Page 17 of Stealing Tink

“No time to think,” says the Nomad. “Walk out of this tavern and the deal’s void.”

Phoenix’s fingers flinch at her sides, while Venus works her lip. This is probably not in my best interest, but I grab the quill. Don’t worry. It’s just talk. He said the same thing to me before I walked away, yet here we are.

Phoenix’s brow rises. So does the corner of her lip.

The Nomad appears less pleased.

“We’ll contact you with our final answer,” says Phoenix before she turns toward the door, beckoning Venus to follow. Venus pauses, looking reluctant to leave, but she eventually slides out of her chair and hurries behind her friend.

“Was that really necessary?” asks the Nomad once the door closes behind them.

I might be incapable of speaking, but I find smirking just as effective as it’s always been.

CHAPTER 9

“Are you looking to get yourself killed?” asks my murderer from across the table.

I examine his stony eyes, his casual stare. Does he know how our fates intertwine? Would he consider murdering me his fate at all, or just another day on the job?

“Well, at the very least, you must not want your voice back as badly as I’d assumed. You do know we need those two to reclaim it.”

They’ll come back, I write.

The Nomad leans back in his chair. “And you know this, how, exactly?”

Because I did. Because they lost something precious to them, something intertwined with their identity. A piece of themselves.

I say none of this though. Instead, I write, What kind of magic did they possess?

The Nomad smiles. “We’ll just leave the answer to that question unsaid for now. I find curiosity quite the motivator.”

The bell on the tavern door dings. And, for the first time, I watch the Nomad’s face turn ashen. I glance over his shoulder at the newcomers, only to find two rather unassuming men in even less assuming robes cross the threshold.

“Don’t look at them. Look at me,” says the Nomad.

I make a point of dragging my gaze back to his as slowly as possible.

I wait for the Nomad to remark upon my stubbornness. Instead, his voice is biting, commanding for the first time. “I said look at me.”

It’s when I flick my gaze back to him that I notice the sweat beading on his forehead.

My inclination is to examine the newcomers more thoroughly, but the Nomad whispers, “This would be one of those occasions in which it would be in your best interest to do as I say.”

My best interest or yours? I say with my eyes.

From the conceding shrug the Nomad gives me, I take it he read my mind well enough.

“Seat yourself,” says the tavern hostess.

“No need,” says the first man. “We’re looking for one of your patrons. Seen him around?” He holds up a poster, and though the image is facing the tavern hostess, I glean enough about who is on said poster by the way the Nomad grimaces.

The hostess works her lip. Anyone else might assume she’s trying to place the face, but I know better. She’s served us twice tonight. The hesitation isn’t a matter of memory. She’s trying to decide who she should fear more. My gut reaction is the Nomad. But I’m probably biased. He does kill me every night.

But who is more terrifying than the men the most terrifying being in the world is afraid of?

Just then, one of the men turns his head in my direction, locking eyes with me. Except one of them is completely white, milky where there should be an iris and pupil.

“What did I tell you?” says the Nomad, voice agitated.