His lips just brushed hers and the storm started again. Her hands clenched into balls of unspent energy. She twisted to position herself closer, to give the sparks something to do. Marten moved excruciatingly slow. He pressed his mouth against hers again, traced her jaw with his fingers, and then opened her lips. Satina’s chest seized. Heat washed from his kiss down into her body. Marten’s hand moved to her neck. He kissed deeper, but still painfully slowly.

  She’d never imagined feeling like this. This wasn’t in any of the storybooks—and she’d read a lot of storybooks. She’d been raised in an archive, after all. Marten kissed her leisurely. He drew out each touch, played with his lips against hers, and the pocket boiled around them.

  Satina’s hands bound up into his shirt, clutching at him both for purchase and to somehow drag him closer. She hung from him, dizzy with the sensations she’d never felt before, drunk and weak and completely at the mercy of whatever he chose to do next.

  He pulled away enough to tip his head down and trail a soft kiss along her neck. Satina’s spine arched as the shock tingled through her. Too much sensation—she felt herself falling into it, and knew she’d be lost and helpless if it went on, went farther. And she wanted it to go farther.

  “Marten,” her voice pleaded, but whether for him to stop or go on, remained ambiguous. A spark of fear lit when his fingers traced the neckline of her gown. It gave her enough courage to clarify. “Wait.”

  She shook all over. Her breathing came too fast and shallow to provide much air, and her eyes had teared suddenly and without provocation. She tried to focus, to form rational thoughts, but everything blurred at the edges. He had her ensorcelled.

  “What is it?” Marten’s words came out weak and swollen with feelings held back. “Satina?”

  He placed his hand under her chin and lifted so that she had to meet his gaze. Real tears fell now, and he frowned at them, at whatever he saw in her eyes. It only made her cry harder. Her shoulders slumped forward, and Marten settled an arm across them, pulled her in to sob against his shirt. He smelled like thistledown and magic, mysterious and dangerous. Satina breathed him in and wept for no good reason.

  “I’m sorry.” She caught her breath enough to squeak out an apology, but the sound of it only made her cheeks burn. He’d think she was ridiculous, a child, like Maera.

  “Don’t be.” He brushed his hand down her hair again, but the gesture was stiff now, controlled. She heard him sigh before he stood up, and the space he left behind chilled her. “I’m an imp, Satina. I’m used to rejection.”

  “I—no.” That hadn’t been her intention, had it? She could see the defensiveness in his stance though. He’d definitely taken it that way, and now she got to look at his back, at the sharper set of his shoulders. When he spoke again, it was to the distance, to the castle, maybe to the past or something even farther beyond the edge of their pocket.

  “Why did you become a Granter?”

  “To help people.” But she’d hurt him, she could hear it dripping from his words. When he turned to look at her, his eyes glistened with it. Her chest panged for him. She wanted to explain it, to tell him, she’d only wanted to breathe, had only gotten scared, but her voice wouldn’t come. Her words refused to save them.

  “Why?” His lips twisted around the question. His mood had fallen past pleasant now. There would be no reaching out, no more kissing.

  “I don’t know. I guess it just seemed right…and good. Granters are good. They help people find happiness. I don’t understand what could be wrong about that.”

  “I bet you don’t.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She knew he lashed out, that she’d hurt him, but the tone of his voice still stung. The condescension, the complete dismissal of her skills made her fists knot for new reasons.

  “It means you live your whole life like it’s a storybook.”

  “So what?”

  “So—so what?” He left his mouth open and stared at her. His jaw slid a little back and forth and then he snapped it shut. “So what? The stories you’re living for were not meant for us, Satina. Don’t!” He put both his hands up and shook his head. “Don’t argue. You know this much. Who wins in your storybooks? The Granter?”

  She wanted to say yes, to insist that the good side always won, but she could see in his expression that he meant something else, that he’d only mock whatever she answered.

