Page 5 of Stealing Tink

He grins, and where I’d expect to see a few rotten teeth, given his profession’s reputation for scurvy, his set is full. His ears are pointed, which explains the nice teeth.

And also why I can’t simply knock him out cold.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

I anticipate this being the first of many moments I’ll wish I’d killed Peter instead of merely maiming him—if I make it out of this alive, that is.

Nothing snags attention quite like silence. Answer simply, and you’ll be forgotten within the hour. Neglect to answer, and you’ll raise all sorts of questions in the other person’s mind. Why is she being rude? Is it because I smell funny? Wait, no. Is something wrong with her? Surely something is wrong with her. I’m certain I bathed today. Can she not hear me, or can she simply not speak back? I wonder if she’s always been this way or if something happened to her.

The inability to answer had caused no small amount of trouble for Michael and me when we first returned to our realm, more than a few mishaps before Madame Whittaker found us and took us in.

Thankfully, the guard is arrogant enough to fill in the blanks himself. “Don’t be shy. I know I can be intimidating. But I’m not that scary.”

To my surprise, there’s something genuine about the way he says it. Once, I might have found a man like this charming. Okay, maybe not charming, but amusing at the very least.

But he’s standing between me and my path of escape.

I bite my lip and glance down, the rim of the bonnet offering me a chance to look at his belt. To my surprise, there’s no sword, only a set of shackles. That’s going to be inconvenient. If he were human, I could overpower him. But a fae male? Hand-to-hand, I’m going to come out weaker every time.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” he says, suspicion creeping into his tone. Here’s to hoping no one on this ship knows that the faerie the Nomad’s hunting can’t speak, including the Nomad himself.

I have no choice. I glance up, meet his eyes, and smile. Slowly, hesitantly, I take his arm and trace the first name that comes to mind onto his forearm, my finger looping each letter with what I hope is a feminine flourish.

“Aurora,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. His shoulders relax, suspicion draining from his face at my touch. “Well, Aurora⁠—”

I tighten my grip on his arm and twist until I hear a crack. There’s a moment’s pause before the pain registers, which I use to my advantage, snatching the bonnet from my head and stuffing it into his mouth before he can scream.

Yet again, I have changed my mind. Definitely buying more bonnets.

The muffled cry comes seconds later, but by then he’s already off balance. I shove him forward, grab his good arm, and wrench both behind his back as I kick his knees out from under him. He collapses with a thud.

Before he can recover, I grab the shackles from his belt and snap them around his wrists. He thrashes, gagged and furious, and it won’t be long before someone below hears us struggle.

When I snatch the ring of keys from his belt, he glares, but it’s got the look of being more furious with himself than with me.

I leave the man with a pat on the head, to which he grimaces, then dart down the empty corridor until I reach the door I’m looking for. It’s less ornate than I expected, though the carvings of panthers clawing at one another under a crescent moon are hard to miss. But I don’t have time to wonder about the Nomad’s taste in décor. I shove the first key into the lock and twist. Nothing. Then another. Still nothing.

By the time I reach the last key, I’ve nearly given up hope. So far, my life has not been the type to infuse me with the kind of optimism that would lead me to suspect that the last key will be the correct one. Besides, now that I consider it, it’s unlikely the Nomad would let some random guard keep a key to his chambers.

I’ve already halfway decided the deck might not be such a bad idea after all when the final key turns smoothly, and the lock clicks open.

I tamp down the surge of relief in my chest. This is still only a hunch. The last time I trusted my instincts, I lost my voice.

The Nomad’s room is decadent, to say the least. Every object possesses at least one unnecessarily expensive jewel or mineral, from the rubies decorating the bedposts to the golden thread shimmering in the tapestries hanging from the wall.

But I’ve no time to marvel. My first stop is the bookcase. Everyone who fancies themselves a mastermind loves to hide a secret passage behind one. This one happens to be crafted from the almost extinct redwoods of Kruschi. As if I needed another reason to detest this man. I run my hands along every spine and knob. Nothing.

Maybe the Nomad actually is clever. Or maybe my hunch is wrong, and I’ve just made it easier for him to kill me. He can do it at the same time he retires for his afternoon nap. I’m sure as the captain of this ship, he’ll appreciate the efficiency.

I glance toward the bed, noting the silk sheets, then drop to my hands and knees to check the floorboards. No trapdoor.

Hurried voices carry from outside in the hallway. They must have found the guard I bound. Stupid. Should have dragged him in here with me.

Heart pounding, I jump to my feet and go for my last hope—the tapestries on the wall. I’m sure they’re intricate and beautiful and tell marvelously vicious stories of the Nomad’s conquests, but I’ve no time to admire them.

So I start ripping.

Not the tapestries themselves. I have a modicum of appreciation for the fine arts. But off they come from the wall, nonetheless. Except for one. The tapestry closest to the bed only comes off one hinge, folding over itself like a curtain while it hangs from a single sconce.