fish is more than simply lacking. It’s non-existent. “Cod. Yes.”
She snaps upright, corkscrews of dark hair escaping her cap. “This is third rate pickings, at best. What do you think you’re doing bringing this dreck to Master Granthos’s fine house?”
I ponder whether I should just knock her out or continue the ruse. “My apologies.” I try to give her a winning smile.
Her frown deepens.
“I would be happy to demonstrate the best ways to prepare the cod in such a way as to please even the most discerning of masters, even those who don’t care for fish.” I don’t have time for this. Not with my mate so close. And I haven’t a clue how to prepare fish, but that doesn’t matter.
She laughs, the sound loud and raucous. “The high fae fishmonger cooks, does he? Oh, well then, come right in. Show us lowly kitchen changelings how it’s done.”
I scoop up the slimy cod and walk past her—I don’t care if she’s being sarcastic, she invited me in. This is my chance.
Two other changelings stand in the kitchen, one with flour all over her hands and a ball of dough in front of her, and the other peeling potatoes.
“This here fine fisherman says he can prepare the fish such that even Master will eat it.” The first one follows me, her laughter infecting the other two.
“This will certainly be worth watching.” The girl goes back to kneading her dough.
“Go on, then, master cook.” The dark-haired one leans on the wooden counter and crosses her arms. “Let’s see what you’ve got other than a mean stare and a taut backside.”
More laughter as the other two move closer to inspect my wares.
I throw the fish down on the counter and draw my blade, brandishing it at the cooks. “Scream, and I’ll gut you.”
The laughter stops as I grab the changeling with the flour on her hands and press the dull side of my knife to her throat. I won’t hurt her, but they don’t need to know that.
“Don’t.” The dark-haired one holds up a hand, her eyes wide. “Please.”
“Tell me where Beth is.”
“Beth?” The one with the potato peeler edges toward the door.
“One more step, and I’ll open her throat.”
The shivering girl squeaks, and the potato changeling freezes.
“We have no Beth here.” The dark-haired one is sober now, her mouth pinched. “Please just go.”
“Lenetia. That was her name here. Where is Lenetia?”
The dark-haired one and the potato one exchange a dark look.
“Where?” I shake the terrified girl.
“In the slave quarters. But if you mean to harm her—” The potato one steps closer and raises her peeler.
I shake my head. “No. She’s mine. I would never hurt her.”
“Granthos sold her to you?” The dark-haired one’s eyebrows rise.
“No. She’s mine.” A growl permeates the last word, and the dark-haired one blinks with understanding.
“You’ve come for her?” She arches a brow, surprise and wonder mixing in her tone. “To free her?”
“Yes. I will take her to the winter realm where all are free.”
She throws her hands up. “Why didn’t you just say so?” Hurrying past me, she opens a door that leads to a narrow staircase. “Down to the bottom level, third door on your right. If you get caught, you never saw us, and we never saw you. And if you don’t get caught, have a care for the rest of us if you can.” With a shove, she thrusts me onto the landing and closes the door behind me. Her exasperated voice carries through the wood. “Bloody high fae yapping instead of acting. Typical.”
Are all changelings this odd?
I hurry down the stairs, my steps loud as I toss caution by the wayside. When I reach the third door, I throw it open. My heart seems to expand, battering my ribs as I take in my mate.
Her eyes round as a purr emanates from me, my need for her like molten gold in my veins. Her light hair, pale skin, the brown of her eyes—all of it is indelibly marked onto my soul, and I will never love another the way I love her. Her wild scent calls to me, but the air is colored with something darker. Blood. Her blood.
She takes a wobbly step toward me with a wince. “What are you—”
I take her in my arms, pulling her hard against my chest as I unspool the last of my healing magic, a slight green glow lighting between us.
“Oh.” She goes limp in my hold. “Oh, that’s nice.”
“I thought I’d lost you.”
“You didn’t follow