The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne) (21 page)

Chapter 21

F
afnir walked toward Amma, glancing back over his shoulder as he did. When he reached her, he ducked behind a stalagmite—out of sight, she noted, from anyone in the main bar.

There was a furrow between his brows and his hands opened and closed. “I told you to call me,” he said.

She swirled her straw in her glass and, adding a bit of a break to her voice, replied, “I lost your card. So, I thought I’d come here. Was that wrong?” Actually, she had wanted to meet the dwarf on her own terms—not his.

He muttered something under his breath. “It’s fine.”

“So, the Collector, is he still willing to make the trade?”

At the Collector’s name, Fafnir darted a glance over his shoulder. Looking back at Amma, he said, “The Collector…yes, yes, he’s still willing to make the trade, but not here. We need to go to my office.” He pointed at the boards that swung overhead.

Not the boards again. But she nodded. “Of course.”

“Good. You wait here. I have to take care of something.” He scurried away, leaving Amma alone again with her pink drink. She had ordered it more as a prop than to quench her thirst, but looking at it reminded her of Joarr passed out on the bed at the hotel. She walked over to a fountain, designed to look like water dripping from a stalactite into a crevice worn into a receiving rock, and dumped her drink inside. Foam bubbled up and onto the floor.

When she turned around she caught sight of Fafnir across the room talking to another dwarf—this one dressed in a red frock coat and a tricorn hat. The Collector. He was here. Her heart raced.

So, Fafnir hadn’t been lying, at least not completely. If the Collector was here, the chalice very likely was, too.

Fafnir, his back to her, seemed to be directing the Collector down the stairs toward the entrance of the club. As the older dwarf disappeared from sight, Fafnir trotted back to her side.

His breath coming in a huff, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward a board. She locked her knees and twisted, freeing her arm. “Wasn’t that the Collector?”

“Who? That? The dwarf? No, just a…friend of my brother’s.” Fafnir grimaced. “He’s taken to dressing like my father. I’m afraid he has ulterior motives. I asked him to leave.”

He waved down a board.

Amma didn’t buy his story for a second. “So, is the Collector up there?” She glanced up, tamping down the surge of anxiety as she stared at the vast open space again.

Fafnir shook his head. “No, the Collector refuses to do business here, but since you did come and you do have…” He leaned close and whispered, “The blood.” He raised a brow, asking for confirmation.

She inclined her head in agreement.

He smiled. “I’m going to make an exception and step in for him. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you came for.”

“The chalice?”

“Yes, yes, that’s right—a cup.” He gestured for her to step onto the board.

She twisted her lips and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Last time, your brother pulled a sword on me.” She looked purposely at the ax slipped through his belt.

He held out his hands. “I’m not my brother.”

“True.” She kept her gaze steady.

With a mumbled curse, he jerked the ax from his belt and waved over a waitress to take it.

As the woman walked away, the ax lying in the center of a tray filled with shot glasses, Fafnir motioned to the board again.

This time Amma stepped on.

This trip was less eventful. In the beginning, Amma stayed tense, but as the board climbed, she relaxed more and more. Her body seemed to move with the board now rather than stiffen with each sway. And she was able to look down, actually study those below without fear clawing at her.

She spotted Regin ordering waitresses around. And just as their board came even with the top bit of jutted-out floor, the Collector walked up the stairs and back into the main club.

Fafnir seemed to have spotted him, too. He shoved Amma in the side, onto a landing. Then immediately began scurrying toward a closed door. “In here.”

The door was constructed of one solid piece of thick wood. It was curved at the top, like something out of a fairy tale, and bands of metal formed a Z on its front. It looked ancient and heavy, but opened with just a slight push of the dwarf’s hand.

Inside the office was dark. Fafnir slammed the door shut behind them before reaching for a light. There was the snap of stone against steel, then a lamp flickered to life. While Fafnir fidgeted with the wick, Amma glanced around. The room was still dark, completely so outside the three-foot diameter of the lantern’s glow.

She looked up. There was an electric, or what appeared to be an electric, fixture set in the ceiling. She pointed at it. He glanced at it as if surprised to see it there. “Burned out. I prefer fire, anyway—don’t you?”

For some reason, Amma felt as if the question was a trap, although she guessed it was more likely her conscience nipping at her again. Still, she didn’t answer his question. Instead she replied, “I prefer to see what I am trading for.”

“Not a problem, as long as you will do the same.” He looked up at her expectantly.

She glanced around the room again. She had no sense that she had walked into a trap, but still, it paid to be cautious. Satisfied no one else was hiding in the room and that there was no weapon within the dwarf’s easy reach, she pulled the flask up and out of her shirt by the ribbon she’d attached to its lid.

The dwarf’s eyes glimmered. His tongue darted out of his mouth to moisten his lips, and in that tiny span of time, Amma would have sworn she saw a flicker of fire deep in his throat.

