Page 107 of Atop the Faerie Throne
I wait for one to bounce against him or be knocked aside. Neither happens.
Espen’s tongue flicks out, tasting the air, and I grimace at the scent of sex and gin that’s fading fast.
No. I’m not going to lose him. I can’t.
Taking off on silent wings, I follow the trail with Mab hot on my heels. When I start to slow, convinced I’m drawing closer again, the First Nicnevin swoops down and lets out an arc of lightning that runs along the rooftops.
A clatter to my left pricks my ears, and I dive in that direction, only for something to hammer sharply into my lower back, a few inches from my spine.
It’s a throwing knife. I reach back and drag it free with a hiss of pain. It’s a gaudy, gem-encrusted weapon, rather than the sleek blades of ink any other púca would use. Unsurprising. Torrance has never been a fighter. His body is littered with stacked decks, double-sided coins, and weighted dice. It was probably a gift from one of his patrons. His piss poor-aim is the only reason it didn’t land somewhere serious.
Rose’s magic is there, eager to heal the wound, and for once, I let it. I can’t afford to be slowed down.
A roof tile slips, crashing down to the street, and a muffled thud follows it. I follow instinctively, but stop short of the ledge, staring down into the crowd.
Damn it. Their scents will muddy his, giving him even more of an advantage.
This is not how I wanted this to go, but it’s typical Torrance. His next step will be to blend with other people, then either seek sanctuary in a Temple or leave the city—usually in a delivery wagon or by stealing someone’s horse.
He won’t risk the Temple now that he’s being pursued by a Guard, and a horse is too flashy, which means I need to check nearby carts, and fast.
Goddess, our odds of catching him just nosedived.
Chest tight with anxiety, I whisper the plan to Mab, who takes the west side of the square without argument.
Landing beside a row of mostly empty market wagons along a narrow side-street, I start the painstaking process of flipping back the sheets covering the contents from view, then breathing in sharply, searching for a hint of his scent.
In between each search, my own doubts start to creep in.
Should I have waited and asked the rest of the Guard for help?I breathe in the scents of apples and cider before striding away.Was I wrong to think I knew his tricks and could outsmart him?The following wagon is empty, smelling faintly of freshly tilled earth and vegetables.
Is my own stupid pride about to let him get away,again?
The last cart reeks so strongly of perfume that it’s impossible to distinguish anything, a good option for someone who knows how strong my sense of smell is. I flip back the curtain, magic at the ready.
Nothing.
My breath rushes out of me, and I turn on my heel, determined to try the next street over. He’s always been a slippery asshole. Maybe the Temple was the correct call, after all. My mind is already on new locations to try, and that slip of focus is my undoing.
Green eyes flash in my vision as he says, “Please stay right there.”
My gut drops like a stone as my body obeys before I realise my mistake.
It’s him. Here. Now. Suddenly I can’t breathe, and that’s nothing to do with his charm.
“You just couldn’t let it go, could you?” my father asks, dropping his glamour entirely. “Couldn’t leave me be.”
He said I couldn’t move, not that I couldn’t use my magic. Unfortunately, the moment of hesitation is all he needs to open his mouth again. I frantically shove a sound blast in his direction, knocking him off his feet. Then another. My mental shield is back up, but being physically helpless is wrecking my self-control, dredging up old panic that refuses to settle.
It takes a lot of power to force sound into a physical form, and I drag it from my bond to Rose, guilt flooding me when she offers it so freely. Each attack rattles the carts in the alley.
“Stop being dramatic,” Torrance snarls, staggering towards me. “You’re lucky I can’t kill you.”
This kind of confrontation isn’t him, and I groan inwardly as I realise we’re back to his favourite trick. Distract and flee. He wants me to believe he’s still there, but it’s a glamour. The real Torrance is probably slipping away.
“You tried to kill my Nicnevin!” I snarl, pretending to fall for it as I consider my options. “Why would I ever let that stand?”
When escaping, he always chooses the easiest route. That means the real him is likely creeping towards the mouth of the alley. Torrance made a miscalculation coming here. There’s only one exit.
