Page 43 of Heartbreak Prince

“Why, if that’s the case, he’s carrying a whole fortune under his clothes,” I say.

“I have a family to provide for.” The man’s lip wobbles.

“So do the others who work at the guild. Yet you’re the one stealing and sneaking away.”

“They’re going to the Redemptive Authority anyway, whatever that is,” he replies, defiance showing through his fear. “They won’t miss a half-dozen vials.”

“And you can spare us two,” I say. “Give us a pair of samples, and you get to keep your life.”

“You would kill me over a few samples?”

“Of course not.” I blink innocently at him. “We’d simply run into the plaza and let everyone know that you’re carrying the only few samples that the public is likely to see. The mob would take care of the rest. I wouldn’t have to dirty my blades with your blood.”

The man reaches into his garments and pulls out two small vials which he extends to Vawn with a shaking hand.

“Do you have any foundation or varnish on you?” I ask.

He appears on the verge of denying it, but when I start spinning my knives around my fingers again, he reaches into another pocket and produces a bottle of black base coat and another of clear varnish. “There. Take them and leave me be.”

Vawn seizes the bottles, tucking them into his pockets along with the samples of paint.

“It’s been a pleasure threatening you.” I give the Guild clerk a quick bow. He scuttles away, cursing vehemently.

“Well, that was fun.” I sheathe the knives. “We should head back to our room and make use of the spoils.”

But Vawn doesn’t move. He’s watching me over the edge of the black cloth, his eyes glowing like molten silver.

“What is it? What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“Nothing.” The word is so soft it barely penetrates his wrap.

“Good. Off we go.”

We don’t run, but we walk as quickly as possible away from the Guild sector, and we don’t slacken the pace until we reach the modest inn where we spent the night. Yesterday I paid for two nights in a room with a pair of single beds, and it’s a relief to walk into our chamber and find all our things still there.

“Lock the door, please.” I crouch and open the carpet’s case, relieved to find that he’s still snugly rolled up inside, dormant and safe.

Vawn finishes securing the room and removes his head wrap. Then he takes the samples of paint, base coat, and varnish from his pockets and lines them up on the nightstand between our beds. “A beautiful sight, isn’t it? Enough for two full sets, and maybe a few toes, too.”

“I don’t want my toes done,” I protest. “I don’t fuck with glyphs that are unpredictable and could activate without my intent.”

“You have nothing to fear with me, sweetheart. Not the way I do it.”

The timbre of his voice gives the words a layer of sly, sensual meaning that he probably doesn’t intend. I’m reading too much into it. It’s my own fault that those simple phrases cause a yearning heat to flare deep inside my body.

“We don’t have the right brushes,” I say. “Just the pocket ones in my nail repair kit, and they’re for base coat or varnish. They’re not precise enough.”

“I can trim one of your varnish brushes to a finer point,” Vawn says. “And I can use a splinter of wood for the details. Some artificients swear that you have to use expensive brushes, but I’ve used all sorts of things. The artifice magic is in me and in the paint. Everything else is simply window dressing.”

I open one of the pouches on my belt, remove my nail kit, and hand it to him. “How does it work when you’re painting the glyphs? Do you feel the magic leaving your fingertips?”

“Yes, although it doesn’t leave permanently. It circulates into the person whose nails I’m painting, and when I’m done with each glyph, my magic returns to me.”

“So once the glyph is crafted, your energy becomes your own again, and the symbol is dormant, waiting to be activated by the user.”

“Exactly.”

“Do your nails have to be bare to do this?”