asked.
“I’m not a slave,” she said, fixing her eyes back to his face. “Let’s get that straight right now. I’d rather die than go back to that, so if that’s what you’re wanting, then leave. I hear hangings are nice this time of year.”
Her irreverence managed to score a slight twitch on the right side of his mouth, but she couldn’t say for sure if it was a frown or a smile, or perhaps it was just her imagination because it was gone before she could fully appreciate it.
“You will not be a slave, I assure you,” he replied. “Now, do we have a deal?”
“Sure. Fine. Yes. Get me out and we have a deal.” Lazarus didn’t move to open her cell door or call for a guard. She slapped the bars. “What are you doing? You asked if we had a deal, I agreed. Get me out.”
“You didn’t really think it would be that easy, did you?”
Quinn growled low in her parched throat.
“A contract,” Lazarus said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a feather.
“A contract?” she repeated, staring at the strange jagged edges of the feather. He didn’t produce paper, nor did he produce ink. He simply held the feather out for her to examine.
“There is an inscription on it,” he stated.
She noted that, but she couldn’t read the language it was written in.
“When you sign your name with this, you will bind yourself to me in service of ten years—”
“Hold on.” Quinn pressed her hands flat against the bars and leaned closer. “Ten years?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “No. Five.”
“I’m saving your life,” Lazarus reminded her.
“And I’m sure you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart.” Quinn lifted a brow before dropping it and continuing. “You’re offering me this deal—this contract,” she corrected herself, “because you need me—even if you won’t tell me why just yet. I will not be bound for ten years to someone I don’t even know.”
“You will have to live with the disappointment,” Lazarus replied coldly, “or you could die with your freedom.”
“You. Need. Me,” Quinn repeated, emphasizing her words. “You wouldn’t even bother if you didn’t, would you?” She didn’t wait for him to reply. Quinn pulled her hands away from the bars and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m a translator. I know languages, and I can quickly learn more.”
“I can hire other translators,” he replied, but he didn’t keep talking, allowing her to continue.
“Sure, you could. But why when you would have me? I have more to offer. You’ve already made that clear,” she pointed out.
“For five years?”
She nodded. “For five years.”
“Or I could have you for ten,” he replied, “and you could thank me for saving your life.”
“I’ve never met another fear twister,” Quinn said, catching his gaze. “Have you?” When he didn’t reply, she smiled. “You haven’t,” she deduced, “and dark Maji aren’t very common.”
He nodded. “Not with their sanity intact, no,” he acceded. That she knew. Gods, did she know.
“Five years, then.” She pressed a bead of sweat dotting her brow.
Silence descended as he looked her over. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but when his eyes met hers once again, she held still, refusing to break away first. Finally, he took a deep breath and held the feather out to her.
“Five years,” he said. When she reached for the quill, he held it back slightly. “But,” he warned, “if I am not satisfied at the end of those five years, you will be in my service for ten more uninterrupted years, understood?”
His tone was hard, his gaze cold—eyes devoid of any sympathy she may have attempted to prey on. Not that she would have. Quinn wasn’t one for taking people’s sympathy. And since she didn’t have many options, she nodded and agreed to the terms. He handed it over.
“Okay, what do I do with this thing?” she asked.
“You will write your name on my wrist.” Lazarus moved the sleeve of his tunic up and her eyes widened. Dark scales of something peeked out from beneath the fabric. It wasn’t completely uncovered, but it was strange looking. Her eyes were drawn to the edge of whatever was etched into his flesh, but he leaned forward and tapped the strip of bare skin at his pulse point.
Quinn looked from the pen to his wrist. “There’s no ink,” she pointed out.
“You won’t need any. Write,” he commanded.
Quinn was surprised. When she reached out to do as he bid, her hands didn’t shake. She was signing her