Chapter 43

Chapter 43

The Villain

Trystan couldn’t stand the sound of laughter.

Laughter reflected joy, and unfortunately for any person who came into his path this evening, he was determined to squash joy under his foot like a bug. With his hood pulled high over his face, he entered the village fray. Lanterns were strewn about every street corner; music was playing, couples dancing. Children were watching puppet shows, and there was even a stage off to the side with some sort of playact performance of love lost and tragedy.

How maudlin. How truly ridiculous.

Vendors lined the street. There must have been more than two dozen, and as he walked the line, he listened, feeling struck when he heard a name that ripped the air from his lungs.

“Poor Otto Warsen. I heard The Villain fed him to his wolves!”

“The Villain has wolves?” the other voice said.

“Rest in peace, Otto! It just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished. I told Otto not to hire that strange Sage girl, but he said he took pity on the creature, and this is how she repays him! The treacherous wench. I always knew something was off about her. Working for The Villain! And all the while, her sick father is missing!”

Keep walking,he ordered himself. Do not draw attention to yourself.

He took a hard step forward, pulling his dark hood farther over his eyes. His magic was seeping out already, gray mist surrounding him, waiting to strike. No, he commanded. Not yet.

“She was always a pretty little piece. But the mouth on her! If I could’ve wired it shut, I would’ve enjoyed her for far longer.”

Wait. He knew that voice.

Okay, he told his magic. Go ahead.

It seeped out toward the men near him who were drinking against one of the shop windows. The man speaking had his knee light up in vibrant red—it was Rick, Sage’s unfortunate ex-paramour. Trystan’s magic struck the point on his knee hard, and the man cried out, falling to the ground with a satisfying thud.

“My leg!” he screamed. “Something’s wrong with my leg!” The group of men surrounded him, murmuring concern. Trystan smirked and walked on until an elderly woman tugged on his sleeve.

“’Scuse me, sir? Might you want a face paint?” The old woman had a weathered smile and long gray hair. Her station was a sad sight compared to the other vendors with large carts and opulent signs—all she had was a tiny table with paints and old-looking brushes, and not a patron in sight.

It would be decidedly unwise for him to expose his face to this woman. The chances were high that she would scream or cry out for the guards, effectively ruining any chance he had at finding Nura Sage. But she looked so hopeful, and her hands shook as she waited for his reply. “Please, sir? I promise I’m good! And I’ll only charge you one copper piece.”

A copper piece was hardly enough for a small slab of bread. Dammit. He’d become a weak sap with no sense of judgment. But he sat down on her stool anyway. “Can you make me into a wolf?” he asked, voice low and strained.

The woman looked so happy, he almost smiled with her—almost. He still had some self-control. “Certainly, sir!” She began dipping her brushes into paints, her hands shaking as she went, squinting so hard, it relaxed him. There was no chance she would recognize him; she could barely even see. “A right handsome wolf you’ll be!”

As she painted, he looked along the streets, trying to find a stand that sold portrait frames of any kind. He didn’t see a single one, but this was only one side of the street. The woman made quick work for someone with such an unsteady hand, and when she held up the mirror, his mouth opened in awe. She wasn’t a face painter; she was an artist. His entire face was etched in dark swaths of gray, black, and white. He looked transformed. He looked nothing like himself.

Perfect.

“What do you think, sir?” the woman asked nervously, smiling slightly. “I can redo it if you like.”

“What is your name?” he inquired, attempting to gentle his voice.

“Edna, sir,” she said, plopping her brushes back into their cups.

He pulled a pouch from his waist—one filled with thirty gold pieces—and dropped the entirety of it in her hands. “You made a masterpiece of my face.”

“But, sir!” Edna said, opening the pouch with a fervent expression. “This is far too much.”

His lip twitched. “I am of the belief that art is the world’s most valuable commodity. Please take it. I can’t think of a single thing that would be worth more.”

Edna’s eyes watered, which made him so uncomfortable he looked away, but it was too late. Her hand was grasping his. “Thank you, sir! I wish you every blessing! Every happiness!”

He gently pried his hand from hers, finally finding it in himself to look into the woman’s lovely eyes. She was beautiful. And he knew he’d done a good thing for once. “Thank you, Edna. I wish the same for you.”

She went back to her table, rounding her seat and ripping a sign down from the wall behind her. It hit the lantern lights, and he saw his wanted flyer. She winked at him before tearing it up and throwing it to the wind.

I’ll be damned.

With a gallant bow and a crooked grin, he bade the woman farewell and continued his search, not quite as wary of being discovered with the face paint. “Excuse me,” he said to a gangly young man walking by with a large cone of fairy floss. “Do you happen to know of a vendor here who sells portrait frames?”

“You’re thinking of Mr. Gully. He’s right up that walkway! Likes most of the street to himself,” the boy said through a sugar-coated mouth.

Mr. Gully. “Thank you.” Trystan wandered in the direction the boy had pointed, trying to prepare himself to ask questions as inconspicuously as possible.

But when he arrived at the cart, someone was already there.

A young woman with her back turned to him stood at the cart, asking Mr. Gully questions. Her long silver hair cascaded down in flowing waves. Her dress was tight enough that he had a perfect view of the lines of her back. A cut-out dip in her waist revealed a soft patch of skin that made him swallow, and when she turned, he saw them.

Two golden butterfly combs pulling back her hair and a face painted like a rabbit.

He cleared his throat in surprise. The sound caused the woman to turn.

“Oh, I’m sorry, mister. Would you like to cut into the conversation?”

Her red lips were cocky as she propped a hand on her exposed hip.

A man passed, whispering to him in jovial camaraderie. “Aye, she’s a looker, ain’t she? Get in there, son.”

Of course she was a looker.

She was Evie Sage.