Page 35

I swallow—an action his eyes dart to—and nod. “I’m fine.”

That earns me a frown. But rather than pushing the issue, Des squeezes my hip.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispers.

I begin to get up, looking madly out at the darkness, but he gently presses me back down.

“If you could be a peach and pretend to be asleep, that would be wonderful. I want the fae to come closer.”

Pretend to be asleep after the dream I just had? I think not.

But I do force myself to relax for Des’s sake, even if I don’t close my eyes. Instead I strain my ears and eyes to hear and see anything beyond the fire. One long minute slips into another.

All at once, the Bargainer’s power rushes out of him, thickening the air like darkness is a physical thing. I sense it close in on its prey like a snare, trapping them in place.

The caught fairy shrieks like a wild beast, the guttural sounds punctuated by a string of curses.

In an instant, Des is gone from my side, dissolving into vapor like he was never there. I flip over just in time to see my mate looming over a fairy in the distance. The fae is uselessly fighting the magic trapping him in place, his scythe-like weapon striking the magical barrier over and over again.

Des folds his arms, appraising the man and looking as though he finds him wanting.

After a moment, the Night King takes the scythe away from the man. “You’re going to answer some questions for us,” Des says, “or you’re going to die.”

I pull thecharred marshmallow from the fire, assessing the blackened crisp.

Damnit. This is the fifth one I’ve burned. I officially suck at this S’mores thing. To be fair, I’m pretty sure Des’s iridescent fire burns hotter than the fires I’m used to.

I wait for it to cool before I remove it from my stick and grab another from the S’mores supplies Des had presented me with when he returned with his captive.

Pretty sure this is his attempt to keep me occupied while he interrogates his prisoner.

Ashamed to say that it’s totally working.

Meanwhile, several feet away, Des is well into his interrogation.

So far he’s folded the fairy’s weapon into an origami horse, taken away his voice briefly, and removed the last of the items the fairy had on him (a couple stones, a knife, some dried mystery meat, and a necklace made of fae hair—because heaven forbid we meet someone normal here).

“Who opened the tomb?” Des asks the fairy calmly.

The man spits at Des. The spittle never hits my mate. Instead it stops in midair, then reverses its trajectory, splashing against the fairy’s face.

“Who opened the tomb?” Des repeats.

“Suck on my prick!”

“Mmm, tempting,” Des says, cocking his head. “Is that a genuine offer?” His magic unlaces the man’s crudely-made breeches, then it begins tugging the cloth down.

The fairy’s eyes widen and he begins to yank the material back up, fruitlessly trying to keep his pants on. “What in the bloody ferking gods’ names!”

“Cherub,” Des says, glancing over at me, “I think the man’s shy. One moment he wants my attention, the next he’s being a coy minx.”

I pull my sixth marshmallow from the fire; it’s perfectly golden brown.

Success!

“Men givesuchmixed signals,” I say.

I admit it—I like to toy with my targets just as much as Des does. That was always one of my favorite parts of the PI business.