Read Online Changeling on the Job: A Changeling Wars Novella by A.G. Stewart - Free Book Online
Authors: A.G. Stewart
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in the middle of the living room, her hackles raised, a growl in her throat.
I pulled the butter knife from my pocket, transforming it into a sword. The kelpie heart shifted in my pocket, and it felt heavier than it had a moment before.
“Are you going to ask me not to eat the sprites?” Anwynn said.
Before I could answer, the door to the garage blew inward, shattering into tiny bits of wood. So much for metallic windows. There just hadn’t been enough time. The cloaked man stepped inside, the scarf still covering the lower half of his face; six sprites hovered around his head, needle swords drawn. Sweat gathered in my palms. I’d not fought someone yet who was also Talented in swordplay, who could use magic to move the way that I did.
Maarten drew a sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. “The problem with sprites,” he said, “is that you cannot stop them from doing mischief, no matter how hard you try. The souring milk led you to me, did it not?”
I didn’t bother answering. “And to think,” I said to Anwynn, “I used to like bringing work home.”
“Your work probably didn’t include sharp, pointy edges,” Anwynn said.
“I got a paper cut or two.”
“Be quiet,” barked Maarten. “Give me the kelpie heart and I’ll leave you in peace.”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my fast-beating heart. “You know I can’t do that. I know what you have planned for that woman. It’s my job to protect the mortal world and its inhabitants from Fae like you.”
He took a step toward me, his scarf shifting with his breath. “This is your fault to begin with, you know.”
Before I could form any sort of response, or even consider what the hell he meant, he attacked. I barely got my sword up to block him in time. Maarten moved with the swiftness of a striking snake, each step a blur. “Find the kelpie heart,” he called to his sprites. They scattered.
Anwynn leapt after them, snapping at the air.
I didn’t have time to pay attention to her battle. I set my feet, turned my body to the side to present a smaller target, as I’d been taught. Maarten’s blade was broader than mine, but he lifted it as though it weighed nothing. He thrust at me, and I slipped to the side, but not before his sword caught the edge of my coat. I spun to disengage it and faced him only in time to block another attack.
I leapt back and onto the television console, trying to put some space between me and Maarten, trying to gain some higher ground. I teetered on the edge as he followed, slicing.
A shower of sparks, and the top half of my television crashed to the ground. The sparks obscured my vision. I ducked to the side, too late. The blade caught my left shoulder, cutting through cloth and biting into the muscle.
I couldn’t help the cry that eked out of my lips. The cuts from the sprites still stung. This wound was worse. Warm blood trickled from the gash, wetting my coat sleeve, making it stick to my skin.
“You can’t win this fight,” Maarten said. He slashed at me again, even as he spoke. His voice didn’t sound the least bit winded.
I batted his blade to the side and thrust at his chest. He slid to the side, as easily as a cat sidestepping an outstretched hand. I could do better than this. My shoulder ached—the sort of bone-deep hurt that told me this was more than a scratch.
If I failed, no one else would pick up my sword. No one would take my place. This was what I’d been born to do. I breathed out and felt the magic stir to life in my belly. The pain in my shoulder lessened, my heartbeat and breathing quickened, my limbs felt restless and alive.
I followed Maarten, keeping my perch atop the console, and cut at his neck. My sword sliced through the bottom half of the scarf and left a beaded trail of blood in its place. He clutched at his neck, as though assessing the damage. I danced two steps closer and aimed for his heart.
He blocked the blow, but only just barely. I reached back,
I pulled the butter knife from my pocket, transforming it into a sword. The kelpie heart shifted in my pocket, and it felt heavier than it had a moment before.
“Are you going to ask me not to eat the sprites?” Anwynn said.
Before I could answer, the door to the garage blew inward, shattering into tiny bits of wood. So much for metallic windows. There just hadn’t been enough time. The cloaked man stepped inside, the scarf still covering the lower half of his face; six sprites hovered around his head, needle swords drawn. Sweat gathered in my palms. I’d not fought someone yet who was also Talented in swordplay, who could use magic to move the way that I did.
Maarten drew a sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. “The problem with sprites,” he said, “is that you cannot stop them from doing mischief, no matter how hard you try. The souring milk led you to me, did it not?”
I didn’t bother answering. “And to think,” I said to Anwynn, “I used to like bringing work home.”
“Your work probably didn’t include sharp, pointy edges,” Anwynn said.
“I got a paper cut or two.”
“Be quiet,” barked Maarten. “Give me the kelpie heart and I’ll leave you in peace.”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my fast-beating heart. “You know I can’t do that. I know what you have planned for that woman. It’s my job to protect the mortal world and its inhabitants from Fae like you.”
He took a step toward me, his scarf shifting with his breath. “This is your fault to begin with, you know.”
Before I could form any sort of response, or even consider what the hell he meant, he attacked. I barely got my sword up to block him in time. Maarten moved with the swiftness of a striking snake, each step a blur. “Find the kelpie heart,” he called to his sprites. They scattered.
Anwynn leapt after them, snapping at the air.
I didn’t have time to pay attention to her battle. I set my feet, turned my body to the side to present a smaller target, as I’d been taught. Maarten’s blade was broader than mine, but he lifted it as though it weighed nothing. He thrust at me, and I slipped to the side, but not before his sword caught the edge of my coat. I spun to disengage it and faced him only in time to block another attack.
I leapt back and onto the television console, trying to put some space between me and Maarten, trying to gain some higher ground. I teetered on the edge as he followed, slicing.
A shower of sparks, and the top half of my television crashed to the ground. The sparks obscured my vision. I ducked to the side, too late. The blade caught my left shoulder, cutting through cloth and biting into the muscle.
I couldn’t help the cry that eked out of my lips. The cuts from the sprites still stung. This wound was worse. Warm blood trickled from the gash, wetting my coat sleeve, making it stick to my skin.
“You can’t win this fight,” Maarten said. He slashed at me again, even as he spoke. His voice didn’t sound the least bit winded.
I batted his blade to the side and thrust at his chest. He slid to the side, as easily as a cat sidestepping an outstretched hand. I could do better than this. My shoulder ached—the sort of bone-deep hurt that told me this was more than a scratch.
If I failed, no one else would pick up my sword. No one would take my place. This was what I’d been born to do. I breathed out and felt the magic stir to life in my belly. The pain in my shoulder lessened, my heartbeat and breathing quickened, my limbs felt restless and alive.
I followed Maarten, keeping my perch atop the console, and cut at his neck. My sword sliced through the bottom half of the scarf and left a beaded trail of blood in its place. He clutched at his neck, as though assessing the damage. I danced two steps closer and aimed for his heart.
He blocked the blow, but only just barely. I reached back,
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