“Good. Smart girl. This is a place for secrets. Not truths.” For the first time, Rora looked away from him and her eyes caught on row after row of glass jars and tubes and bottles, each of them glowing like the lanterns she saw when she entered the market. But these weren’t all skyfire. A fat, round jar contained a funnel of black and gray smoke. She squinted, certain that it was moving. That it … twisted.
The man, Locke, picked it up, long fingers plucking the jar from the sea of others. Inside was a tiny twister like the one that had killed her brother. She stared at it, stunned into awe. There was something truly beautiful about the way a storm moved. The other jars swirled with different kinds of magic—blizzards and thunderstorms and skyfire and firestorms—each more wondrous than the last. All her life she’d been desperate for magic to call her own, and now it stretched out before her as far as she could see.
The stranger spoke again. “Steer clear of the vendors around the edges. Those are the frauds. Get whatever magic you’re here for, and get out. Don’t talk to anyone unless you must, and for sky’s sake, the next time you come here try to look less…”
“Less what?”
He moved closer, peering down through the shadows cast by her hood to meet her eyes. “Less like the kind of pretty girl this place would chew up and spit out long before dawn.”
Whether it be thunderstorm, hurricane, or some storm on which we have not yet laid eyes, one truth remains—challenge a tempest, survive it, and you become its master.
—The Tale of Lord Finneus Wolfram
5
Locke knew the moment he spoke that he had said the wrong thing. Her stormy blue eyes narrowed to shards of ice, and she pushed her narrow shoulders back and her chin up. He had almost certainly guaranteed she would be back, regardless of the danger.
But before she said a word, her eyes caught on something over his shoulder. The cold in her eyes melted, her lips parted on a sharp inhale, and her whole body went stiff. He had been teasing earlier with his little girl comment, but now she did look young. And frightened. And it roused every protective instinct he had.
Locke started to turn, but before he moved more than a step, a hand tangled in the leather straps that crisscrossed his upper body. Then another hand—soft but with a strong grip—took hold of his jaw and pulled his head forward again.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
For a moment, he forgot what he was doing entirely. She was close, and whatever fear had been in her before was gone, burned away by a blazing intensity. Her skin smelled fragrant, as if she had rubbed perfume or oils over the wrist that hovered by his mouth.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look.”
Talking to Etel, she had been adorably curious but gravely out of her depth. He hadn’t been in the mood to chase a girl. His temper soured the day the Locke royal procession had paraded into Pavan like a gift from the heavens. He’d planned to snag a seat at a pub and not move until dawn, but she had caught his attention anyway.
His earlier mild interest had become a fist in his chest, gripping him tighter than the fingers she tangled in his leathers. Her cloak was too big, and the sleeves had fallen back when she reached for him. Seemingly of their own volition, his fingers touched her slim wrist. She glanced behind him again, then huddled closer, and he let his fingers graze down her arm, slipping under the sleeve that had gathered around her elbow.
For one minuscule moment, she leaned into his touch, then she jerked away, snatching her hands back like he’d tried to steal them. She slammed into a table behind her. Dozens of glass vials clanked and toppled, and on the far end a solitary jar of snowstorm magic toppled over the edge.
It smashed onto the dirt path, glass flying, and Locke’s hand moved to the harness strapped over his chest and abdomen that held his supplies. He braced himself for a blizzard to form only steps away, but the snow in the jar scattered harmlessly over the ground, like nothing more than spilled sugar.
Damn. Even Velarran was selling the fake stuff. The portly shop owner’s face went slack, then hardened with anger and embarrassment. Locke knew supplies were low. Storm magic was fetching a higher price than ever at the moment, in part because of the Slumber season. But the roots of this shortage had begun months before the season change. In the last year, two of the major storm-hunting crews had disbanded. Though perhaps disbanded was not the right word, when more than half the crew had died.
Across the aisle, Badren, a thin, oily snake of a man, had begun blustering about, yelling that Velarran was a fraud. Locke didn’t keep up with local politics and gossip. The crew traveled too much for him to care about any particular city, but the animosity between these two was far older than Locke’s nineteen years.
Quickly, before either man could turn on the girl, Locke took her elbow and pulled. She looked at him, wide-eyed and wary, but when she noticed all the people gathering to watch the commotion, she pulled him close, practically using his body as a shield.
She peeked around him, and once again something made terror flit across her face. But this time, she turned on her heel and tried to run. He still held her elbow, so she did not get far. “Where are you—”
She looked up at him, and even in that oversize cloak, she was impossibly pretty. The ferocity in her expression had his free hand going to his weapons belt on instinct.
“You need to let me go.” That sounded like the last thing he wanted to do. But she continued. “There’s a man at a stall behind you who is going to notice me, and if he sees me … he cannot see me. It would mean bad things for me, for you, for this whole market.”
This time when she yanked her arm, he was caught off guard and she got loose, stumbling back a few paces. The urge to find the man who frightened her was nearly overwhelming. Storm magic was not the only illegal trade that happened in the Eye. Gambling, drugs, prostitution, murder for hire—it was all here if you knew where to look. Whoever plagued her was likely dangerous indeed, but Locke spent his days in the belly of the world’s deadliest beasts. Men were nothing in comparison.
