Page 23 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was hard to look at, like he had been yesterday. And his clothing appeared soiled and tattered, just like before.

“I can still see your ears,” she whispered, looking at the points which were just visible as ghostly outlines.

“Can you?” he asked lightly. “Interesting.”

Once again, he offered for her to mount the horse, and once again, she did so without his help.

But this time, she waited eagerly to feel him wrap his arms around her. And when he did, his scent was lighter than before, but still delicious.

He clucked to Echo, and the stallion surged forward instantly, belying his new appearance.

“You have what you need to save Jericho?” she asked Blackthorn, suddenly remembering what they were racing to do.

“I have the antidote,” he assured her.

She only hoped they hadn’t wasted too much time.

Chapter 12

Farrow

Farrow clung to Echo’s mane as they galloped through the square.

It was hard not to notice how plain the people were, how all the shopfronts were painted the same white with black lettering, or the unpleasant smells that were thick in the air.

She had been so young when the wall went up. Had there really been a little more magic here before?

“There,” she called out, pointing at the bakery.

Echo obeyed as if he understood her without Blackthorn’s help. He turned, practically sliding to a stop on the stones outside the bakery.

Farrow slipped off his back and ran for the shop, with Blackthorn at her heels.

The Closed sign was hung on the door, telling Farrow things were very bad. The shop could not afford to close its doors for a whole day.

But Jericho was like family. And he was dying.

“Wait,” Blackthorn breathed, pressing a glass vial into her hand. “The antidote.”

She took it and ran for the storeroom, slamming her hip into the wooden counter on the way and getting a painful reminder of the bruise she’d gotten when the elves had tossed her into the wagon. Had that really only been a few hours ago?

Behind her, Blackthorn followed silently.

Bursting into the room, she could tell immediately that Jericho was even worse than before. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, though the ends of his fingers and nose were a purplish color. He trembled on the mattress her parents had placed under him, hoping to ease some small part of his suffering.

Her mother ran her fingers through the boy’s hair, a worried look on her face. And her father sat on a stool in the corner, looking like he was trying not to cry.

“Farrow,” her mother said, looking up as she approached.

“I have an antidote,” Farrow said, kneeling on the mattress. “Jericho, can you hear me?”

His eyelids fluttered slightly.

“I’m so sorry,” Farrow whispered. “But I think I can help. You just have to open your mouth for me a little.”

Jericho made a mournful sound. His mouth was already hanging slightly open.

“I don’t want you to choke,” Farrow told him, cradling his head in her arms. “I just need you to try to swallow this for me.”

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