Chapter 1
The first rule of banditry is this: people see what they want to see, and it's our job to use those prejudices against them.
When men see me, they don't see a champion archer and swordsperson trained by the most elite--if unexpected--tutors in the world. No. They see a young woman of delicate beauty, with long wavy dark hair and eyes the color of sapphires. Which means I have an advantage when I wave a carriage down that’s traveling along the bumpy road. I limp as if in need of help, my dress just disheveled enough to suggest a level of distress that is neither too minimal for my target to bother with, nor too excessive that I seem more costly a pursuit than I'm worth.
The Jolly Jesters, my hodgepodge family cobbled together through time and trials, are in place. It is now my turn to perform. I'm not sure which I enjoy most--the acting or the fighting. Both give me a thrill unparalleled by anything else. I never would have thought I would love being an outlaw when I began this life nearly ten years ago. But, for good or for ill, the fates have a way of dragging us into the lives we were meant for, even if they are not the lives we were born to.
I give one more ruffle to my hair and bite my lips to make them extra red, then stumble into the dirt road as I hear horses clomping just around the bend.
The driver slows as they approach me, and I school my face into the appearance of an innocent and desperate damsel.
I study the carriage to first make sure this is a worthy target. We never shoot too high or too low. The upper middle class is the safest place to be, targeting those who are wealthy enough they can afford to lose some, and are likely also corrupt enough that my conscience--what little remains, Sharon would say--is eased. But not so high up that we paint an even larger bullseye on ourselves. Most of our marks are human, which makes this easier but also keeps the creatures with power from looking too closely at me.
This particular target seems to fit the bill perfectly. The carriage is lacquered to a bright shine and painted in rich emerald and silver--silver, not gold. Which means it belongs to a baron or well-ranking knight or lord, someone who services the false king in his evil reign, but isn't a direct member of the royal family. They're off limits, for now at least.
Quickly determining this is the right target--enough gain with minimal risk--I set the plan in motion. With a grace born of hard training, I fall to the ground, clutching my ankle, and lifting my skirt just enough so that some skin is visible, but not so much that my weapons can be seen.
As expected, the carriage stops, the driver peering down at me with tiny eyes set over a sharp nose. "What has befallen you, Miss?" he asks in a voice several octaves higher than expected by the look of him.
"I was out riding and got thrown when my horse spooked," I say, wincing ever so gently, as if I'm desperately trying to cover my pain. "I fear I've twisted my ankle," I finish, a single tear welling and spilling over my cheek on command.
The driver leans back to confer with his passenger, and a moment later, the door to the carriage opens and the man who steps out momentarily stuns me. I quickly cover my shock, but I do not stop studying him.
He's tall, at least a head taller than myself, with hair the color of ink, pulled back at the nape of his neck in a leather strap and exposing the delicate tips of his pointed ears.
Not human then.
Our risk factor just shot up, and yet, I am too caught in the look of him to let the danger rile me.
His eyes are silver--not light blue, but genuine silver--and seem to glow in the settling dusk of twilight. His skin is cut like the finest marble, smooth and flawless, with a chiseled jawline, a dimpled chin and high cheekbones. He's unlike any baron or knight or lord I've ever seen. Human or not, I've never seen anyone more beautiful. Dammit woman, get your head on straight. This man is a dark fae. He's everything me and my troupe are fundamentally opposed to. I'm at war with his kind. He’s the reason the light fae have been driven from this land, leaving only the cruel rulers and the humans who serve them--at will and for profit, or by force and for scraps. Mentally smacking myself, I school my face until I am once again merely an injured woman on the side of the road.
As he approaches me, his hand out, I offer mine. "Thank you, kind sir. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along when you did."
His gaze locks with mine, and I suck in a breath as I stumble into the depths of his eyes. Alarmed by my out of character reaction, I pull my hand from his just as our fingertips brush.
"Forgive me," I say, turning my face away, "but I hope I'm not being an imposition." Inwardly I cringe. May the three-faced goddess forgive me for acting such a fool.
Sharon would laugh outright if she saw me now.
"Not at all," the man says, his voice deep and cultured. "I am..." he pauses, cocking his head. "I am Lord Tyler," he says, finally. "Allow me to escort you to your home. Surely you cannot walk in this condition."
I nod shyly, allowing a loose curl of hair to fall over my eyes. He grasps my hand and an electric thrill runs through my arm at the touch. I look up at him and notice his eyes widen. Did he feel it too?
No matter. Whatever this is, it's a distraction I don't need.
As he pulls me to standing, I stumble, falling against his broad, muscular chest. He doesn't notice when my hand slips into his pocket and pulls out the parchment I’d hoped would be there.
"Goodness, I'm so sorry," I say, righting myself. "I am so worried about my horse. Let me try calling for her one more time."
I whistle in the way I know will bring Starlight to my side quickly. When she arrives within moments, the man raises an eyebrow. "It would appear she didn't get far at all," he says.
"It would appear." I pull from his support and fling myself onto my horse with ease, not bothering to ride like a lady at all. "So sorry for the trouble. Thank you again for your help."
I don't bother waiting for a response. Instead, I turn and take off down the road, giving one short and two longer bird calls to let the Jolly Jesters know the mission is accomplished.
I didn't get to fight this time, more's the pity, but we weren't going for silver, gold or gems like usual. I pat my pocket and smile. No, our prize is much grander.
Sarge and the others aren’t far behind and with their signal letting me know all is well, I press on, too excited to wait for them.
By the time I arrive back at our campsite, everyone else has already settled in for the night. There's a general sense of cheer as I ride in and dismount, rubbing Starlight down and feeding her before I join my people. I take a wooden bowl and serve myself some stew still boiling over the fire pit. I let the heat of it warm my face as Sharon walks over, wiping hands on the apron tied around her generous hips.
"And did ya get what you aimed for, M'Lady?" she asks, looking me up and down, checking for wounds as always.
"Hush you. You know not to call me that."
She rolls her eyes. "Very well, M'Lady Kate," she says with an exaggerated drawl.
"That's no better and you know it. Why must you insist on vexing me so?" I say, quoting her own words thrown at me all my life back at her. Then I pull out the parchment scroll and hand it to her. "Got it. We had to shake down five carriages before I found someone carrying their invitation."