  “Does the Granter ever get a happy ending, Satina? How many stories have an imp as the hero?”

  “Of course not.” She blurted it, and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

  “But…” But what? Did she have an answer for that?

  “In your stories, Satina, we are no better than slaves. That is what you choose by Granting. Slavery.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Now she stood up. Henry lifted his head from the thistledown and growled, but she waved him back to sleep. “Nobody makes me do anything.”

  “Maybe not, but what do you get for it? A morsel of bread for your trouble? What about a kind word, a room with a decent bed, a little respect?”

  A little respect. No, not that. She got more requests, sometimes demands—she thought of Maera then and bit her lip—sometimes tantrums. But to ask for the human world’s respect would be asking them to overcome generations of fear and mistrust. She could hear Marten’s thoughts on that matter without them being said. Hadn’t they earned it yet?

  “I didn’t think so.”

  She wished he’d stop saying that. “So why bother with me then?” Maybe she could steer the conversation back in their direction, away from huge truths and generalization. “If Granting makes me such a sellout, why didn’t you send me away the first time I came to town?”

  “Because you’re dangerous.”

  “Excuse me?” She’d expected a very different answer. “I’m what?”

  “You need someone to straighten you out.”

  “Oh, and that’s you?”

  “Obviously not.” He sniffed and stuck his chin in the air. “I thought maybe Hadja could do it.”

  “A human? I thought you just said—”

  “Hadja isn’t a normal human. You see? If you’d been taught properly, you’d know all that.”

  “Now, I’m the ignorant fool again? What I know or don’t know is none of your business. I get by just fine on my own! In fact, I’m damn good at what I do!”

  The shouting was too much for Henry. He got up and trundled to Satina’s side. It worked perfectly to emphasize her point. She reached out and patted the stony neck. I have a gargoyle, the gesture said. What do you have?

  “None of my business.” Marten lowered his voice, but his eyes flashed yellow. “Your carelessness could get us all into trouble. You have to see that. You’re too trusting. You took a human through the pockets, Satina. That kind of thing puts every one of the blooded at risk.”

  “The Gentry had no problem helping me.”

  “The Gentry are safe inside their pockets…at least, most of them are.”

  “That’s not fair.” The fiend. The fluttering of bloody wings. Satina whispered, “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “No. But it could have been.” Marten’s voice softened, but he kept going, kept right on making her feel like a traitor. “This is not a story, Satina. It’s real, and it’s serious. People can get hurt.”

  People already had. She took a breath and leaned more of her weight against Henry’s bulk. “I know it’s not a story,” she said. “What you mean, is that I’m no hero. That I don’t get a happy ending.”

  “Not likely.” He laughed, sharp and with bite. “Not any more than I’m prince charming.”

  They stood in silence while the thistledown wafted between them. Then Henry woofed and bumped her with his nose, breaking the spell. Marten stooped and picked up his pile of down, nothing more to say on his part, and what answer could she possibly give? What did her hopes mean now, in the face of his absolute contempt for everything she did?

  Skinner. She’d come to town thinking he was the villain, and he—maybe all their kind—painted that label on people like her. Not likely. Not taught properly.

  She tucked a few stray wisps of fluff into her own bag and then reached for the bubble wall. It was time to leave in so many ways she couldn’t begin to count them.

  Chapter Twelve

  They stepped out of the pocket and into company. The two trees that marked the rift squeezed them closer together, and beyond, a ring of Starlights lounged to all sides. Vane stood up slowly, as if he’d been waiting a long time and still saw no reason to rush. His smile had a dagger behind it. She could almost taste his malice.

  “Goodmother,” he said. Cheerily, a neighbor’s greeting. “There you are.”

  “Vane.” She nodded as curtly as she could manage. Some part of her relaxed at the sight of the gang. She had accounts to settle with the man before she left this town behind her. “Good afternoon.”

  “I’ve been so hoping for a chance to talk with you.” The rest of his gang held perfectly still. Not one hand touched a weapon, but the swords existed, the potential for violence thrummed through the moment.

