Page 31 of Caging Darling (The Lost Girl #3)

CHAPTER 31

T hat my time is running out like the sand in an hourglass does not prompt the Nomad to cancel his previously scheduled evening celebrations.

“A plan is a plan,” he told us earlier when Astor insisted we get to work planning Tink’s kidnapping immediately. “And besides, I’ve already sent out invitations.”

I’m not sure if one can call it a ball, given it’s being hosted in the galley of the Nomad’s ship, but it certainly possesses all the proper elements. The best faerie lanterns are brought out, freshly cleaned so they shimmer as the light bursts through the glass. Circular tables are arranged on the far side of the ballroom, servants presenting the guests goblets of faerie wine, the scent of which tugs on my aching chest. The center of the ballroom has been cleared out to make room for dancing, though no one dares to set foot onto the dance floor until the Nomad does first.

He’s yet to choose a dance partner. Instead, he parades about, welcoming the guests. Most are rather jittery, clearly both enthused and terrified to have received an invitation from a criminal so infamous. I glimpse in their faces the shock I once experienced, the question behind their practiced smiles. How could a man with so many rumors attached to his title be so young?

He’s unsettling. I’ll give them that.

“Once we’ve fulfilled his bargain, he dies,” says Peter, hatred brimming in his blue eyes as he sips wine out of his goblet.

“I’m surprised you don’t kill him now,” I say, though that’s not my preference. I’d hoped not fulfilling my bargain would be the end of my miserable existence. But now that the Nomad, Astor, and Peter are all aligned in their efforts, I see little hope in sabotaging Tink’s kidnapping.

Unless the Nomad dies.

“Doesn’t work that way,” says Peter. “Bargains aren’t considered fulfilled when the one who made them dies. That’s what makes them so dangerous to enter into. If they die while you still owe them, it won’t be long until you follow.”

Numbness settles over my heart. Even though my bargain keeps me from killing Peter, there’s something about imagining his untimely death at someone else’s hand that has been a reprieve. A best-case scenario.

It seems I’d die either way, unable to choose Peter.

“Excellent,” I say, sipping my water.

Next to me, Peter says, “You don’t have to sound so sullen about it.”

After the Nomad makes his rounds, he finds us sulking in the corner.

“You two look chipper,” he says, overflowing with chipperness himself.

“Fine party,” says Peter, raising his chalice so that it sloshes onto the Nomad’s clothes. Our host slowly looks down at the stain, then cocks his chin to face Peter.

“It’s customary on my ship that I choose the first dance,” he says, then he offers his hand out to me. “Wendy Darling, would you do me the honor?”

Peter laughs, shifting to place himself between me and the Nomad. “That’s not going to happen.”

The Nomad cocks his head. “Is it not?”

“Over my dead body. Or yours, whichever you pick.”

The Nomad’s lips curve into an amused smile. “I’ve been trying to figure out what bargain you roped our dear Wendy into for her to be so dedicated to you after all this time, even after leaving severed hands scattered all across the world. Rings of a message from someone who can’t speak for themselves, doesn’t it? People don’t tend to leave trails like that unless they want to be found. Makes one wonder…what if I threatened you, Peter? What would she have to do then?”

Peter’s challenging grin falters.

“Wendy Darling, if you don’t dance with me, I’ll kill Peter here.”

The Nomad’s gamble proves shrewd. Instantly, my bargain prods me in the spine, and I find myself sidestepping Peter to take the Nomad’s hand.

“Wendy, you don’t have to?—”

“Oh, but it seems she does,” says the Nomad, smiling at my instantaneous reaction. Something goes tight in my belly, anxiety over how the Nomad might use this against me, but there’s little I can do about it. “And if you interfere, I’ll kill her.”

There was a time when fear would have crippled me at the thought. Now, the Nomad just seems merciful. I watch Peter’s darting eyes as he weighs his chances against the Nomad. But he’s never seen the Nomad in combat and has no tactical information to help him calculate the odds.

“Don’t touch her,” is all he says as he steps away.

The Nomad sweeps me toward the dance floor, parading me in a circle around it before leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Sorry for that little display back there. I do fancy you, really. And I’d rather not kill you. But your half-Mate is quite boorish, and extreme measures had to be taken.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. Besides, I’m distracted by searching through the Nomad’s guests.

“Over in the corner,” says the Nomad, slyly. “Next to the redhead.”

My stomach drops, and against my better judgment, I look. Just like the Nomad said, I find Astor in the corner, looking dapper in his black suit and coattails, his black hair combed back and out of his face. A golden ring glints at the tip of his ear as a woman with strawberry blonde hair traces her finger over his hook, and while he’s not smiling, he’s not exactly rejecting her company either.

My stomach twists, and all I can see is him leading that girl from the bathroom in Chora up the stairs toward a dingy inn room. A girl who looked like Iaso. One of the multitude of women in the world he would pick over me.

I must wince out loud, because from across the ballroom, with all the noise and music that should serve as an impediment, his ear twitches, and he turns to look at me.

It’s as if the sight of me slaps him in the face.

His gaze runs up and over me. Not like earlier, when I’m fairly certain he was checking for bruises. This time, it’s as if he’s forgotten he’s doing it.

