Chapter 9

Julian

Our travels bring us through a farming village that's hosting an end-of-season harvest festival. The modest town square boasts far more people than could live here, so much so I assume all the surrounding villages have gathered in this one to celebrate.

Tent camps, earthen cook pits, and formal and informal gatherings have sprung up from the northern outskirts to the southern, all of which we see from the hillside as we approach the valley community.

"I smell roast pig all the way from here," says Cricket. "My mouth is watering." He sucks in a breath. "Oh, sorry. I forgot. No eating animals."

I'm surprised he cares. Most people don't. "You may eat them, of course. My convictions aren't for everyone."

"That's good because no conviction I know of could stand between me and bacon when it's fresh from the frying pan." He smacks his belly for emphasis.

We lead Slinger down the crowded path and to a fenced pasture. We leave her here to wait for us while we explore. She ambles away toward fresh grass without so much as a parting glance. Her priorities firmly in order, she takes to grazing, and we walk farther into town.

I roll my neck and fix my disguise into place, leaving it so only Cricket can see through the glamor. I doubt we'll run into guildsmen in a farming village, but precaution has served me well in the past. I won't abandon it now.

Music livens the cobbled streets, a playful drumbeat keeping tempo for couples dancing along shop fronts. Colorful banners advertise sweet corn, fried pastries, and?—

"Spicy nillyslugs on a stick!" squeals Cricket. "Gross! Do people really eat those?"

"Apparently. There's no accounting for taste these days."

"Don't be so snobby." He skips ahead of me and straight to the cart where, to my dismay, he buys not one but two slugs on a stick. "We have to try them."

"Do we, though? Here's a thought. We could take turns stabbing each other's eyes out instead. Might be less disgusting."

He ignores my proposal and hands one over. "Does this count as eating animals? It's just a bug."

What I don't tell him is that I value the lives of bugs as well. I don't squash or swat them if I can help it, with the exception of stinging or biting bugs, which is only self-defense.

But I take the bizarre snack from him and glower. This one is already dead. Can't have Cricket thinking I'm a coward, and I'll admit my curiosity is piqued.

Cricket sniffs his, wrinkling his nose. "Smells like curry. Maybe it's good?"

"Maybe it's poisoned." The innards have been peeled from the shell and cooked to a finely charred crisp, then doused in spices. The weird little bug does, in fact, smell good. Savory and wood-smoked.

He grins. "You first."

"Not likely. This was your idea."

"Together, then?"

"On three."

"One…" says Cricket.

"Two…" we say together. "Three."

I open my mouth, pop the nillyslug in, and bite down with a satisfying crunch. Cricket and I lock gazes and chew. Though I'd feared the texture would be revolting, it isn't. The whole thing snaps like a cracker, crumbs and all. The taste is like the smell, a flavorful curry with a zing of heat that leaves the tongue tingling wickedly.

"It's good," says Cricket with his mouth full, which should be off-putting but is annoyingly charming. His eyes shine with mirth. "Who knew you could eat nillyslugs?"

I swallow the thing. It's not bad, but I certainly don't want more. The idea of what I'm eating gives me the crawlies. "Just because a thing is edible doesn't mean one should eat it. Let's find something to wash it down with."

"You didn't like it?"

"I didn't hate it. But I'd like flavored ice much more." The cart advertising sweet ice caught my eye and hasn't let go. "My treat."

"I won't say no." He darts to a sign advertising flavored syrups.

I choose coconut. Cricket chooses something bright blue that immediately dyes his tongue the same color.

We eat our way through the village, one decadent snack at a time. Perhaps our priorities line up with Slinger's better than I'd thought.

"We should stay the night." Cricket nods toward the many encampments sprawled along the edges of the festival. "It's not like we're in any hurry. At least, I'm not."

Though my end goal waits in the southern slums of Irondale, Cricket is right. I'm in no hurry to get there. And I need the coin first anyway. "Me neither. I agree. We should stay."

We circle back to explore what goodies each side street has to offer. We stumble upon a hay bale tossing contest midtournament and settle in to watch.

"Ooh." Cricket leans closer and points to a brawny fellow who seems to have lost his shirt. "I bet he wins. Look at those muscles."

The man is human and a giant compared to most fae. Cricket stares at him unabashedly. Much to my annoyance. "Big muscles aren't the only asset in a game like this. Skill and technique must play a role. See her?" I nod toward a middle-aged woman on the sideline who seems to be drilling a practiced movement. "She's put some thought into this. Practice too, I assume. I think she'll win."

"Shall we bet on it?"

Tempting. "What will you wager?"

