Roar (Stormheart #1)(21)

For one minuscule moment, she leaned into his touch, then she jerked away, snatching her hands back like he’d tried to steal them. She slammed into a table behind her. Dozens of glass vials clanked and toppled, and on the far end a solitary jar of snowstorm magic toppled over the edge.

It smashed onto the dirt path, glass flying, and Locke’s hand moved to the harness strapped over his chest and abdomen that held his supplies. He braced himself for a blizzard to form only steps away, but the snow in the jar scattered harmlessly over the ground, like nothing more than spilled sugar.

Damn. Even Velarran was selling the fake stuff. The portly shop owner’s face went slack, then hardened with anger and embarrassment. Locke knew supplies were low. Storm magic was fetching a higher price than ever at the moment, in part because of the Slumber season. But the roots of this shortage had begun months before the season change. In the last year, two of the major storm-hunting crews had disbanded. Though perhaps disbanded was not the right word, when more than half the crew had died.

Across the aisle, Badren, a thin, oily snake of a man, had begun blustering about, yelling that Velarran was a fraud. Locke didn’t keep up with local politics and gossip. The crew traveled too much for him to care about any particular city, but the animosity between these two was far older than Locke’s nineteen years.

Quickly, before either man could turn on the girl, Locke took her elbow and pulled. She looked at him, wide-eyed and wary, but when she noticed all the people gathering to watch the commotion, she pulled him close, practically using his body as a shield.

She peeked around him, and once again something made terror flit across her face. But this time, she turned on her heel and tried to run. He still held her elbow, so she did not get far. “Where are you—”

She looked up at him, and even in that oversize cloak, she was impossibly pretty. The ferocity in her expression had his free hand going to his weapons belt on instinct.

“You need to let me go.” That sounded like the last thing he wanted to do. But she continued. “There’s a man at a stall behind you who is going to notice me, and if he sees me … he cannot see me. It would mean bad things for me, for you, for this whole market.”

This time when she yanked her arm, he was caught off guard and she got loose, stumbling back a few paces. The urge to find the man who frightened her was nearly overwhelming. Storm magic was not the only illegal trade that happened in the Eye. Gambling, drugs, prostitution, murder for hire—it was all here if you knew where to look. Whoever plagued her was likely dangerous indeed, but Locke spent his days in the belly of the world’s deadliest beasts. Men were nothing in comparison.

But she wasn’t just afraid for herself. She thought this man dangerous to everyone around them. So Locke swallowed down his instincts, and instead of seeking danger, he went for the girl.

Hooking an arm over her shoulders, he pulled her in tight to his side. He dragged her hood down to cover all of her face. She resisted, squirming away from him, and he spoke low against her ear. “Be still. I’m not going to harm you. Keep your head down, and I’ll get you out of here.”

His only answer was her hand, snaking up his chest again to grip the straps there. All she could see was their feet, so Locke kept their gait easy and relaxed. The market was nearly at capacity, so he had to maneuver her body through crowded spaces. Sometimes he would hold her hips and guide her through a gap. Other times, he would curl her close until her cheek pressed into his chest, and they would squeeze together through congested pathways.

When they reached the booths at the outer edge, he quickened their pace toward the tents that lined the back wall of the market. He had a room at a rundown inn a few streets away, but with all their wares stored either in the market booth or in the tent, at least two of his crew stayed in the market to protect or sell their goods at all times. Few people were dumb enough to try to cross them, but, as he’d seen with Velarran, these were desperate times. He pulled back the tent flap and pushed her through the opening. He followed and breathed a sigh of relief that none of the others were here.

Tentatively, the girl pushed her hood back enough that her face was visible in profile. His eyes lingered on the high arch of her cheeks, the full curve of her lips. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then her eyes strayed to the tent around them. On the left side was a table, piled high with jars and vials. Jinx must have been enchanting a batch of containers for their next expedition. To the right was a large rug with cushions, and at the back were a handful of sleeping pallets. The days spent in cities selling their wares were always an adjustment. They only traveled and hunted during daylight on the road, but here they were mostly nocturnal.

“You want to tell me what just happened?”

She crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture that was half defiant, half defensive. “It was nothing.”

“Ah, yes, I frequently go ghost white and try to run away over nothing.”

She lifted a hand to her cheek as if she could feel the way her skin had paled. Then her fingers touched the scarf that wound about her head beneath her hood. Her chin tilted up again, revealing the long, graceful line of her neck. “I appreciate your assistance.” Her attempt at haughty composure was almost convincing, but she looked at the tent flap like she wanted to bolt. She likely only hesitated because her dangerous man was still out there.

“And I would appreciate an explanation.”