Chapter Three
Dread coiled inside her belly. She watched the face pull back, the legs swing over again as he dropped like a leaf to the ground in front of her. Not Shade at least, not that it helped her much. Still, whatever he was, Shade would have been worse. Shade would have meant the end of her.
“Nice night for it.”
“Excuse me?” She squinted and made her voice tremble. Her hand slid under a fold of cloak, fumbled for the bag of soft powder.
“Nice night, lovely moon, a little magic.” His voice matched his build, wily, lithe and never quite holding completely still. A lightweight cloak swirled at the back of his knees, and though the moonlight beyond made him a swath of shadow, his eyes sparked yellow with the word, magic, and she knew she’d been right about his blood.
“I suppose it would be.” How much had he seen? She shrugged and squatted in her original position. Her fingers pried the bag of dust open, and she waited for his next move, mustering her best innocent smile.
“That’s a neat trick.” He hopped forward and put up both hands, palms facing out. His head tilted to one side, and his features caught an angle of moonlight. Sharp nose, high cheekbones and a wide, thin grin, Gentry if her eyes could be trusted, and not just a trace of it. “How’d you do it?”
“I’m sorry, what?” He hadn’t seen the device, only noticed the warmth, possibly smelled the subtle tint of magic in the air beneath the staircase. Hard to deny, that, and she fell back on her only other option. “You mean the heat?” She blinked, widened her eyes to the point that only one with her special talents—with her sort of blood—might achieve. “That’s nothing. A toy I purchased in the south.”
“Sure it is.” His voice rose and fell more than was ordinary. Not unpleasant, but enough to mark his difference. He ducked under the stones and dropped into a pose that mirrored her own. Cocky, not at all concerned with hiding what he was. “May I see it?”
“Why?”
“I have an interest in trinkets.”
“And why is that?” The dust felt smooth and warm against her fingertips. It surged with potential, gave her the strength she needed to feign confidence. She stared back at him, waited, and the moment warbled. It could go in either direction, magic in its own right, a crossing place.
He shrugged and laughed higher and shriller than any human should. Satina let out a long breath and nodded. She allowed a smile of her own. He meant her no direct harm. Not tonight at least.
“I own a shop,” he said. “Not far from here. You might say trinkets like the one you’re hiding in that lovely cloak are my specialty.”
“Then there’s a village nearby?”
“Not much of a walk, even.”
“Starlight?” She pointed to the sigil with the hand not buried in her dust. His face shifted, followed the gesture, and he cracked a wider grin.
“Not much use for either here.”
“And yet, the tag.”
“Maybe it’s old.”
“Maybe.”
They stared again. She found him charming, in a fashion. He was quick to smile and unabashed to the point of brazenness in his refusal to be ordinary. Yet his dramatics hid a sharper edge. He had an aura of danger. It flared every time his eyes shifted.
In the distance, the soft rhythm of feet squelched against the muddy road. Someone trod that ribbon path, and at this hour, she guessed they had a good reason to be out. The stranger in her shelter didn’t look, but his cheek twitched, and his smile curved at a sharper angle.
“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?”
“A little business to attend to.”
“For the shop?”
“Perhaps.” He jumped backwards, straightening and landing on his feet in a patch of moonlight. “Come to town, my dear. The place is impossible to miss.”
“I just might do that.”
“You can show me that trinket.”
He knew more than she would have liked. His voice pegged her lie. It said he knew exactly what she was. Satina smiled and shrugged. The squishy steps grew louder. The stranger bowed, swirled his cape and tilted his head, eyes flashing one last time before he scampered toward the road. If her presence gave him any pause, he didn’t show it.
He reached the roadside and hesitated. His head turned left and right and then he leapt into the air, landing on a boulder that stood a few feet higher than the rest. He perched there, posing, if she’d judged him correctly. The moonlight outlined his figure, the cape swirled, and his eyes flashed once in her direction before his business came shuffling around the bend.
A young boy. Satina frowned and leaned a little forward. Not her matter, whatever he was up to. Not at all. She sniffed and pulled her fingers from her powder, brushing them together to dislodge as much as possible back into the pouch. No good to waste it here. Not with a whole moon cycle ahead.
The boy stopped in the middle of the road. He wore coarse clothing, a hood but no cloak, and shoes that hadn’t been built to weather mud like that. She judged him to be somewhere near his eleventh or twelfth year and very nervous. He turned and took a step toward the stairway. The stranger stood abruptly. Satina heard the soft cadence of his speech, but the words drowned in the boy’s squeal of alarm. The child staggered back into the road and wobbled, nearly sat in the mud when the man jumped down from his rock and swirled into another bow.
Showmanship. She had to give him that much, though the situation made her fingers twitch toward her dust again. The conversation happened in whispers, but she knew the score. She knew, when the boy handed over a sack of something, what her stranger was. A Skinner, and one with Gentry blood. He offered the boy his prize, a small object, possibly a book, and then he sprang back to his rock, bowing low before leaping into the trees and out of sight.