But she wasn’t just afraid for herself. She thought this man dangerous to everyone around them. So Locke swallowed down his instincts, and instead of seeking danger, he went for the girl.
Hooking an arm over her shoulders, he pulled her in tight to his side. He dragged her hood down to cover all of her face. She resisted, squirming away from him, and he spoke low against her ear. “Be still. I’m not going to harm you. Keep your head down, and I’ll get you out of here.”
His only answer was her hand, snaking up his chest again to grip the straps there. All she could see was their feet, so Locke kept their gait easy and relaxed. The market was nearly at capacity, so he had to maneuver her body through crowded spaces. Sometimes he would hold her hips and guide her through a gap. Other times, he would curl her close until her cheek pressed into his chest, and they would squeeze together through congested pathways.
When they reached the booths at the outer edge, he quickened their pace toward the tents that lined the back wall of the market. He had a room at a rundown inn a few streets away, but with all their wares stored either in the market booth or in the tent, at least two of his crew stayed in the market to protect or sell their goods at all times. Few people were dumb enough to try to cross them, but, as he’d seen with Velarran, these were desperate times. He pulled back the tent flap and pushed her through the opening. He followed and breathed a sigh of relief that none of the others were here.
Tentatively, the girl pushed her hood back enough that her face was visible in profile. His eyes lingered on the high arch of her cheeks, the full curve of her lips. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then her eyes strayed to the tent around them. On the left side was a table, piled high with jars and vials. Jinx must have been enchanting a batch of containers for their next expedition. To the right was a large rug with cushions, and at the back were a handful of sleeping pallets. The days spent in cities selling their wares were always an a
djustment. They only traveled and hunted during daylight on the road, but here they were mostly nocturnal.
“You want to tell me what just happened?”
She crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture that was half defiant, half defensive. “It was nothing.”
“Ah, yes, I frequently go ghost white and try to run away over nothing.”
She lifted a hand to her cheek as if she could feel the way her skin had paled. Then her fingers touched the scarf that wound about her head beneath her hood. Her chin tilted up again, revealing the long, graceful line of her neck. “I appreciate your assistance.” Her attempt at haughty composure was almost convincing, but she looked at the tent flap like she wanted to bolt. She likely only hesitated because her dangerous man was still out there.
“And I would appreciate an explanation.”
She gave him a look; clearly she wasn’t used to people arguing with her. “I can’t give you that.”
“The man you’re afraid of … does he—”
“I’m not afraid of him,” she snapped. Her tone was so fierce he nearly believed her, but he hadn’t read her wrong out there. He and fear were old friends. It had taken his parents’ place to raise him when they died, and he recognized the foul taint when he saw it. Even now, it lingered about her hunched shoulders and danced over her whitened fingers as they gripped her forearms.
He eased off. “Fine. The man you were avoiding, then. Who is he?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Who is he to you? Personal or business?”
She hesitated, and there were a dozen subtle shifts in her expression as she considered what to tell him. It wasn’t that hard a question, so she was either crafting a lie or this man’s infiltration into her life fell into both categories. His mind conjured up possibilities for dangerous men and how they might be involved in her personal life. He didn’t like any of them. His voice was barely above a growl as he asked, “He’s a danger to you?”
Her arms dropped to her sides, and her long lashes brushed her cheeks when she sighed. “Probably not in the way you’re thinking.”
His fists clenched at his sides. Even if the man wasn’t going to barrel into this tent, trying to kill her at any moment, she hadn’t denied that there was danger in some form. It should not matter. She was just a girl who was in over her head. Those were plentiful in dodgy places like the Eye. If he hunted down the demons of every wayward girl, he wouldn’t have time to hunt a single storm. But there was something about her. Her look of wonder at Etel’s booth had caught his eye. The defiant way she stood her ground and made him acknowledge her as more than a little girl … that was when she got her hooks in him. She might appear fragile, but there was fire in her. And he definitely knew she was no little girl. He could still remember the feel of her pressed up against his side as he led her through the market.
Even now, she swayed on her feet and eyed the cushions to her left like she might collapse under the weight of her exhaustion, but met his gaze with a calm, fortified expression that said she would never admit defeat, not to him or her fatigue.
In a way, she reminded him of his sister. He had never realized how little strength had to do with size and power until his parents had died and left only him and his sister behind. He had been six and she eleven, neither old enough to take care of the other, not that it stopped his sister from trying. She refused to fold in the face of adversity. She was brazen and brave right to the very end.
He ducked his head, then sprawled onto the rug, leaning back to prop an elbow on one of the cushions. Give him a violent tempest any day over those memories. At least the storm he could fight.
“Sit down.”
She hesitated, but complied. She made sitting on the ground look graceful as she lowered herself to her knees and eased her body back onto a pillow. He crossed his legs and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees and stare at her.
