Page 63 of Stealing Tink

This would be a convenient time for the Nomad to turn around and help me, but he’s too busy calculating.

“We just passed the landmark!” he shouts, staring at his watch, counting seconds. “At this speed⁠—”

Too fast, I sign, horror rising. We’re going to miss the crossing by twenty seconds.

I land another kick to the guard’s face, knocking him unconscious.

The Nomad stares at the downed man for a beat too long, then yells, “Lars and Acel must be running late!”

Or they failed, I think. Which would be disastrous. For the mission, for our escape, for everything. We can’t jump the train at this speed. By the time the engineer slows down enough to be safe, we’ll be back in the Company’s guarded territory.

Options flash through my mind. None good.

The railing that serves as walls around the train tracks is charged, thanks to the faerie dust generators the Company supplies. They’re set slightly lower than the train itself, but that doesn’t do us much good. Not when we’d fry as soon as we made contact with the metal.

But.

The posts are capped in a material that repels the current. Which would be more helpful if the caps weren’t flying by us at an impossible speed, barely a whir in my vision. Not to mention, each cap can’t be more than a foot-length wide.

The horn of the other train blares in the distance. The Nomad and I glance at one another, a singular thought shared in that one look.

Too far. The other train is too far away. We’ll fly by the bridge before we ever cross paths.

That leaves us with one choice.

I struggle to think of how to communicate my plan to the Nomad, but it’s not as if rail capping has made it into my sign inventory, and I don’t have time to write.

The only sign I have that’s of any help is jump.

The Nomad stares at my hands, then glances up at my face, not bothering to hide that he’s clearly questioning my sanity. Or perhaps my spatial awareness.

I point toward the railing.

“Do you enjoy the scent of your own burnt flesh?” he shouts over the wind.

Frustrated, I point again.

“I don’t understand, Wanderer.” There’s no mocking in his voice.

It occurs to me that the Nomad isn’t going to understand until he sees my plan in action. Which means I need to jump with time for him to process before we make it to the bridge.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I spin, racing in the same direction the train is moving. Reach the side. Launch myself into the air, my only hope that the intuition I gained at the circus doesn’t fail me.

My right foot lands on one of the caps, but my momentum is still dragging me forward. Instead of resisting, I flow with it, bounding through the air, my left foot bouncing off the next cap. I continue like this, bouncing from cap to cap, until my momentum slows enough that I can balance without wavering, my heart climbing up my throat. The train barrels off, leaving me behind it.

I run, jumping from cap to cap, across the railing, following the train, waiting. Watching.

A figure flies off the side of the train. My body doesn’t halt, but my breath does.

The figure lands true.

I race toward the bridge and toward the Nomad, telling myself the entire way that my relief has nothing to do with his safety and everything to do with the mission.

By the time I reach where the Nomad is precariously perched on top of one of the railing caps, the passenger train is long gone.

“Do tell me,” he says as I approach, “was it your intention for me to follow you? That’s what I gathered, though now that I’m considering it, I’m wondering if you meant for me to stay behind. Or perhaps you were wanting me to jump, but only because you want me dead.”

I don’t have the signs to tell him we don’t have time for this, so I point to the train rounding the mountain instead.