Wicked Lovely (Wicked Lovely 1)

“Better.” And it was. If he were what he pretended to be—kind and considerate—she might’ve felt bad that she was here on false pretenses.

But he wasn’t. He wasn’t real at all.

“Come on. Let’s walk. There’s always some interesting games here.” He took her hand again, bringing her Sight back in full force.

Beside them, a woman stood in a child’s wading pool calling, “Three darts for a prize.”

A thick braid dangled like a rope past her knees. Her face was like one of those angels in old paintings, innocent with a spark of danger in her eyes. Aside from the goats’ legs that peeked out of her long skirt, she was gorgeous, but no one approached her.

At the next tent a steady line of faeries and humans waited. Faces Aislinn had glimpsed around the city mingled with faeries she could never have imagined—wings and thorn-crusted skin and all manners of dress. It was too much to process.

Aislinn paused, overwhelmed by the sheer number and variety of faeries around her.

“The fortune-tellers here always put on a good show.” Keenan pulled the flap of the tent back farther so she could look inside. There were three women with rheumy white eyes. Behind them stood a row of statues—like gargoyles without wings. They were freakishly muscular. And alive. Their gazes flitted around the tent, as if they were trying to find someone to answer unspoken questions.

The faeries all stepped aside, and Keenan led her to the front of the tent.

She stepped closer to one of the statues. It looked wide-eyed, almost afraid as she reached out her hand.

One of the women reached out and snatched Aislinn’s still uplifted hand. “No.”

The women spoke all at once, not to her or to Keenan, but softly—as if to themselves—in a sibilant whisper. “He’s ours. Fair exchange. Not yours to interfere.”

The one gripping her hand winked at Aislinn. “Well, then, sisters? What say we?”

Aislinn tugged backward; the woman held tight.

“So you’re the young one’s”—the fortune-teller looked at Keenan with her seemingly blind eyes—“new ladylove.”

Behind them, faeries pushed closer, scuffling and chattering.

The old woman gave Keenan a searing look—her white eyes shining—and said, “She’s different than the others, dear. Special.”

“I already knew that, mothers.” Keenan wrapped an arm around Aislinn’s waist, half hugging her, like he had a right to pull her closer.

He doesn’t.

Aislinn stepped away as far as she could with the woman holding her hand.

All three women sighed, simultaneously. “Fierce, isn’t she?”

The one still holding Aislinn’s hand asked Keenan, “Shall I tell you just how different she is? How special this one will be?”

Every faery there suddenly stopped talking. They were all watching openly, transfixed and gleeful, as if a horrible accident were happening in front of them.

“No.” Aislinn pulled her hand free and grabbed Keenan’s arm.

He didn’t move.

“As special as I’ve dreamed?” Keenan asked the blind women, his voice carrying clearly to the faeries who pushed forward.

“There are none you will meet so rare as she.” The three women all nodded, eerily in sync with one another, like three bodies with one mind.

Grinning, Keenan tossed a handful of unfamiliar bronze coins to the women, who unerringly snatched them out of the air, their hands moving in precisely the same arcs at exactly the same moment.

I need out of here. Now.

But she couldn’t run. If not for the Sight, she wouldn’t have reason to react so strongly: the women weren’t any stranger than most carnies.