Page 2 of Stealing Tink

If I’m being honest with myself, it’s not a waking nightmare, a sleeplike paralysis that has my arms hanging limp at my sides. Soon, the Nomad will carry me out of the garden, away from the only remaining people in the world who care for me.

I’m just so tired.

Tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of falling asleep, only to find no respite there.

Perhaps this is why the Nomad has frequented my dreams since childhood. Perhaps he knew all along that if he could steal the rest from my slumber, make me crave the nothingness experienced by everyone else, then when this day came, and it was time to take my life, I’d be more than happy to let him.

Just as long as death is quiet. Just as long as death has no dreams.

“Don’t fret, Wanderer,” he says. “I’ve got you now.”

Wanderer.

He calls me that sometimes before he bleeds me.

CHAPTER 2

This time, when the Nomad murders me, it’s with a pillow over my face.

It’s the silk kind, soft against my skin as it occludes my mouth, as the pressure collapses my nostrils. Ice spikes in my lungs. They’re running out of air, but no matter how desperately I thrash, no matter how deep I dig my nails into my murderer’s wrists, I find no air to supply them.

My lips part against the pillowcase, my desperate plea for mercy silenced before it leaves my tongue.

“I regret it had to come to this,” my murderer purrs. “I doubt you’re inclined to believe me, but I really could have done without chasing you around the world. Rather inconvenient, if I do say so myself.”

I can’t make out what else he says. It’s rather difficult to hear when you’re dying.

When I wake, it’s to drool-stained silk across my cheek. I jolt, the memory of my murder spurring my aching muscles into action. My bare feet meet the bitter cold of the wooden floorboards, grounding me.

One would think that by now, it would take me less time to recognize that I’m not actually dead.

Now that I’m certain I’ve returned to reality, I assess my surroundings. The room is almost empty, the silk sheets out of place when compared to the bed frame, which looks to be almost as worm-eaten as the only other piece of furniture in the room, a wooden dresser with half of its knobs missing.

There is no window, but I can still hear the lapping of waves outside, feel the almost imperceptible sway of movement below my feet.

If I’m lucky, we’re still close to land.

I’m rarely lucky.

I don’t know why the Nomad hasn’t killed me yet. And I certainly don’t know why he felt the need to supply my bed with such fine sheets. What I do know is that I have a limited window to get out of here, and the gap between that particular window and its sill is narrowing by the minute.

Luckily for me, there’s never been a cage I haven’t been able to escape. Eventually. Not even Neverland. The Nomad might be the most fearsome criminal in the world, but he’s not the keeper of an alternate realm, so at least I have that going for me.

Without bothering to check whether the door is unlocked (the Nomad is no fool), I scavenge the room for anything that might help me pick it. I’ve been making my own lock picks since I was ten. A particularly grisly dream in which the Nomad starved me to death in a dank cellar prompted the pursuit of that skill set.

Of course, there’s a reason this room is practically empty. One doesn’t simply store prisoners in the same room as spare tools. The drawers of the dresser creak as I slide them open, but they’re vacant. There’s a closet door to my left, but when I try to open it, the handle refuses to budge.

Inconvenient, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. I stare down at my hands and smile.

They forgot to trim my nails.

Lady Whittaker called them talons. I chose to take that as a compliment. Never mind that I’d stopped trimming my nails as a child because some fortune teller in the marketplace told me it was bad luck and would summon an early death.

As an adult, do I understand that she was just trying to scare me into buying her nail-stunting elixir? Sure.

I still don’t like trimming them, though.

I drop to my knees and scan the floorboards with my open palms until I find what I’m looking for. There’s a plank at the foot of the bed that’s suffered from the bed frame sliding one too many times. While this one is smooth and will do me no good, it’s been worn down enough that the plank adjacent to it juts just slightly, allowing me plenty of space to dig my nails into the divots of the wood.