“You have to watch out for Sheriff. He’s very affectionate.”
Briar jolted at the mention of the man who’d ordered her execution, upsetting the dog’s position on her lap. Hazy dawn light filled the camp, and the smell of burnt stew and blackberries lingered. She saw no sign of Sheriff Flynn. The dog gave her a reproachful look and retreated with his shoulders hunched.
Archer sat on his heels a few paces from Briar’s blankets, a quiver and bow slung across his back. He rubbed the dog’s wrinkled face vigorously, making its jowls flap. “Aw, I’m sure she didn’t mean it, Sheriff, old boy.”
Briar wiped her cheeks with her scratchy blanket. “You named your dog Sheriff?”
“I thought it was clever.” Archer stood and clapped his hands briskly. “Up and at ’em, Miss Painter. We have a long ride ahead of us.”
Briar scrambled to her feet, groaning as every muscle in her body reminded her she’d fallen out of a tree yesterday. She’d slept poorly, unable to fully relax surrounded by strangers. She took a few tottering steps.
Archer quirked a dark eyebrow in amusement. “I see you’re not a morning person.”
She grumbled something unintelligible back.
“Ignore him,” Jemma said, strolling over with two steaming tin mugs.
Briar caught a whiff of strong tea.
“He’s insufferably chipper most of the time, but mornings are especially bad.”
Briar accepted the tea gratefully. The lines in Jemma’s face looked a tad deeper at dawn than they had in the firelight. Strands of silver threaded her thick ash-blond hair. Briar estimated the woman was in her midforties.
“We have miles to cover, people to rob, and ladies to rescue,” Archer said. “What’s not to be chipper about? Come on, Sheriff. I can see our charms are wasted on these two.”
Briar and Jemma smiled sleepily at each other and sipped their tea as Archer sauntered over to pester Nat and Lew, who were sound asleep by the fire. Briar felt a little shy around the older woman, who looked more like a kindly librarian than the mastermind of a gang of thieves.
“We should be able to find you a spare shirt in Lew’s pack,” Jemma said, adjusting her red shawl over her shoulders. “Yours is a tad conspicuous at the moment. I can take in one of my skirts for you this evening.”
“Thank you.” Briar brushed at the paint stains on her clothes, which had bits of dried leaves sticking to them. The wrap on her arm looked just as bad, but she didn’t undo it. She rotated her wrist and winced.
“If you catch him in a good mood, Esteban might fix that for you,” Jemma said.
Briar glanced at the gaunt man currently kicking dirt over the campfire with his surprisingly ornate boots, their leather tooled with silver. His black coat sleeves covered his tattoos completely.
“Won’t the spell be tracked?”
“We’ll be on the move today,” Jemma said. “A stray healing spell in the woods shouldn’t give away our scheme. He’s careful.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Jemma smoothed back her silver-and-blond hair and smiled. “Oh, and don’t do anything to hinder this job, or I will personally cut your throat.”
Briar froze. “Excuse me?”
“I trust these louts with my life, but I don’t know you from the queen.” Jemma maintained her pleasant smile. “If you intend to devote anything less than your very best efforts to the team, you’d best leave now, or you will have no other chance. Do I make myself clear?”
Briar stared at Jemma, something dark and destructive rising within her. How dare this woman threaten her after offering tea and healing. She had no idea what Briar was capable of. The most talented curse painters in the kingdom used to speak respectfully to her. Briar was trying to live by a new code, trying not to fill the world with ruin, but she could still make Jemma sorry she’d ever suggested raising a hand against her.
But as Jemma stared back, eyes as cold as iron in her sweet, lined face, Briar remembered that Sheriff Flynn and Mage Radner were still after her. She had nowhere to go, no paints, and no money. Being a curse painter without hurting people was proving more difficult and complicated than she had expected. She would have to create a hundred smaller curses to earn as much coin as these thieves were offering her, adding a hundred little bits of evil to the world. This mission was a chance to help someone and earn enough to start over for good. Briar would do this one job then be done with these people and their threats.
“I understand you perfectly.” She returned Jemma’s icy smile. “Shall I wash the teacups before we pack up?”
Archer had finished rousing the others from their bedrolls, and they broke camp with much grumbling and swearing about the early hour. Despite their complaints, the outlaws saddled the horses and loaded their supplies onto the pack animals with an efficiency that suggested they relocated often. The sun was barely peeking above the trees when they left the dense thicket, rearranged the branches in front of the entrance, and set off into the woods.
The forest felt far less ominous that morning than it had the night before. Light flooded through the canopy, and birds serenaded overhead. The smell of warm earth, crushed ferns, and summer-dry pine needles rose from their horses’ hooves. As they rode, Briar stayed a little apart from the others, ruminating on the challenge ahead. Nightshade Illusions and Marin’s Locks were highly advanced magic, and breaking them wouldn’t be easy. Someone must really not want Lady Mae to escape.
Curse designs had started taking shape in Briar’s mind as soon as the thieves had described Larke Castle’s protection spells. She considered the possibilities as they got deeper into Mere Woods, imagining the strokes in slightly different orders, comparing the pictures in her head with memories of long-ago lessons, long-ago assignments. Her fingers tingled at the prospect of such serious magic.
She had studied curses since she was old enough to hold a paintbrush. The magic was second nature to her, and it had actually been difficult to learn to paint something with no magical properties to cover her tracks. Her parents had been so proud of her talents, of how cleverly she could rip the world to shreds. Their encouragement had come at a cost, in the end. Briar shuddered at the memories of the worst curses she’d painted in their service, the ones that had made her realize she wanted no part of their business. The colors stirred and morphed, bone black, lead-tin yellow, indigo, umber. So much destruction and decay. So many nightmares. She wished it were as easy to stop being what she was as it had been to walk away.
Someone cleared their throat beside her. Briar turned. Esteban, the mage, had spurred his scrawny black mare over to join her.
“Jemma says you have an injury.”
“Oh, yes.”
Briar glanced back, and Jemma gave her a sunny smile. Jemma rode close beside her burly red-bearded husband, Lew, who looked as warm and unassuming as a country innkeeper.
“I sprained my wrist falling out of a tree.”
“Give it here.”
Briar leaned partway out of her saddle and allowed the old mage to unwrap the grimy rags. Her wrist had swollen overnight, and she bit her lip as he prodded at the puffy flesh and the cuts on her palms. Her wrist jolted in his grasp with every step their horses took.