Page 4 of Fae Trials

“Unity, Sicily!” She stepped out from behind the stall with her usual beaming smile. “What do you fancy reading today?”

“Do you have any Vogue?” asked Sicily.

She pulled a box out from under her trestle table and rifled through its contents. “One of Lady Thistle’s girls brought in a batch the other day.”

“How recent are they?”

“The latest is only six months old.” She pulled out a copy with Madonna lying in the bath.

Sicily poked me in the ribs and grinned.

I grinned back. Elijah had copied every Madonna CD ever released, and we danced to her music all the time on the DVD player. “How much for two days?”

“I’ll lend you a dozen for a fortnight if you can lend me Real Housewives of Atlanta for a week. I want to see the blonde one get her wig pulled off.”

My brows drew together. “Why do you need it for so long?”

“It’ll take a good few days for me to get to a DVD player.” She raised a shoulder. “Unless you’ll let me use yours.”

Sicily picked up the magazines. “I’ll bring down two DVDs.”

After shaking hands on the agreement, my sister and I continued toward the town square. A pang of hunger shot through my belly, and I gave it a gentle rub. On a normal day, we would be waking to a thick slice of honey bread with dandelion coffee. It didn’t have the same kick as the imported stuff, which was ludicrously expensive.

“Want a slice of avocado toast?” I asked.

She drew her hand up to her necklace. “I’ve run out of beads.”

I pulled up the sleeve of my jacket, exposing a full bracelet of money beads. “My treat.”

She frowned. “Where did you get those?” Before I could reply, she tightened her lips. “Elijah, right?”

“Why did you say his name like that?” I asked.

Sicily sniffed. “He’s a faerie, isn’t he?”

Irritation tightened my skin. There was more to my sister’s statement than a dislike of the fae. Sicily often hinted that I was lowering myself by letting Elijah take care of us.

“You know he’s a half-blood,” I murmured.

“Same difference.”

I stopped by Mr. Raze’s table, which sold honey-coated almonds. “You liked him well enough last week when he brought us chocolate,” I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “Now, you’re comparing him to the princes who swiped your apples?”

Mr. Raze stopped arranging his wares and gaped. Of course, he’d want to listen. I’d just implied that two or more members of the royal families had stolen a human’s fruit. Talk like that was enough to get a girl cursed with a cow’s tongue or with lips that wouldn’t stop chattering the truth. We might no longer be their cowering slaves, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t get punished.

Sicily was about to say something, but I held up my hand and continued walking. We weren’t having this argument. Not in the middle of the street where any Tom, Dick, or Hyacinthus could ingratiate themselves with the higher-ups with news about us badmouthing faeries.

I crossed the street, narrowly missing the horns of a drake the size of an elephant. “Watch it!”

The drake threw its head back and roared, releasing a burst of flames that scorched the side of a stone building. My heart jumped into the back of my throat. Dragons weren’t real, but drakes were their closest equivalent. Twelve-feet-tall reptiles with armored scales and horns everywhere, they lived deep within the seventh level of the Mound and supposedly hated the light. Only the most powerful faeries were brave enough to break the beasts.

The rider, a male faerie with hair the russet shade of a maple leaf in autumn, pulled on its reins, turned around, and stared down at me through eyes as green as the forest. Magic crackled in the air, hitting my skin like the static from a TV screen.

“Oh shit,” I whispered under my breath. This guy had to be a royal fae or something close.

Sicily gasped. “That’s Prince Rory.”

What were the chances that we would see three of the four princes in a single morning? Romantics, like Mrs. Yates, might have said it was fate, but I would describe this encounter as bad luck.