She wrapped her hands around the flask. Insane. She was going insane—seeing dragon fire everywhere.

He made a give-me motion with his hands.

She pulled the ribbon over her head, but kept hold of the flask. “Where is the chalice?”

He was leaning forward, reaching for the flask. She let magic flow down her arm, into her hand, spread her fingers and held them up in front of him. “You hadn’t asked what I am, dwarf—an oversight you might regret, especially if you plan to cheat me.”

He pulled back, his eyes narrowing until they were nothing but dark slits. His hand dropped to his belt.

She smiled. “Where is the chalice?”

He growled. “A witch. If I’d known…”

“What, you have issues with witches?” Suddenly she was enjoying herself. She thought of what she’d seen the dwarf do, knew lording her knowledge over him would threaten him more. “I know what it’s for, by the way.” She held the flask by its neck and shook it in front of his face, her free hand still held out, still sparking with power. “And I’m guessing your father, the Collector, has no idea what his son is doing. What would he do if he found out?”

Even in the yellowish glow of the lantern, she could see Fafnir pale. He dropped his hands to his sides and gritted his teeth. His hands were shaking; his entire body was shaking. He stared at an oversize mirror that hung a few feet away, in the shadows. He seemed to calm. Sucking a breath in through his teeth, he turned back.

“All that matters to you, witch, is that I have the chalice, and I do. Do you still want it or not?” He motioned toward the door as if she could leave, but Amma saw the shake of his fingers, knew if she moved toward the door he would attack. She didn’t want that, didn’t want to push him that far; she simply wanted him to know she wasn’t a pushover.

She curled her fingers in toward her palm, forming a claw before they closed into a fist, extinguishing the magic. “Show me the chalice.”

“The blood first.” His eyes gleamed.

She tapped the flask against her chest. “A sniff.”

He curled his lip, but nodded.

She unscrewed the lid and held out the flask.

His eyes half-closed, Fafnir inhaled loudly.

Amma tensed. How much could the dwarf tell from a sniff? She kept her gaze on the dwarf, stopped herself from glancing at the bandage hidden under her blouse.

His eyes narrowed for a second and his teeth dug into his lower lip. “Different.”

Amma readied her magic—let it pulse to life inside her.

“But—” he licked his lips “—I’ll get the chalice.” He trotted toward the mirror. After glancing at her reflection in the massive piece of glass, he ran his fingers along the frame. The mirror moved, popped open, revealing a room hidden behind it. He disappeared inside, reappearing with a canvas bag.

Back beside Amma, he pulled a cloth-wrapped cup from inside. He held out both hands, one containing the cup, the other empty…asking for the flask.

She slipped the bottle of blood into his hand and grabbed the cloth-wrapped chalice. He held the flask to his chest, watching her as she unwrapped the cup and ran her fingers over its embossed and jeweled sides. It was exactly as she remembered it.

She blew out a breath; a tiny puff of smoke came with it. She pressed her lips together and glanced at the dwarf. He was frowning, but looked only confused…as if he knew something odd had happened, but wasn’t sure what. She opened the cloth that had been wrapped around the cup, flicking it in the air to move any lingering smoke out of their space. Then happy Fafnir had kept the lights dim, she made a production of rewrapping the chalice.

“So, we are both satisfied?” she asked once the chalice was rewrapped.

He smiled. “Very.”

She nodded and glanced at the door.

“Here.” He held out the bag. “You don’t want to drop it, or draw attention to it.”

She hesitated, but he was right. She hadn’t thought to bring a bag of her own and the chalice was too big to hide under her shirt. With Fafnir holding the bag open, she carefully placed the cup inside. He closed the bag, but as he did, he dropped the flask. With a curse, he dropped to his knees and fumbled around the floor. He seemed to find it under his desk. The bag looped over one wrist, he stood and held the flask to the light, flipped it over and over, analyzing it from all sides.

Amma waited, her fingers pressing into her thighs. “Damaged or not, I delivered it to you. I’m not responsible for what happens to the negotiated item after it’s delivered into the other party’s hands. The Collector knows that.”

Fafnir raised his top lip. “He isn’t here.”

Amma took a step, but the dwarf stopped her by holding out the bag. “However, it seems fine. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Perhaps I’ll add your name to my list of acquirers. Do you spend much time with dragons?”

The bag’s handles securely slipped over her shoulder, Amma cocked a brow. “I’m not looking for employment.”

Fafnir shrugged and gestured to the door. “Been a pleasure. Get yourself down.”

As she walked to the door, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She glanced back over her shoulder. The dwarf hadn’t moved. In fact his attention, directed at her, could only be called rapt. She pulled the canvas bag more closely against her body and allowed her magic some freedom, until she was like a gun with a hair trigger. The slightest provocation and she wouldn’t have to think, power would simply spill out of her.