Taken (Fae's Captive #5) - Lily Archer Page 0,33

pulling its load.

Several wagons rumble along, puffing up a haze of dusty sand in their wake, each one creaking and filled to the brim with humans and lesser fae. Did Clotty travel this road? She probably did. Her old eyes probably wondered at the jungle on one side and the desert on the other. As far as I know, she’s never been outside of the capital. This must be like a new, terrifying world for her.

I pick my steps, easing along slowly until only a few wagons remain. These are different—the fabric along the top is thicker and the wooden wheels seem newer. No slaves here. These wagons must be for the masters.

The first one passes, and I let it go. Peering into the back, I see a flowing curtain and inside, what must be a high fae asleep atop a spread of pillows. A few others are slumbering near him. Whores, no doubt. Not that I’m judging. Survival is survival.

I shrink back as the next set of horses pass. This wagon makes beautiful music—the sound of pots and pans clanging along with the rattle of crockery. With a glance up and down the line, I steel my nerves, then dart out and grab the back of the wagon. A splinter digs into my palm, but I silence my cry of surprise and ignore the pain.

Now a part of the caravan, I sway gently with the horses’ motion. Using what little strength I have left, I pull myself up and peek into the cook’s wagon. A lesser fae snores on a bed of hay, her furry ears twitching as she dreams. With her rotund belly and relatively comfortable environs, she must be a long-serving cook for the slavers. Grease still splatters some of the black cookware, and the entire wagon carries the scent of rotting onions sprinkled with a hint of strong garlic.

The horses pulling the last caravan huff a bit as I ease myself over the lip of the wagon and drop inside.

Once I hit the wooden floor, I crouch and wait.

The cook turns to her side, facing me. Her tiny, button nose whistles as her breath leaves in fits and starts. Her eyes begin to flutter.

I hold my breath.

Her breath catches in her nose, and she wakes. Every bit of me goes cold as she looks right at me.

But then she closes her eyes again, as if she only opened them in sleep and saw nothing. When her mouth pops open, she begins a sawing snore that seems to rattle her large front teeth.

I slowly let out a breath and take another, trying to force my raging heart to settle back into a survivable rhythm. Without leaving my spot at the rear of the wagon, I scan the contents and make a plan for what I can take. Going near the cook is a definite no. But if I scoot to the right, I’ll be able to grab a couple of potatoes and some bones that still have marrow and some dry meat clinging to them. There are some carrots and a moldy hunk of cheese a little farther in, but I can’t risk it. Even though I love cheese, the cook is too near.

Hoping my knees don’t creak and my joints don’t pop, I edge to the side of the wagon. Only a few small shuffling movements carry me to the sideboard. I grab the potatoes with ease and stuff them inside my shirt, then tie a knot at the bottom so nothing falls out. The bones come along easily, too, though I’m careful not to let them knock against each other. Above my head, three skins of liquid hang in a row. Probably water, or if I’m lucky, wine.

I rise slowly, my hand pressing against one of the wooden ribs that keeps the dingy canopy aloft. The wagon jostles over a bump in the road, and some of the pots clang. I wince and stare at the cook. She doesn’t move, and the snore’s tempo remains the same.

The first skin comes down easy, and I keep the narrow neck of it clenched in my palm. I should go. One skin is enough. But the second one is plumper. It probably has enough water to last us for days. I eye the rounded leather, the promise of a good drink and an easier journey. All I have to do is take one more step inside and I’ll be able to nab it.

Gareth wouldn’t try it. He’s wise,