  “How nice that you caught us then,” she picked careful words. “Marten was just heading back to town. He has a shop to tend, but I’m perfectly free to chat now.”

  She saw a flicker of indecision on the gang-leader’s face. If he’d meant to detain them both, he’d have to argue outright. Not the best way to start a conversation if he meant to gain anything from it. Of course, if he only meant them harm, her parry would just be ignored. She held her breath and waited.

  “I could use some help at the shop,” Marten said. His voice had less conviction. His shoulders already hunched into his customary submission. This was what he wanted her to learn, how to hide, how to make herself small and stay out of harm’s way.

  “I believe Vane and I have some things to discuss alone.” She didn’t look at him, kept her eyes riveted on Vane’s. This time, his smile held more than malice. He recognized her ploy and he respected it. Marten had been wrong about that much.

  “Of course,” Vane agreed. “The imp should return to tend his shop.” He looked over his shoulder, made some face for his men’s benefit while he waved Marten off. “Let him go.”

  “Satina.” Marten’s hand was on her sleeve. His voice pleaded with her, even just her name on his lips, but she shook her head and didn’t budge.

  “Don’t worry about me, Marten,” she said. “I’m no hero, remember?”

  His hand dropped away. He stepped back, put physical distance between them to match the rift they’d already dug with their words. She didn’t dare look his way, didn’t have that luxury with Vane’s gaze fixed upon her. Marten walked away, back to his ruined shop, and she was left to face the man who’d done the damage.

  “I’m so glad we caught up with you at last,” he said.

  “I didn’t realize I was that difficult to catch.”

  “Oh no,” he smiled and stepped closer, looking past her now to the space between the trees. “Not at all. I only meant that the town is not large, and I’d assumed we’d have run into one another by now.”

  “Well, you have only been here a few days.” Satina kept her voice sweet, sugary even, but she let the implications hint that she’d been here longer. In truth, they’d arrived on the shadow of her own steps.

  “It’s right here,” he said. It took her a moment to catch his meaning. Something had him distracted. He moved past her and circled the trees and, she realized, the pocket. “Isn’t it? I can’t see it. Can’t touch it.” He stuck his arm out, straight through the shimmer that would be invisible to his eyes. Nothing happened. “Can’t even touch it, and yet, you two stepped out right here, from thin air.”

  He waved his arm and frowned at the pocket that eluded him. For a moment, she suspected he’d forgotten her, that he’d lost himself in his frustration. The gang members shifted position nervously, and Satina began to sweat her decision to stay behind. She was vulnerable, surrounded, and Vane was clearly out of his head.

  “No matter!” He snapped to attention, voice too loud and eyes still dancing between her and the trees where the pocket hid. “But we do have business to discuss, don’t we?”

  “Do we?” She couldn’t imagine what business they had at all, except her burning desire to instruct him to stay miles away from the girl, Maera. Still, standing here with him now, Satina knew a man like Vane wouldn’t even see the blacksmith’s daughter. She’d be as invisible to him as the pocket he so desperately wanted.

  “Yes.” He feigned surprise, shock that she’d even question such a thing. “Of course. We have so much to offer one another, should we come to an understanding. I do hope we can come to an understanding.”

  And if they couldn’t, he left no doubt that she would not be walking away from this encounter.

  “I’m here listening.” Her mouth had gone dry, and the words came out less smoothly than she’d have liked. “What exactly is it that you want, Vane?”

  “I want us to help one another, goodmother. I want a partnership to benefit us both.”

  She very much doubted that, but she nodded and let him elaborate.

  “You’ve been to the ruins near town, I assume?”

  “Yes.” She saw no point in lying, the whole town would know this, and she trusted none of them to have kept her secrets.

  “Then you know there is power there…old power.”

  She did, but how he knew she couldn’t guess. She pictured the menhir again, the stairway and the fiend falling toward a suspended pocket. “Yes.”