Damn. Satina cursed her luck and Skinners everywhere. She watched the boy and told herself to stay out of it. She didn’t need trouble, didn’t need a reputation so quickly. The pocket had only just landed her here. Maybe just for this reason. She frowned and scanned the tree line. He wouldn’t have gone far unless that sack held something particularly valuable or dangerous. No. She knew a thing or two about Skinners. He’d want to watch and see his handiwork unfold.
As if on cue, the boy howled. Satina closed her eyes and counted. Not her business. Not so soon. She hadn’t even found a place to settle. But the bawling from the road wormed under her skin. The child was in distress. She peeked out from under her arch and let out a very long exhale. Her dust would never last the whole moon, not at this rate. Not with a Skinner handy.
She didn’t really even need to use it. She could just march out there and fix things. Still, her hand slid to the pouch again. A smile found her lips, and her eyes flashed. Her fingers slid back into the powder. The Skinner wasn’t the only one who could put on a show.
Satina dug into the silky contents, her fingers pulsing with the dust’s power. She drew them out, took a breath to watch them shimmer even in the deep shadows under the ruin. Then she ran them through her hair, wiped a smear along the collar of her cloak and patted a touch at each invisible symbol stitched into the hem. Silence. Safety. Grace. The cloak had more of magic to it in embroidery than a trace of dust, but the powder made it glow, let ordinary eyes see what ordinarily was hidden.
If the Skinner still hid inside the trees, he gave no hint. No eyes flashed in her direction when she slid into the open. She believed he was there, just the same. Satina imagined him slunk low in the shadows, very interested in what she might do next. She tiptoed closer to the ribbon road, running both hands down the sides of her gown, over her waist and hips. The gesture left a glowing accent under the cover of her cloak.
She inhaled and closed her eyes, found her center of power and pulled at the tiny spark that was her blood right. It responded with a flood of warmth. Her fingers tingled. Satina let the power build. She nudged it into the symbols, into the powder and felt her body flare with magic. The sobbing
from the roadway stopped. Her cue. She threw her arms wide and spun.
The dust lit her like a candle. She sparkled, a swirl of power and fabric and long, silvery hair. Her arms lifted over head, undulating and enhancing the spin. When she stopped, they drifted down and threw her cloak back over her shoulders. The boy in the road gaped at her.
His face streaked where his tears had cleaned away a layer of grime. His wide eyes were still shot with red, and he sniffled loudly and held up his hands. They were stuck fast to the Skinner’s trap.
“What is that thing?” The trouble he grasped between his palms didn’t look like much, a thin box, not a treasure worth risking a midnight encounter with a Skinner for.
“Don’t hurt me.” His lower lip trembled.
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re magic.” He labeled the obvious. “Like him.”
“Maybe not so like him as you think.”
He didn’t believe her. She’d grown used to that, the taint of suspicion, the nervousness. He’d take a little convincing—most of them did.
“What is that thing?”
“It’s supposed to be a game.” He held it up to the wan light and sniffed again. “I can’t let go of it!”
“And I suppose you paid him for it?” He only nodded and trembled, hands caught fast in the Skinner’s binding spell. “I hope it wasn’t too much.”
“Everyone in town has one.”
“A booby-trapped box?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” She made her sigh heavy enough to carry as far as the woods. “Well, let me see what I can do.”
“Y—you’re going to help me?”
“If you wish it.”
“I don’t have any more money.”
Satina scowled hard enough the boy stepped back. She softened quickly, waved him forward and surveyed the damage. The sigil was a simple thing to undo. The Skinner had dusted the rim with something, not the generic stuff. She leaned close and sniffed it.
“Can you make it stop?”
“Yes.”
“My dad could pay you.” She heard the fear in his words. No doubt his father didn’t know about tonight’s transaction.
“There’s no charge.” She ran her finger over the charm and felt for the release. At least, he hadn’t meant to hurt the boy, not in any real way.
“Why?”
“Why what?” A surge of power and the binding fell apart—the box became a normal thing again. The boy dropped it in the mud, then bent as if to retrieve it. “Best to leave it alone,” she warned. Who knew what secondary spells it hid?
“I know what you are,” the boy whispered.
Satina ignored him. Her plans had not included this, but she’d adapt. She smiled, held one finger to her lips. It still glowed enough to make his eyes stretch again. “Best be heading home, now.”
He snatched at the suggestion and took off running.
She waited till he’d scrambled out of sight before turning toward the woods. No Skinner. No flashing glance. The trap still lay in the rut, harmless if she could trust her sight. The boy who’d wanted it enough to risk a Skinner’s bargain left it behind without a glance back. Satina bent and lifted it. He’d pegged her as easily as the Skinner had.
Granter.
Her story would reach the village long before she did.
Chapter Four
Unlikely Page 3