"Not the coin," he says. Cheeky little bugger for reading my mind. "Barring that, what do you want?"

"Let me study it at least. Briefly." I want to feel the coin's magic for myself, get a sense of the power within. Perhaps use my magic to sway it to my side.

He tightens his lips to a thin line. "Only while I hold it for you."

That will do for now. "Fine, and if you win? What would you claim from me?"

"Another magic lesson."

"If I choose the topic."

"But I want to learn?—"

"You set the perimeters of my request, so I shall set the perimeters of yours."

He deflates. What would he have requested?

"Deal?" I extend my hand.

"Deal." He clasps my wrist, offering a little half smile.

We proceed to cheer like crazed loons for our champions until both of them lose to a teenager no wider than a string bean but tall as a giraffe. Afterward, we watch the same type of contest, only for children, and make bets on them as well.

Turns out it's quite good that neither of us is much for gambling because we're terrible at picking winners. In the end, we settle for a tie, declaring us both the winner and due to collect our prizes from each other, so we're both happy and cheerful.

Cricket is still laughing as we leave the hay bale tossing and find our way directly to a pie-eating contest.

"Still looking for competitors," barks an old man with a round tummy and no hair to speak of, his bald head shining in the sunlight. "Who among you thinks he can eat more pies than his fellow man? Who seeks to win my title for themselves?"

Cricket elbows me in the side. "You should enter."

I elbow him right back. "Why me? You enter."

His hand shoots up like a bird taking flight. "Us! We'll enter!"

"Hey, don't volunteer me. I didn't agree to?—"

"Done," says the old man. "Up here, young lads, and take a seat."

Young lad, my rear end. I'm older than his mother. Just who does he think he's calling me?—

Cricket grabs my arm and drags me to a long table filled with contestants on stools, ready to eat their hearts out.

I guess I'm entering a pie-eating contest, then.

"What type of pie is it?" asks Cricket.

"Pumpkin or apple, but choose the pumpkin," says the lady seated next to him. "My grandma's recipe. You'll love it."

"Can you eat either of those?" asks Cricket

Probably not. "No doubt the crusts are full of eggs and milk."

His shoulders slump, but the lady has overheard. "We just eat the fillin's. More fun that way. Goes faster too."

Curses. And I thought I was off the hook.

Cricket flashes a wicked grin. "I may not win, but I'm going to beat you."

"Is that so?"

"It sure is."

One thing I hate more than appearing cowardly is actually losing. "You're on."

Regret sits heavily in my gut.

But not as heavily as the fourteen slices of pie currently making themselves at home there.

The important thing is, I beat Cricket, who bowed out after eleven measly slices, then cheered for me as I won third prize, which, to my chagrin, was another blasted pie. We promptly gave it away to a skinny lad in the audience.

We lie side by side on our bedrolls—propped up with two pillows each because he convinced me to conjure him an extra—both of us nursing stomach aches.

He pokes my belly. "What should we name the baby?"

"Oh, shut up." I bat his hand away. "It's not as if you're not just as pudgy around the middle as me."

"But I've already named mine." He cups his stomach and gives it a little pat. "Cricket Jr."

"Very creative."

"Jules Jr. doesn't have the same ring to it. You'll have to think of something else."

"How about Punkin?"

"Perfect." He chuckles, turning his head sideways to me. "Do you want kids?"

"Decidedly not. You?"

"Same. I already have too many."

I wasn't expecting that. "You're a father?"

"Not as such, no. None of them are my own, and yet I have a village full of kids back home."

"Why is that?"

"When there are hungry mouths to feed, and you're the best in town at snitching food, you make a lot of friends, Jules."

I imagine so. That's a great deal of responsibility for someone as young as Cricket. "Is that why you became a thief?"

"Well, I didn't do it to get rich." He snorts.

"Money can buy many things."

"I don't care about money or things. I care about people." After a pause, he adds, "Even if none of them need me anymore."

What's that like? To care about people that much? It's been an age since I cared for anyone but myself. Caring for others only leads to pain. But…

Cricket has closed his eyes, and the dark crescents of his lashes fan prettily over his full cheeks. His hair is messy and tousled from the day, curling in every possible direction. Soft. I could care for someone like Cricket. Young, determined, angry. Both innocent and decidedly not, each in its own way.

Despite the unwelcome nature of my company, he's kind to me. I can't help but like him. A dangerous feeling. One I should avoid at all costs.

His eyelids flutter open, and he catches me staring.

My cheeks heat as I look away.

"Good night, Jules." He rolls over and tucks himself into a little ball.

I turn the other way and curl up as well. "Good night, Cricket."