  “Don’t you want to know how I know?”

  “I did wonder.”

  “See this?” He closed the distance between them so rapidly that she had to grind her teeth together to keep from leaping away. Vane didn’t notice. His eyes lit with a new excitement, and he thrust his Starlight symbol in her direction, as if the pendant would hold some special meaning to her. In truth, she only felt like leaning away, like putting as much distance between her body and the metal as possible. Why?

  Satina blinked and looked at the symbol again. She’d seen gang leaders wearing their tags before, and never once felt this, this physical aversion to the thing.

  “You feel it?” Vane’s voice hissed between his teeth. Whatever he’d done to the necklace had him all a tither. “The heat? You feel it don’t you?”

  “I feel something.” She doubted confessing exactly what would help her under the circumstances. “What is it?”

  “This.” He flipped the medallion over. A second necklace had been affixed to the symbol, completely hidden by the Starlight tag. This one had sigils carved into the bronze surface, it glowed with power she immediately recognized. “It finds magic.” He stated it simply, with the authority of a man who is never questioned.

  He had it all wrong, of course.

  The bit of metal on his symbol had originally been created to repel magic. Satina recognized the sigils as if she’d drawn them herself. She could see his confusion, however, and even the use he’d put it to. Certainly, if he were in the proximity of power, the necklace would warm. Maybe it even grew hotter the closer he got, so that he could use the power in reverse to locate stationary magic.

  Therein lay the problem, however. Anything, or for that matter, anyone, who had the ability to move freely, would never get close enough for him to find. His tool for locating power would push away the very thing he sought nine times out of ten.

  “Amazing.” She suspected awe was the correct response. Vane’s smile lit up, his first genuine expression of the day. “I can see how you might use this to your advantage.”

  “I thought you might.” He let the metal drop back to his chest, but winced visibly when it landed against his shirt, hot, screaming in defiance of Satina’s power. “It has opened doors to me that otherwise would have been impossibly beyond my reach. And, as I benefit from it, so do my friends.”

  His doodad had him all fired up for sure, but it hadn’t done enough for him. Satina could see that in his eyes. Vane wanted more than the necklace had brought him. She knew exactly where this conversation was leading, but could grasp no loophole through which to vanish. Except the pocket. If she could reach the pocket, Vane could never follow her.

  “You’ll have to forgive me, but with that,” she gestured toward the necklace at the same time she stepped sideways, one pace closer to the pocket. “I’m not sure what value I could possibly add.”

  “Oh, don’t tease me, Satina.” His eyes hardened to glass. “I think you could be immensely helpful. This device might alert me to the proximity of power, but it can’t make me see what human eyes cannot. It can’t decipher for me. It can’t teach.”

  “You want me to teach you?”

  “I’m no fool, goodmother.” He stated it blandly, but she might have argued just the opposite. “I know a human has limitations. I’m not asking you to make me what I am not, only to serve as whatever senses I might lack. I assure you, the honor would not be without its rewards. This is my primary project, and my right arm would answer only to me.”

  “Your right arm?”

  The men around them shifted again. Satina was sure this was news to them, but Vane didn’t care one whit. He’d offered her a position at the top of their little order, and she doubted it would have occurred to him that some might object. The pocket lay at her back now. If she was quick enough, she could get away. The more Vane talked the more that option seemed like her best choice. If he wanted her in his gang, Westwood would do just fine without her—maybe better.

  Marten would certainly be better off without her. He’d made that more than clear.

  As if reading her mind, Vane continued. Either he sensed her unwillingness, or just expected it, but he didn’t hesitate to pull out his best weapon. “Your Skinner friend would have been the obvious choice, but he’s bent on resisting. I feel bad for the poor guy.” He winced visibly, exaggerating the gesture and adding a grimace. “I’d hate to have to revisit that argument, but if I must, I’m sure the boys could think of some way to persuade him.”

 

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