Page 60 of House of the Raven
“I don’t believe you.”
“It makes no difference.” I look away at a set of shelves lined with bottles. They are held in place from bumpy rides by taut ropes extending from one side to the other.
Watching the man from the corner of my eye, I notice something…different. My head snaps back in his direction. I scan his face trying to spot what I perceived, but everything’s the same. He kicks back in his chair and steeples his heavily-ringed fingers. I go back to glancing at the shelves. The same thing happens.
This time, I turn my head slowly, and just before I’m facing him fully, I realize what the difference is. His ears are pointed. He is fae!
“What seems to be the matter?” he asks.
“Your ears,” I say in a low breath.
He stiffens for a moment, then relaxes again. “So… you have the blood.”
How does he know? Because I saw his glamour? I’ve never done that before, never saw through Mother’s glamour.
I shake my head and stand, the chair scraping the wooden floor. “I should go.”
Turning in the cramped space, I reach for the door handle.
“I would hold for just a second before opening that door, if I were you,” El Gran Místico says.
Over my shoulder, I give him aquestioning frown.
“When you step outside,” he goes on, “take a left, go to the front of the wagon, wait for five beats of your heart, then go into the tavern in the corner. Run there, don’t walk. They have an exit in the back. Go out that way, and you’ll be safe. For a time.”
Is he serious? How can he foresee all of that? For all I know, he’s a charlatan with marked tarot cards and a fake crystal ball. But then I look back at his ears, which keep flicking from round to pointed. He is fae. He has espiritu.
“You’d better go out.Now,” he urges.
I make a split-second decision to trust him and open the door. Carefully, I step down and go around the wagon on the left side. When I get to the front, I wait and count.
One.
Two.
Three.
On the other side of the wagon, I catch a glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision. Slowly, I turn my head in that direction and see Bastien peering into the window of a dress shop. He pauses for an instant, then goes inside the shop.
Four.
Five.
I run toward the tavern in the corner and burst through the door. The patrons stare at me with deep frowns. I shake myself and begin walking with a casual air. No one is behind the counter, so I press past the doorway in the back and enter a small kitchen. The cook, a heavyset woman with her hair wrapped in a white cap, startles.
“Who are you? You’re not allowed to be back here!” she says.
“Sorry.” I keep pushing forward until I spot another door, which finally leads me outside. This time I’m in a narrow alley. The smell of garbage wafts in the air. A gray cat jumps off a wooden crate and meows at me. I wish I could pet him—I like cats—but I don’t have time.
I look right and left of the alley. A caw alerts me to Cuervo’s presence. He’s perched on the roof of a building to my right. Without hesitation, I head that way. He takes flight, and I follow. Once on the market path, I weave through the stalls, following my friend, who leads me straight to Jago. He’s standing at the edge of the woods, Furia’s reins in his hand as he looks on, worried.
“Val, there you are!” he exclaims. “I thought that bastardo caught you.”
“He’s close. We have to go.”
And just as I finish saying this, Bastien’s voice booms behind us. “Stop right there.”
Jago acts swiftly, guiding Furia into the woods, then helping me up with a firm grip.