My gown was hand-delivered by the Nomad to my and Peter’s rooms. Peter disliked it instantly, the way the silvery-blue silk lightly traced my hips instead of hiding them under layers of tulle.

It’s the prettiest thing I’ve touched in years.

Astor swallows. The red-headed woman leans in to whisper something in his ear, then frowns when he doesn’t respond.

My chest tightens.

“I thought you said you were asking me to dance,” I hiss through my teeth to the Nomad.

“Your wish is my command,” he teases, whisking me out to the dance floor.

As soon as we set foot on the dance floor, the background music the band had been playing transitions seamlessly into something more conspicuous. From the way everyone in the crowd’s heads turn, it makes me think this is the song the Nomad opens the dance floor with every time.

It’s bold and enigmatic and somehow both lively and somber.

Powerful. That’s the word.

We glide around as if our feet are carried by wings. The Nomad is such a skilled dancer, I hardly have to think about where to move my feet, though even if he weren’t, my mother’s training would have carried me well, even to this song I’m unfamiliar with.

“Do you always follow this well?” asks the Nomad, gazing at me intently. He, like Peter, has blue eyes. But there’s something older in his. Something shrewder than Peter’s cunning, even if he’s just as wicked.

“It’s all I know how to do,” I say.

“Mm.” The Nomad has the audacity to look disappointed. “Was I correct in believing that you are bound by a bargain to that boy?” I glance down at the crook of my elbow in answer, to which he says, “That seems…less than pleasant.”

“What? Being caged? That’s what you intend to do to Tink, do you not?”

He raises a brow. “You’re on a first-name basis with the faerie now? Last I remember, you held a certain distaste for the creature. A grudge for how she clawed your face, trying to get rid of that Mating Mark, I believe?”

It stings, remembering how even from the beginning, Tink was trying to protect me. All along, she’d known the danger I was in at the hands of Peter. Yet I’d picked her out as the villain in my story.

“That was two years ago,” I say. “Tink and I have since come to an understanding.”

The Nomad’s lip curls. “A common enemy will do that.” He glances toward Peter, still sulking in the corner.

“You don’t like him,” I say. “Why?”

The Nomad spins me around, then catches me in his sturdy arms. “I’m curious to know why you think I should.”

I shrug. “You both like to cage the things you hold dear. It seems you have a lot in common.”

The Nomad doesn’t sneer, but his smile is bland, less confident than what I’m used to.

“What? You don’t like my comparison?” I ask.

“Your Mate seems rather miserable over there.” He nods over my shoulder toward the corner I last saw Astor in. The corner I’ve been noting in the back of my mind, an anchor with every spin and twirl of the Nomad’s dance. “He’s been staring at you this entire time.”

My heart ties itself in knots, threatens to carry me away with it. “Good.”

The Nomad twirls me again, and I close my eyes on the way around so I won’t have to see Astor with the other woman, so I won’t have to fall into his gaze again.

“Which one of you betrayed the other in the end?”

“He’s been working for you, hasn’t he? Why haven’t you asked him?”

“Believe me, I have. I do love a good scandal. Unfortunately, your Mate cares little for gossip. When it comes to you, at least.”

My throat goes dry. Eager to change the subject, I say, “Why do you want Tink so badly?”

“Faerie dust is a lucrative industry. It seems obvious, doesn’t it? I thought you were more clever than that.”

The insult isn’t barbed, but it is a warning. One I don’t take. “Surely Tink’s not the only faerie left in existence. Surely you could purchase another faerie. They have to have auctions for that sort of thing.”

“Do I taste disgust on your voice, my dear?”

“You have to ask? I thought you were more clever than that.”

The Nomad smiles, though there’s no kindness in it. “I need not explain myself to you.”

“Because I’m beneath you?” I ask.

The Nomad laughs. “No, Darling. Because I owe you an explanation as much as you owe me one.”

The slightest of aches tugs on my heart, and I wince.

“What is it?” asks the Nomad. “Has no one ever told you that you’re not constantly indebted to fulfill the wishes of others?”

I don’t answer. As the music changes, the Nomad glides seamlessly into the next song. Others join us on the dance floor, a swirl of elegant dresses spinning in the low light. As he twirls me, I get glimpses of them—Peter in one corner, my captor, never letting me out of his sight, Astor in the other, watching me half-heartedly as another woman tries to get his attention.

I’m not sure if it’s the spinning or the scent of faerie wine or them that’s making my stomach turn.

“Can I ask a favor of you?” I whisper to the Nomad.

He twirls me again. Peter. Astor. Peter. Astor. They cut back and forth across my vision, reminding me of a toy John and I used to play with as children, in which a set of still pictures would spin, creating the illusion they were moving.

“You can ask,” the Nomad says, curiosity imbuing his tone, if not hesitation.

When he catches me in his arms, I examine him. He’s fae, meaning attractive comes with the territory. There’s a carelessness about his features that could easily draw one in, along with a depth in his eyes that he’s witnessed worlds beyond your imagination.

There’s adventure and daring and danger in the Nomad’s face.

It’s not like looking at Astor, the breathlessness that overcomes me or the way my knees wobble in his presence. It’s more that I can look at the Nomad and see how others might perceive him as desirable.

I think that will be enough.

There’s no desperation in my tone, no wanting, when I ask, “Would you kiss me?”