Sheriff Flynn had gone back outside, giving the mage space to work. Winton was laughing in the darkness behind him. Briar crouched by her table, much too far from the door, and faced Mage Radner across the paint-spattered floor. His cloak billowed around him like a storm cloud. She tried to predict which way he’d shout his next spell. Left, right, straight at her heart?
He feinted right, barking a quick syllable, then he shouted directly at her. She rolled forward, the curse singeing her hair as it passed. She scrambled toward him, picking up more paint on her hands, her knees, her skirt. Glass from the broken jars stuck in her palms, and her injured wrist screamed from the effort.
She ducked another curse, still barreling forward, and her fingers closed on the hem of the mage’s dark cloak. She began to scrawl a rough image on the fabric with the paint on her hands. Blood mixed with the shades of green and ochre. She had to get the strokes right.
One. Two.
She lurched to the side as the mage kicked at her, forgetting his voice for a moment. She seized the cloak again.
Three. Four.
Radner tried to pull his cloak out of her grasp, dragging her across the floor, coughing at the thickening smoke. She thrust her fingers into a slick of verdigris paint and reached for the cloak.
Five. Six.
It was the ugliest curse she had ever made, and she’d painted some fiends, but it was enough.
Seven.
“What in the—”
The mage’s cloak flew upward, hauling him off his feet. He soared toward the thatched roof and banged his head on the exposed rafters. The painted edge of the cloak burrowed into the thatch. Left unchecked, that cloak would continue shooting straight up until it reached the stars. The mage, half-strangled by the smoke, spoke a few gruff words to halt its ascent. The distraction gave Briar just enough time to slip past him. She hurtled out the cottage door, darting past the sheriff, the blacksmith, and the spitting-mad Winton—and kept running.
Paint, splinters, and ash covered Briar from head to foot. Behind her, the cozy little cottage was burning. The thatch caught fire in earnest, fueled by the paints as well as the lingering echoes of the mage’s power. The dry crackle of burning straw filled the night. Briar felt as if her heart were being seared in a frying pan as the roaring inferno consumed her home.
She chanced a look back. Mage Radner was outlined in the doorway, stalking slowly out of the blaze, his cursed cloak still twitching. She had no time to worry about the dark, menacing figure. Sheriff Flynn and his companions were untying their horses from the woodpile. She had a head start, but she was on foot, and they were mounting up, preparing to run her down.
Briar flew down the path, gasping, her lungs clouded with smoke. She didn’t know if she should run into the woods or try to cross the Brittlewyn. In the woods, she could end up trapped against the curve of the river, whereas she could hide in the village across the bridge. But could she trust anyone to shelter her? She had deliberately kept people at arm’s length. And if the blacksmith would betray her, could she trust any of the others who had treated her with apparent kindness?
Hooves beat a thunderous warning on the road behind her. Shouts chased her through the dark. She ran, heart thrashing like a panicked hummingbird. Woods or village? She had nothing, no money, no food. She wouldn’t survive the forest for long. The paint covering her clothes was soaking in, drying fast. She wasn’t sure she could paint so much as a headache curse with what she had left.
Her pursuers were getting closer. She was powerless against them now. They would trample her into the dirt and leave her to die. All over a stupid mistake.
The bridge loomed over the river ahead. They would catch her before she reached it. A howl sounded in the night, as if the dogs of the lower realms had come for her. The horses’ hooves tolled a death knell behind her. She wasn’t even close to making up for what she had done, the damage she had caused. All she had wanted was another chance, a fresh start, a little cottage in the woods that smelled of thatch and oil paint.
Suddenly, a dark shape reared up directly in her path. She gave a strangled cry, looking square into the rolling eyes of a massive horse. They had caught her. She tried to evade the horse’s churning hooves as it snorted and pranced before her.
Then a hand reached out of the darkness, seized her arm roughly, and hauled her off her feet. She clawed at the person trying to lift her onto the horse, scratched, twisted. Her arm was being wrenched out of its socket.
“This’ll be easier on both of us if you help, Miss Painter.”
Briar gasped in recognition and stopped fighting. She clutched reflexively at a familiar indigo sleeve and managed to swing her leg up over the horse’s back.
“Looks like your life here is more exciting than I gave you credit for,” Archer called over his shoulder.
“They have a voice mage,” Briar rasped.
“Say no more.” Archer kicked his heels, and she flung her arms around his waist as his horse took off, thundering toward the bridge and over the Brittlewyn.
“Wait!” Briar shouted.
He pulled up sharply, and Briar swung down to scrawl a tiny mark on the bridge with the last dregs of paint skimmed from her clothes and hands.
“That won’t keep them for long.”
“They can’t catch me,” Archer said. “Now hold on tight!”
Chapter 4
Smoke and fury filled the night as they galloped down the path to the village. Archer’s heart pounded in time with the hoofbeats as he leaned forward over the neck of his horse.
Well, it wasn’t technically his horse. He had borrowed it for the occasion. The leggy, spirited animal was already outpacing the sheriff and his goons. Archer hadn’t had that much fun in ages.
“What did you do to the bridge?” he called over his shoulder.
“It’s an illusion,” Briar said in his ear. “The bridge will look like it’s washed out. I didn’t have time to destroy it.”
“Won’t the mage see through that?”
“He’ll have to break the curse first.”
“How long will that take?”
“Don’t slow down.”
Archer winced. He’d had more than his fair share of run-ins with licensed voice mages. They were a cantankerous bunch. “Some night, eh?”
The curse painter didn’t answer. She clung to Archer’s coat, her hands smudged with dark paint. She seemed calm, all things considered. Cursing the bridge had taken quick thinking. It was good to know she performed well under pressure.
She had looked afraid when she’d fled the burning cottage, though, eyes wide and rolling. Archer had intended to demand she commit to the mission before he saved her, but he couldn’t go through with it when he saw her terror. He’d hauled her onto his horse—well, the one he had stolen—and for a minute there, he’d felt like a hero from a story. It had been a long time since he’d felt like that.
But he had a mission, and he was still a thief—and a leader of thieves. Despite her fear, Briar had kept her head. That told him all he needed to know.
Archer twitched the reins as they passed the first houses in Sparrow Village, and the stolen horse responded eagerly to his guidance. It wasn’t long after dark, and people milled in the streets with flowers in their hair, laughing and chatting about the summer fair. Archer galloped the horse up and down and across several of the busier lanes, forcing the villagers to dive out of his way with indignant squawks. No one would be able to tell exactly which direction he had gone when the sheriff questioned them later. He considered retreating to the village’s only inn, where he’d taken a room, but they were already pressed for time, and he couldn’t risk Briar leaving before morning. He would introduce her to the team and confirm the deal that very night.