Page 11 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson

Birds.

I got attacked by birds .

First, the birds went after a baby , of all things; then, when I tried to get in on the fray to help, the birds turned on me, and it made sense to lead them away.

Only they kept coming at me, pecking and clawing like they were rabid, and how the blazes do you fight birds ?

Not sure how much damage I did, stabbing my knife at random.

And then.

That girl showed up. And she did something to turn that man to ash . All so she could steal his cauldron?

That’s the only reason I didn’t slip into a blackout, I think. Because I haven’t had a chance to feel truly in danger. It’s all just so bloody weird.

It’s starting to catch up to me though, standing in the yard of what’s gotta be a butcher—it reeks of iron, viscera—my body feeling the scrapes and cuts of those damn birds and this girl just watching me, clinging to her prize cauldron.

She looks mighty pissed off. The hand not holding the cauldron is held loose at her side, not near relaxed but like she’s ready to take a fighting stance.

The sky stopped spitting snow, but the heavy clouds cast a dim hue on what looks like black hair pulled into a simple plait.

Her eyes are narrow and fixed on me with the intensity of a seasoned hunter, deep and dark like her hair.

I can’t help but notice the fact that she’s real pretty.

The girl adjusts her grip on the cauldron, a small enough one that she can rest it on her hip. It’s just a normal cauldron, no fae glow about it.

“The weather,” she says. In English again, thankfully, though thickly accented and clipped.

I blink at her. “Pardon?”

She cocks her head. “The birds get riled when the weather changes.”

My mouth drops open. I’ve never known birds to attack in a coordinated flock like that, but to hell with those damn birds.

“You turned a man to ash,” I say, pointing at the remains a pace from her feet.

Her lips draw into a tight line, her eyes not meeting mine. She’s looking at the space above my head. After a moment, she drops to look directly at me, and she squints in confusion.

“That? That’s an old firepit. Not a man,” she says.

Look, I’ve lied an awful lot.

And this girl?

She’s lying through her pores.

Anyone else might actually accept what this girl’s saying. Easier to believe the pile of ash is an old firepit rather than a person. Easier to believe they didn’t see what they thought they did.

But I know what exists in this world. I know what fae magic can do to people, and I saw her stab the man with…had to be a small thing. I didn’t see the glow of a fae item, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there—everything was chaos.

The girl used a fae item to kill this guy, didn’t she?

That’s…a mighty coincidence, isn’t it? Not in Scotland an hour yet, and already I’ve found someone using fae magic.

I’ve been quiet too long, fighting hard to figure out how to spin this, and the girl takes my silence as acceptance of her lie.

She nods decisively and turns to walk back up the road.

“Whoa now!” I call out, stumbling after her.

She whips a glare at me. “I am not a horse.”

“I—” Oh. “I didn’t mean it that way. I—”

“Do you need a surgeon?” she asks through a tight jaw. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I—”

“Then you will excuse me, sir.” And she turns again.

God above, this girl. I don’t exactly want to be on her bad side if she’s got fae magic and used it to kill a man over an ordinary cauldron, but I can’t just let her go, can I?

It’s all just a weird happenstance. Maybe fae magic is more prolific in Scotland. Maybe this is what’s normal up here, people offing each other with magic items, then hand-waving it away from regular folk. If I call her on the magic, she’d turn on me, likely.

So I stand there gaping at her as she trudges off into the village, my mind a squall of shock and uncertainty and— birds .

What have I gotten myself into?

***

I dropped my bags a few buildings over, and I find them again, untouched. Most of the people in this town took shelter from the birds, thankfully. In London, this’d all be picked clean.

I’m still unsettled. Sore from my injuries. My doublet got destroyed, but I have another in my supplies, and I swap it out and do my best to wipe off the blood from the small cuts.

All the while, I keep a sharp eye, but that girl doesn’t show up again; she probably hightailed it out of here. Though who’d accuse her of murder when there’s no body?

Shit. Maybe it’s on me to bring her to some kind of justice, given I know about the fae magic she used and most folks don’t. But none of this is gonna help me do what I came here for, and for all I know, that man had it coming.

Still, a small flicker of guilt eats at me. I’m honestly surprised I still have it in me to feel torn up over a situation like this.

What makes this different? The fae magic she used? Or maybe the girl herself. She didn’t seem like a murderer. She didn’t seem cruel.

I give myself a hard shake.

My job’s the same: get to Mary’s court. Stirling Castle. Cecil said I could find a ride up in this town.

So that’s what I do.

I ask around until I get to the stables at the little inn, then ask about a horse for hire. Cecil gave me a bag of coins, but once the innkeeper realizes I tried helping the baby, he waves off my attempt at payment.

Second time today I’ve been struck speechless by someone.

When’s the last time I did something that got rewarded?

Face more than likely matching my hair, I accept the horse, all saddled up, and listen to the innkeeper’s instructions on how to reach Stirling fastest.

The road out of the village is quiet, just like this sleepy town.

I pass someone coming toward me, a family on a wagon; they give curt nods and carry on.

That’s it for a while, the sun rising as I ride, the horse swaying gently under me, following the well-carved road like he’s been up and down this stretch of Scotland enough to do it with his eyes closed.

So I let him go, exhaustion creeping up over me in double time now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, and I’m not proud of the way I let my attention slip.

I’m past the border, but threats are still real; I need to stay sharp.

But damn it, I’m tired.

I don’t wanna stop to camp just yet though; the innkeeper said I could make it to the castle in two days if I push.

I sag forward, snap upright.

