Chapter One
Tin
Tin picked absently at the dried blood on his iron-tipped gloves. Day had turned to night with no sign of his target. Lord save the ugly bastard if he was off killing the brownie who’d hired him. She still owed Tin half his money, payable only when the dwarf’s head was delivered. The dwarf was as good as dead either way, if only because Tin was stuck perched in the damn tree for so long, but he was a professional.
And professionals got paid.
With an exaggerated huff, Tin pried his iron axe from where it was imbedded in the tree near his head. An unusual weapon for a faerie, but he had long ago embraced the pain of iron. He had no choice, really—it was that or go mad. Almost as mad as this dwarf was making him. It was no wonder someone wanted the miner dead.
A light-skinned sprite landed on the branch just above him, all spindly limbs and unkempt hair. She seemed oblivious to Tin’s presence as she plucked delicate white leaves from the otherwise-green foliage and tucked them into a little basket on her arm. Her wings shook, golden pollen raining down.
Tin jerked away from the shimmering powder before it landed in his long silver hair, and snatched the sprite in a blindingly fast motion. The tiny creature shrieked inside his closed fist, then fell silent as he tightened his grip until bones crunched.
“Nasty creature,” he spat, though sprites weren’t particularly bothersome, and unfurled his fingers. Bits of sprite coated his gloved hand. He brushed it off the best he could, wiping the remnants on his pants.
The sprite’s innards weren’t the only relic of a kill to adorn his clothing. Kelpie scales were artfully sewn into his dark clothing for extra protection, and the small rings holding the right side of his hair back were whittled from their blackened bones.
A low whistle sounded in the distance, the tune cheerful and carefree. Tin gripped his axe tighter and leapt lithely from the tree, landing silently in the grass. He edged around the wide trunk and peered in the direction of the lighthearted song.
The dwarf he’d been waiting for crested the hill with a massive pack strapped to his back. Over his shoulder, a pickaxe was visible in the moonlight, the handle tucked safely away. His hands were empty. Good. It was annoying when they fought back.
Tin held his breath and watched his mark close the distance between them. The dwarf had a gnarled beard, ratty, knotted black hair, and a bulbous nose, all of which were coated in dark powder from the mineral mines. Suddenly, Tin regretted not bringing a bag to carry the head in. Mineral powder was even harder to wash from around the kelpie scales than pixie dust. Alas…
The dwarf was still whistling his merry tune when Tin leapt from his hiding place, axe swinging. His mark flailed and his heavy pack pulled him backward where he landed in a heap. “Wait! I—”
His eyes went wide and he sucked in a breath as the moonlight flashed over Tin’s face. The mark of shame—or as Tin thought of it, his badge of honor—was known in every corner of Oz. The Wizard had taken pity on him after Tin’s heart turned back into stone. Instead of being sentenced to death for assassinating eleven fae lords, he’d been branded. Shackled and bound, he’d been unable to escape as liquid iron was dripped slowly onto the side of his face. Each drop had landed at the edge of his cheekbone where it scalded a path across his skin. By the time it was finished and the iron cooled, Tin had been left with a design of wild, twisting silver lines that covered nearly half his right cheek.
“Have mercy,” the dwarf begged.
Tin grinned savagely. The Wizard should’ve killed him. “There is no mercy in this world.”
“Why?” the dwarf asked in a cracking voice. “I’ve done nothing!”
“Everyone has done something.”
Tin swung his axe, severing the target’s head before he could scream. He bent, fisting the dingy hair. Bright red blood gushed from the neck as he lifted the proof of his work. As he sauntered back toward the brownie’s house to collect the rest of his fee, leaving a red trail in his wake, he whistled the end of the dwarf’s song.
Firelight and music reached the brownie’s cave from the nearby village. When Tin arrived, he found the old female atop a rock outside the opening, swaying to the song as she waited for him. Thin wisps of white hair floated around her molting head. Toenails curled over the ends of her feet. Age spots marked her olive skin, just as red stripes decorated her loose dress.
“You’re late,” she snapped.
“What do you care? He’s dead.” Tin threw the bloody head at the brownie, nearly knocking the portly faerie off the rock. This job was too far below his skill-set—and his pay grade—for him to put up with snide comments.
“I hired you to kill him before sundown.”
Tin cracked his neck. It would be more profitable to kill the brownie and take whatever valuables she owned. She was ancient and barely came to his knee—it would be easy—but if he began killing his clientele, no one would seek him out. It was already hard enough finding work outside of the Emerald City. Country folk weren’t much in the way of intrigue like those in the capital, but they made up for it with their ruthlessness. If the fae here didn’t take care of their own problems, no one would.
The brownie must’ve sensed the shift in Tin’s thoughts because she made a show of checking the validity of the head. “Fine. It’s done.” She reached down the front of her dress for a small bag. She pretended to weigh it in her hands before tossing it at his feet. “This concludes our business, assassin.”
He caught the bag with the toe of his boot just before it landed in the dirt. It took every ounce of his meager self-control not to lunge for her throat. Tin opened the bag to be sure it was full of diamonds and not pebbles, though he was confident the brownie wasn’t stupid enough to swindle him. The last person who’d tried that ended up impaled.
Satisfied, he turned on his heel and walked toward the town for a well-deserved drink. If he could find a room for the night, and someone to buy the gemstones off him before he moved to the next town, all the better.
Glimpses of fae flashed through the trees as he neared the edge of the clearing. Vivid, gem-colored fabric swirled around their lithe bodies. The firelight caressed exposed skin, some pale, some dark, some flecked with scales and others with feathers. Ribbons tied to posts lifted and fell in time with their flawless movements.
It seemed a nightly ritual in this part of Oz to greet the dawn with dance, which meant they would be at it all night. He’d never stepped foot in this particular town and wasn’t sure what their reaction to him might be. Sometimes they called for his head, other times they hid inside and bolted the doors. Often it was a mixture of both. Whatever the response to his iron scars, Tin didn’t much care unless it created extra work for himself.
Tin touched the rings in his hair without meaning to. He refused to hide his face, even if it made things easier, so he dropped his hand and strode straight into the town and through the party. The dancers faltered as they noticed him. Hooves ceased stomping, wings stilled, and soon the music sputtered out as well.
Tin made an exaggerated bow and held his breath. When no one screamed or made to attack, Tin dodged the decorative floating balls of light on his way to the tavern. It was better to hurry before they made up their minds on how to respond. The sign for the Peppered Pike hung crooked over the door in elvish writing. He steeled himself for the owner to give him the boot the moment he stepped inside, but he could really do with a night in an actual bed. Right after a drink.