She did not wither under his study, but instead turned the focus on him. “Is Locke your first name or your last name?”
“Listen, princess—”
That made her flinch. “Princess?”
“You never gave me your name. And when I said you weren’t a princess before, you had this glint in your eye like you might pull out a crown and prove me wrong. So stop dragging your feet, princess, and tell me about that man.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You sure are fond of telling me what not to do. This is easily solved if you tell me your name.”
She growled in frustration. “You told me I was smart for keeping my name secret.”
He had told her that. But that was when he had intended only to save her from Etel and send her on her way. Now … now he didn’t know what he was doing.
Before he could examine all the reasons it was a bad idea, he maneuvered himself to sit directly in front of her. He wanted to grab her hands, but he gripped his own knees instead. “You can trust me with your name. With whatever trouble you’re in.”
He saw her response coming before the words were even all the way off her tongue. “I’m not in any—”
He scooped up one of her hands, pressing it between both of his own. “It’s just a name, princess. Give me your name.”
* * *
Something happened when he took her hand; an electric, tingling sensation tickled down her spine, making her shiver. Her first instinct told her to run, far and fast, but as long as Cassius lurked in the market outside that was impossible. She had noted Locke’s size earlier—his impressive height and muscled build—but he felt even bigger sitting right in front of her. He had a scar through his right brow and another on his chin, just below the corner of his mouth. His eyes were a deep brown, and his jaw was dusted with short, dark hairs. It added a rough masculinity to a face that otherwise might have been too pretty for a man decked out in leather armor.
Scorch it all, he looked good in leather. His chest was broad, and his armor had all manner of straps and loops from which tubes and vials and jars dangled just like the ones she’d seen in the market. A row of blades at his hip added a dash of menace. When her eyes lifted again to his, that scarred brow rose along with one corner of his mouth. Menace and mirth. What a bizarre combination.
A familiar heat crept over her skin the longer he stared, and it reminded her of Cassius. The two men couldn’t be more different in spite of their names. Cassius’s power felt cold and controlled, whereas Locke blazed with all the intensity of the sun. But the way she reacted around them both? That was alarmingly similar. All the more reason she needed to escape this tent.
“Name,” he urged again. And she was so desperate for him to stop looking at her with such single-minded focus that she opened her mouth, ready to say whatever it took to gain some distance.
“It’s Ror—” Her brain caught up a moment too late. She slammed her mouth closed and considered slamming her face into a pillow. One little eyebrow arch plus a half smile and a troublesome nickname, and she forgot how to use her brain. Again.
“What was that? Sounded like—”
“Ah … Roar. You wanted a name, and that’s it. Just Roar.”
Not a great recovery, but only a few people knew her as Rora. To most, she was only ever Princess Aurora or Your Highness. No one would expect her to be in a black market dressed in plain, ill-fitting clothes.
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of name is that?”
“What kind of name is Locke?” she shot back.
“A nickname. It’s where I grew up.”
“You grew up in Locke?”
What had he said before? He’d rather die than be related to Cassius, a poor excuse for royalty. What did he know that she didn’t?
He shrugged in answer and mumbled, “Roar.” He said it again, his mouth forming the word slowly, as if it was more than just four letters strung together. “You do make a lot of noise for a little thing.”
She snorted. An actual, humiliating, totally un-princess-like snort … because
she only qualified as little in comparison to his staggering height. His smile widened at the sound, and she wanted so badly to flee. But he grew up in Locke, and he clearly knew his way around this market, and she had so many questions.
He leaned forward so their faces were level.
“Roar.”
“Locke,” she replied.
“Who are you?”
That was her cue to bolt. She had lingered longer than she should already.
“I have to go.”
She still had questions, but none were worth the risk of his curiosity bearing fruit. She stood, and he followed, his reflexes so quick that he was fully upright before she was. All his ease and charm disappeared, swallowed up in an intensity as thick as fog. He gripped her biceps, bending to peer at her beneath her hood. His thumb unknowingly pressed against the wound on her arm, and she swallowed down a whimper.
He said, “I’m sorry. But you can’t leave without telling me about the man. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
Until now, she had been the flustered one. But the look in Locke’s eyes was blind panic. She did not understand. He dropped his hands and stepped back. Turning away, he shoveled his fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. He rasped, “I’m sorry, I—”
Rora never heard the rest of his apology. The tent flap flew open, and a girl ducked through. Long blue-black hair swayed in a ponytail down her back, and one side of her head was nearly shaved bare with a geometric pattern near her temple.
“Locke, get your ass—oh.”
Rora was the oh.
Clothed in black leather, the girl looked ready to do battle, and her short stature made her no less intimidating. She crossed her arms and studied Rora, her wide-set eyes narrowing beneath dark, thick brows.
“Picking up strays now?” she asked.
“Knock it off, Jinx.”
The girl, Jinx apparently, stared for a long moment, and Rora had to order her back not to curve under the attention. Then Jinx dropped her arms and shrugged, sauntering over toward a table covered in glass containers. “Duke is asking for you,” she said to Locke.