Treachery Queen (The Callistra Chronicles #1)

FOURTEEN

Chapter Fourteen

Of all things that Pasiphae had expected to be said to her, it wasn't that.

"Excuse me?" she blurted out.

"There are no fae in this country who would not know the road rules," the man who had stopped her said, "and no human who would walk alone. Speak, witch, of who sent you here."

Her heart sunk to her stomach.

These were the people she imagined in school lessons about the deadly fae: the violent Unseelie that lurked in the shadows and snatched people at random.

Magic rolled off them like summer sweat.

"No sudden movements," one said, creeping forward. "Come quietly for your life."

Pasiphae set her muscles tight. She was warned about these sorts of fae, but they were also warned about her.

"I'd rather have you beg for yours."

The faery stopped in his tracks.

Curled and static, her accent had slipped in fully. If there had been doubt earlier, it was gone now. She had essentially screamed at them: WITCH, and in their momentary delay, Pasiphae bent down, scrabbling for the nearby rubbish bag. Before the fae could react, she flung the plastic at them, spilling waste and mouldy food.

The one on the very right with the slightest rip in his wings lunged at her, arms open to pin her down. Pasiphae darted out of the way, pressing against the wall. She kicked out viciously, clipping the faery's head, but only barely.

"Who sent you?" he roared. "Speak!"

Pasiphae gulped for breath, pausing to determine her next steps before he recovered.

"No one sent me," she hissed. "I am Pasiphae of Eo."

Two of them skittered back. It wasn't much, but she had surprised them enough that they didn't react immediately as she bolted off, taking the opening.

It did not take long for them to begin chase. She needed to be out of sight before they reached for magic.

Pasiphae dove into a shop, pushing past fae that complained loudly before emerging out the other open end. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that her pursuers had seen where she gone.

Deaths.

The problem was her giant cloak. She may as well have worn a billowing flag on her shoulders.

Pasiphae held the corners of the fabric down, slowing her pace in hopes of blending in. There were too many lights. Every inch of her face was lit with colours.

At one point, she slowed to a walk within a crowd. Carefully, she looked back, scanning the scene for the four fae men. They had lost sight of where she was. She took the opportunity to slip down a set of stairs and into a low door many others were filing into.

This seemed to be the busiest building on the street.

Pasiphae used her sleeves to wipe the rain water from her face, forcing her heartbeat to slow. Her eyes adjusted slowly. She had entered a gambling den, judging by the low lighting and the absolute chaos. There were fae dealing cards and fae spinning chance wheels, all screaming at one another or looking a few seconds away from beating each other up.

Pasiphae stood next to a few tables situated by the door: seating for the fae that weren't gathered around the exchange of money. By the smell of thick smoke and oil grease, Pasiphae assumed this place doubled as a restaurant.