The Bazaar (Fae's Captive #6) - Lily Archer

1

Beth

If you haven’t read Taken: Fae’s Captive 5, you’ll probably want to do that before enjoying this second book of Beth’s and Gareth’s story.

Silmaran puts one finger to her lips as she cuts the rope that binds me to Gareth. I’m about to call his name when someone claps a hand over my mouth and pulls me into a dusty side street.

“We need you.” Silmaran follows, her amber eyes the same shade as I remember from our time together as Granthos’s slaves. But there’s something harder in them now, something that speaks of horrors beyond those visited on us by Byrn Varyndr. She leans close. “And we need your master, too. He seems to favor you quite a bit, so I expect he’ll show up to reclaim you once he gets our ransom note instructions.”

I mumble against the hand over my mouth, but whoever the hand belongs to doesn’t let me go.

A scuffle in the street pulls Silmaran’s attention back to the slave market. With a quick motion to the person holding me, she says, “Take her to the store room. Feed her and treat her well. I’ll come as soon as—”

A fae in a white hat flies down the main road and lands in a heap on the sandy stones. Gareth’s roar sends goosebumps down my skin, and I try to reach out to him through the mate bond, but I don’t feel anything. I never have. But there has to be something there, right?

“Chastain isn’t faring well.” Silmaran peeks around the corner and pulls her white shawl across her face. “And your master doesn’t look interested in negotiating.”

He’s more interested in murder at this point. I would explain the mate situation if only the idiot behind me would let up.

“Where is she?” Gareth bellows, and the white-hatted fae tries to get up, blood welling from a gash over his eye.

“I suppose I’ll have to save his hide yet again. Time to put some skin in the game.” Silmaran draws a curved blade.

I try to kick and yell but get nowhere and say nothing. The brute at my back is an unmoving stone wall. Irritating.

“Get going. I’ll meet you there.” She darts into the street, and I’m dragged back into the shadowy side lanes, my feet scuffling along the ground as I try to fight my captor.

Another roar shakes through the city, and a flock of white birds takes flight over my head and into the too-hot sun.

“He’s not going to let you go, is he?” The man with the iron grip on my waist huffs a laugh. “Slave masters are all the same. Always trying to keep what isn’t theirs.” His voice is low and gritty, like sand scraping underfoot.

People pass us, but they keep their eyes down despite my obvious predicament. Then again, this is Cranthum, the slaver city. If they aren’t used to changelings and lesser fae being dragged against their wills to dark fates, then they haven’t been paying attention.

I kick him as hard as I can, but my heels just bounce off his shins. Whoever he is, he’s huge, his wide body scraping the sides of the low buildings as we pass. He handles me like nothing more than a kitten, my struggles nothing more than me pawing at yarn.

“Calm down, changeling. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re your friends. We saved you from your master, kept you from being sold, and I’m taking you to a safe spot where you can have food, water, and—” He sniffs, then coughs. “A bath, thank the Ancestors.”

“I smell wonderful!” I yell against his hand, but only a muffled mmph makes it past his huge fingers.

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you, you colossal jerk!” I would try to bite his hand, but he’s pressing my lips so hard I can’t open my mouth.

This is a mess. I shouldn’t have been so struck by nostalgia and surprise when I saw Silmaran. I let my happiness at finding her alive cloud my judgment, and now Gareth is likely ripping her to pieces while I’m being faehandled by some monstrous brute. Why can things never be easy?

We pass a fountain where children play, their yells and whoops teeming with joy despite the copper slave bands on their arms. A changeling child looks up at me, her little eyebrows drawing together, her tattered dress soaked through. She opens her mouth, perhaps to sound an alarm, but the brute tells her, “Play without care, little one. Silmaran sees all.”

The phrase smooths the worries