Page 104 of Cursed Shadows 5

Eamon cuts off for a paint table.

He started just a touch away from my arm—and in a sweeping moment, our hands are tugged apart, and he’s at the blocked opening of a lane, and I’m being carried away in the swell of folk.

I swivel, around and around, gaze cutting here and there, searching for a way out of this mass.

I drop to a crouch and scramble around the legs of fae. I am kicked a few times before I make it to the edge of the parade and I’m sucking in a desperate breath.

My bare feet slap on the slippery cobblestone; not dew or moisture, but paint staining my soles.

Eamon turns just as I reach him.

His mouth curls—and he slaps his hands together, hard. The crack startles me, jerks my shoulders, but I do not escape, not before a thick cloud of colour blasts over me.

“That,” he starts, that curl still flicking his mouth, “is for making business decisions without me.”

Arms spread at my sides, I stare down at the rainbow explosion all over me. From yellow toes to blue knees, a crimson smear up my torso—and I don’t even want to know what my face looks like.

I lift my gaze to him, dark lashes fringing my glare. “Did you buy one for me, or are you selfish?”

His smile softens into a faint challenge. He plucks a small rod from his waistband, and I recognise what it is after a moment’s look.

A paintwand.

Aim, squeeze, stain.

I reach out for it, palm upwards, patience stilling me.

The crowd sweeps on behind me, the occasional shoulder or elbow grazing my back.

I pay it no mind. I have eyes only for the paintwand.

Despite the suspicion narrowing my gaze and tensing my muscles, Eamon does give it to me. He rests it on my palm before he takes a step back and spreads his arms.

“Do your worst.”

Oh I will, my dear Eamon.

You simply don’t know my worst.

I start with a sickly-sweet smirk. “After you.”

Eamon’s glittering brow lifts. He shifts his gaze between me, the crowd, and the paintwand.

Then, rolling his tongue over his teeth, gives a smacking noise. “Fine.”

He makes it two steps before I’m on him.

I ram the paintwand down the back of his waistband—and squeeze.

The burst of cold, liquid paint spills down his trousers.

“Oh,fuck!” Eamon’s posture crumples, and I fleetingly think of the red spaghetti from the human realm I sometimes ate. He goes all limp and floppy, knees bent, back reclining in the air, and his boots shuffle with the panicked attempt to escape.

Fool. There is no escape.

I grin, bright, at his back.

His hand whacks at the rear of his waistband, his breath a constant hiss, but it’s too late. That cold paint will be running down his legs already, his buttocks, maybe into more intimate areas.

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