believe anything anyone tells me. It’s nothing personal. Except you seem extra shady. So maybe it is personal.”
This brings another rumbling chuckle from deep in his chest. I shift my attention to the bird on the spit and turn it to cook more evenly. Let him laugh. What do I care?
Julian watches with a difficult-to-read expression. Hungry or horrified? Both?
“I’m not sharing the pigeon,” I mutter. He can steal his own supper.
“Ew.” He scrunches his nose. Horrified, then, which is somehow cute on him. “As if I’d take a single bite. I don’t eat animals.”
Huh? “Then what do you eat?”
“Fruits, vegetables, beans, nuts, bread…”
