Wicked (A Wicked Saga, #1)(74)

Not paying attention to me, Tink lugged a mixing bowl out of the cabinet as I watched him. I hesitated at the entryway to the kitchen, wincing as the metal bowl clanged off the counter when he dropped it. For some reason, I thought about how he got here—the location of the cemetery. "Tink?"

He didn't look over at me as he pulled a spatula from the drawer and buzzed around the kitchen. "You're interrupting my me time. And you know baking is my me time."

Leaning against the doorframe, I didn't rise to the bait like I typically would. My thoughts were too conflicted. Did Tink not know about the halflings? Because if he did, why hadn't he told me? And what about the gates? I glanced at the clock, seeing that I needed to leave soon so I would make it to class on time. "When I found you in the cemetery, do you remember how far away from the gate you were?"

Tink turned around, clutching the spatula close to him. "No. I told you before, I don't even remember coming through the gate. I woke up in the cemetery, my poor wing snapped, my leg broken, beaten like an orphan kid in regency England. I was a pitiful wee creature."

"Um, okay. Anyway." I straightened the strap on my bag and shifted my weight. "Did you know there were two gates in the city?"

The spatula slipped an inch between his hands as his pale eyes widened to the size of nickels. "What?"

"Remember Merle?" When he nodded, I continued. "She said there were two gates in the city—one in an old sanctuary, and the other in a place where no spirits or humans could rest."

A frown marred his face as he placed the spatula on the counter instead of dropping it. Hovering in the air, his translucent wings moved silently. "No. There have never been two gates."

"Could there just be two gates and you never knew? I know the fae only know the gate they come through, so maybe there are more cities with more than one gate."

He shook his head. "No. That can't . . . well, nothing is impossible. I mean, look at you. You spent all of Sunday with a guy, and I never thought that would happen."

I started to scowl.

"But two gates? That would be . . ." His gaze drifted to the window, his brows furrowed. "That would be very bad."

"Yeah," I said, pushing off the doorframe. I started to leave but stopped. Tink was still focused on the window, expression surprisingly serious. "Do you know about halflings?"

His head swung toward me sharply, and he didn't have to say a word. I knew that he was fully aware of halflings. It was written all over his face, in the way his jaw had dropped, and the slight flare of understanding in his big eyes.

My stomach sunk like it was full of sharp stones. Our eyes met, and I found it hard to breathe around the knot in my throat. "Why . . . why haven't you told me about them before?"

Tink stared back at me wordlessly.

"Having that kind of information would've been helpful to know because I'm assuming you're aware of what could happen if the prince or the princess gets a hold of a halfling." My voice was strangely thick. I tried to tell myself I didn't care if Tink hadn't been forthcoming with information, but I was angry. Angry because I willingly brought him into my house and I never really questioned him. I blindly accepted what little information he'd told me, and I don't even know why I had done so. Looking back, there was no simple justification as to why I never pushed Tink.

God, the answer to why was so glaring and right in my face. Ever since I'd lost my adoptive parents and Shaun, I'd closed myself off to everyone in a distressed attempt to never feel that kind of hurt again. Val had wiggled her way in, and so had Jo Ann, but that hadn't been enough. Deep down, I knew that. I'd still been so desperate to be close, to forge a bond to anything, and I still was. Look at Ren.

And as Tink continued to stare back at me helplessly, I knew—dammit, I knew he wasn't being upfront with me.

He lowered his gaze and heaved a great sigh. Floating down to the edge of the counter, he sat, his wings drooping on either side of his bent back. "You would not understand, Ivy."

Closing my eyes, I took a second before I reopened them and responded. "Why don't you try me, Tink? For once?"

His face flinched. "I haven't lied to you. Not really." As I cocked my head to the side, he pressed his hands together under his chin. "I just haven't been entirely communicative."

"Do not try to act cute right now," I warned him, letting my backpack slip off my arm and land against the door.

"I'm not. I swear." He lowered his hands to his lap, his shoulders slumping. "I had one job. And I failed."

"You're not an Internet meme."

He shook his head. "My job was to destroy the gate in New Orleans."

I stiffened. "What?"

Tink lifted his chin. "Your guardians basically only guard those gates—their positions are virtually useless except for the fact that they hold knowledge of the location, and that makes them only valuable to the fae. One does not simply walk to a gateway and open it."

All I could do was stare at him.

"If the blood of an ancient is shed on the doorway from inside the Otherworld, it destroys the door. If the blood of an ancient is shed on the outside, it opens the door," he explained. "We knew what the fae would do if the ancients ever crossed over to this world en masse. They would destroy it like they've been destroying the Otherworld. You see, our world . . . it's dying, because of what they're doing. They need to get out, but we . . ." He balled up a fist, pressing it to his chest. "My kind have done everything in our power to stop them, and two and a half years ago we believed we had succeeded in destroying the gates from the inside. It's a suicide mission to do so, but one we gladly take."