Awake. Stay awake. Stay—

My eyes catch on something ahead of me. On the road. The scenery’s been much the same as it was in Northern England with Cecil, scraggy winter-stripped knolls and hills rippling off into the horizon. So at first, I think what I see is just a gnarled tree, but it’s thicker than that. Moving a bit.

A horse?

A horse, tied up at the side of the road. Saddled and with bags too.

And that girl’s with it. She’s dismounted, grumbling to herself about something, fuming as she fixes a strap on her saddlebag.

The closer I draw, the more alert I go, heart thudding right through my tiredness.

I’ve got no choice but to go around her; the landscape on either side of the road is thick trees and hills, and I don’t dare traverse it for fear of getting lost. She lets me get far closer than I’d expect before she notices me, coming to with a startled jerk.

I rein my horse to a halt a few paces back from her. How do I play this?

“You all right?” I call out, forcing a feeble smile.

Her eyes go above my head again, circling all around my body, and I glance behind me, but I’m not sure what she’s seeing.

When I face her, she’s scowling hard in suspicion.

“Are you following me?” she demands, Scottish accent rolling heavy.

“No,” I say. “Just traveling to Stirling.”

“Stirling?”

I hesitate at the unspoken command in her tone. “Yes, miss.”

Her eyes roll. “What business have you in Stirling, Englishman?”

“There’s plenty of reasons an Englishman would be in Scotland. It’s not a crime to be English here. Queen Mary’s own husband is.”

The girl’s suspicious glower doesn’t change. “What’s someone from England going to Stirling for?” she asks slowly. “And what business do you have with Lord Darnley?”

This girl being a murderess aside, I decide on going for broke with flirting. Why not? I give her a slow smile. “And why should I tell you? Miss.” Yeah, I caught how she disliked being called that.

The girl works her jaw. After a long pause, she hefts herself onto her horse and swings it around so she can face me. I take quick stock of her saddle—that cauldron’s not with her. She leave it in the town?

Her new position puts her horse in front of mine, so I could leave only by racing toward the thick, thorny trees.

I let her stare, feeling much like when Cecil reads me for weaknesses.

Which has anger kindling in my belly. But I’m well practiced in giving away only what I want, so I keep a cocky mask on, that leering smile, my posture relaxed on the saddle like I’ve got no worries at all.

“You should tell me what business you have in Stirling,” the girl says suddenly, “because I am a lady-in-waiting for Queen Mary.”

Actual surprise has my facade breaking, and my brows vault up.

She’s—

She’s a maid to the Scottish queen?

The Scottish queen who’s hoarding fae items.

And one of them is the object that cursed me.

No. This girl just happened to be in that village as I was crossing?

But if Mary’s hoarding fae items, it’d make sense her ladies would have access. Maybe she sends them out on missions across the country. Doing her dirty work with nasty fae magic.

It’s as good as confirmation that Mary’s got a stash of fae magic somewhere. And even though I’m still reeling at this massive coincidence, even though I’m still half-certain this is all a setup from Cecil, I smile. Aim a true, broad smile at this girl.

Because I’m going to get the item that cursed me. Hell, she may as well present it to me on a platter.

At my real, wide smile, not the cocky pretend one, the girl’s cheekbones go prettily pink. It makes her look young, close to my age, whereas her normal demeanor gives her the burdened weight of someone much older.

I play it up, widening my smile until she shifts back into anger. All fire and fury, this girl, but she’s restraining it. I want to nudge her, see how long till she blows off this cover she’s holding. Like calling to like and all that.

Though beneath her cover is possibly a stone-cold killer.

Like calling to like indeed.

My throat seizes, and I force a hard swallow, not letting myself linger on the flashes of that highborn man’s house. His body on the floor.

“Well, that changes things, my lady.” I bow as best I can in the saddle. “I’m Samson of Clan Maxwell. I’m Lord Latimer’s secretary—raised in London by my ma,” I tack on, and she grunts.

“Anyone can say that. Especially an Englishman with intentions that could—”

I whip out some of my papers from my saddlebag before she’s done talking. Latimer’s seal. Clan Maxwell’s.

The girl doesn’t reach out, just stares at them, her distrust peeling back in the smoothing of her forehead.

“I moved up to be with my father in Latimer’s court after my ma died,” I tell her. “I’m going to Stirling as Latimer’s proxy for the christening.”

I tuck the papers away, and the girl wilts. Imperceptibly, but it’s there, something like resignation. “Laird Latimer is not attending the baptism himself? Is he unwell?”

“Ill. Gout,” I say.

She cocks her head. “I am sad to hear that. Latimer is always a welcome addition to court.” Her eyes lock on mine, assessing again, and I sit there, allowing it, because I can feel her resistance waning.

If I can get her on my side, it’ll be far easier to search Mary’s apartments.

The girl’s watching me now with something like her own sort of tentative resolve.

On a sigh, she cuts her head up the road.

“Come on, then, Samson,” she tells me, then kicks her horse to face north again.

I grin. “Yeah? You aren’t set on running me through, then?” It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged her murderous inclinations. And I may say it lightly, almost teasing, but there’s a current of weight to it.

She stiffens in her saddle, dragging her horse to a stop. Not facing me, not even turning a bit backward, she says, “That’s yet to be determined.”

I shiver, tongue working over my teeth as she twists her reins and moves to kick her horse.

“Wait. What’s your name?”

She finally glances back at me, her expression gaunt, like she’s considering lying or simply not answering at all.

Her blink is slow, unaffected. “Alyth.”