Page 19 of Stealing Tink

“That dagger would come quite in handy right about now,” says the Nomad, just as the man closes his hands around the Nomad’s throat.

I’m tempted to let the man choke the Nomad out, if not for the fact that he’s my future murderer, then because I’m rather irritated that the man who ruined my killing shot is now asking for me to hand him the dagger I intercepted.

“Wanderer!” says the Nomad. “The dagger, please.”

I’d rather stab the man myself, but since the Nomad seems so intent on doing it, and I already have mud caked on my robe and don’t like the scent of blood, I toss him the dagger.

He catches it out of the air just before plunging it into the male’s throat.

CHAPTER 10

I had him back there, I scribble on the notepad as soon as the Nomad leads me back to his office. The slog through the mud on the way back to the Nomad’s ship was frustrating, to say the least, and not because of the pelting rain.

I’d wanted so badly to tell him off. But one can only do so much with facial expressions in the dark.

The silent treatment doesn’t go quite as far when you can’t speak to begin with.

“Ah, couldn’t wait to get that out, could you?” he says, glancing at the parchment before taking a seat at his desk.

I freeze, all except for my fingers, which tremble on the quill in reaction to his flippant comment. I would snap back at him, except my shaking hands render my retort illegible, anyway.

The Nomad glances at my hands, then back up at me, his smirk disappearing somewhere between the shaking quill and my flared nose.

“I shouldn’t make light of your condition,” he says. It’s not quite an apology, and it sounds more like a statement about some code he’s violated than anything to do with my feelings. It surprises me all the same, though the concession is probably only because he’s not stupid and wants to keep me from leaving.

“I know you had him back there,” he says.

Then why did you sabotage me?

“Because you’re not a killer.” He says it so casually.

You don’t know me.

The Nomad pauses, watches me for a long while. It’s a game, and he’s waiting for me to break eye contact. I don’t.

Finally, he’s the one to break, but not with his eyes. “I don’t mean that you don’t have it in you. Granted, I don’t think you’d murder anyone in cold blood. But I think if it came down to your survival and theirs… Well, you don’t keep your fingernails that long to serve as a letter opener, I presume. What I mean is that you haven’t killed before.”

I blink, confused. How did you know that?

“I just know,” he says, frustrating me all the more.

You could answer at least one of my questions directly, I write.

The Nomad nods toward the desk chair facing him. “I’d ask you to sit, but that particular gesture has not been well received as of late.”

When I don’t sit, he says, “Killing taints the soul in a manner nothing else quite matches. I didn’t want you to waste it on such a boring kill as that buffoon.”

He’s teasing me, but there’s a hint of sadness behind his words, something I can’t quite unlock. Surely the Nomad, the notorious criminal, feels no guilt about all the people he’s killed. He might be correct about it tainting the soul, but from everything I know about killers, the act calluses the soul as well.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t stop you from killing the right person.”

Not sure what to make of that, I tap my fingers on his desk.

“Well, now we wait, I suppose,” he says. “Assuming you’re correct about Phoenix and Venus returning. But I would have preferred avoiding a delay.”

I take the notepad and write, If you’re waiting for an apology, you’re not going to get it.

The Nomad actually laughs at that one. “You think me simple. Still, while we wait to see whether you’ve ruined any hopes of us getting what we want, we might as well make the time productive.”