Page 62 of Stealing Tink

Lars roars louder even than the squeal of the train and the train horn. He’s ranting something about injustice and social classes.

The head of security barks for Lars to shut up. But then there are two thuds—that would be Acel and the Nomad hitting the head of security and the server over the head—then two more thuds—presumably their bodies hitting the floor.

“Well, that was thrilling,” Lars says moments later as our crate creaks open.

Venus lets out a shudder and climbs out faster than I can register what’s happening. The Nomad stares into the crate and offers me a hand, which I take before I have time to think about it. When I do, I notice raised areas of skin on his hand—four of them, to be exact, red and in the exact spacing of my fingers. That’s not all I notice. Burn marks have appeared on two of the fingertips on his left hand. When he follows my gaze, he just gives me a wink and pulls me out of the crate.

The head of security, bound but very alive, takes my place as Acel and the Nomad haul him over into the crate and nail it shut. The server gets her own crate.

I glance to make sure there’s enough space for breathing. This is a passenger train, not one of the Company’s, and the head of security, as well as the server, are just trying to make their way through life like the rest of us. No reason they should suffer a concussion. Or death, for that matter.

“On to phase two,” says the Nomad, “which I know you’re all excited for.” He shoots a teasing glance in my direction. I roll my eyes and make my way toward the train car door—the one that leads to the front of the train. Lars and Acel have already beaten me there.

Don’t worry, Acel signs, nudging me on the arm. We won’t let you down.

Better not, I sign back, though my lip twitches—and so does his.

Lars disappears into the next car. I remain in the gap between the cars for a moment, watching the ground blur past beneath us. Somehow it feels even faster out here, probably because of the wind beating against my face.

“You ready?” the Nomad asks, leaving Venus behind to keep watch.

I shrug, then start climbing. One would think scaling a moving train would be more difficult, but the railing makes for easy handholds. And there’s a reason the Nomad assigned me this job. After braving tightropes, balance comes second nature.

At the top of the car, the wind slaps against my face, but I steady myself easily. Behind me, the Nomad’s boots clamber loudly.

I put a finger to my lips and glare. He lifts his palms in apology. That might work on this car, where the only inhabitants are Venus and two people currently nailed into a crate, but once we reach a more populated car, it’s going to be a problem.

I leap. My heart flies out of my chest as I sail through the air, but my feet land sure on top of the next car.

We’ll have to time this perfectly. We need to be on the caboose when the trains intersect. And that’s if—and it’s a big if—Lars and Acel pull off their part.

Still, as I get used to the perpetual sway beneath my feet, I pick up speed. The Nomad does too, his footsteps much quieter now.

We’re two cars from the caboose when a shout slices through the wind.

Both of us spin around to find a guard climbing onto the roof. Not the head of security. This one has the Company’s insignia on his jacket.

Of course, the Company would have someone watching the passenger train, in case there was a delay that caused the trains to meet at the crossing. And judging by his speed, they’ve employed a fae. Irritating, considering how much of this Company’s business is built on kidnapping faeries.

The guard lunges for me. I misjudge the distance, thinking he’s too far to catch me. He isn’t. His fingers clamp around my ankle and yank. My body slams against the roof of the boxcar, and my jaw cracks against hard metal. Pain sings through me. My pulse roars.

I twist, yanking my ankle out of his grip. He isn’t prepared, and when he lets go, I flip onto my back and kick him in the face. He yelps, then pulls a knife from his pocket.

Normally knives don’t scare me—if I have one of my own. But all passengers were searched before boarding. I’m unarmed, and if he’s reckless enough⁠—

The knife comes careening through the air.

It’s not an expert throw. It spins wildly—good and bad. It might hit me with the hilt, but catching it will be nearly impossible.

All of this I process in a blink.

No time to dodge. No time to reposition.

I throw up my arm and block.

The blade slices across my forearm, scraping bone before bouncing off, causing the hilt to crack against my forehead. Pain explodes behind my eyes. Blood gushes, the wind whipping it across the man’s face.

The knife skitters off the slanted roof and vanishes into the wind.