Arrow on the String: Solomon Sorrows Book 1 by Dan Fish (no david read aloud TXT) 📕

Jace is,” Mig said. “And you know elves.”

“They’re better at everything.”

“Everything.”

“Could it have been an accident?”

Mig shrugged. “If Jace tried to return to the gods-stream and Bex tried to stop her, the two might have fought. But Bex would’ve kept herself slipped and Jace had no reason to pull her back into the gods-stream. If anything, Jace would’ve been fragged.”

“She should have told me the first time we went to the Quarry. We could’ve slipped instead of slow-footing it. Then you could’ve warned me about sticking her with Bex.”

“Maybe. What will you do now? Should we leave?”

Sorrows shook his head. “More daughters will die if I do.”

“Have you found a Seph yet?” What about Julia?

“No.”

“Oh. Have you been looking?” What about us?

“No.”

“Oh.”

Sorrows said nothing, leaned against the wall. Mig returned to the edge of the bed. They sat in silence for a breath, her feet dangling, his arms folded across his chest. She looked up at him.

“Have there been any more—”

“Killings?” he asked. He shook his head. “No.”

“That’s good, right?”

“We still haven’t caught the guy.”

“You will, Sol.”

Mig leaned back, put her feet on the bed. Her buttermilk dress pulled tight across her thighs. The hem slipped over her knees. Her collar had fallen over one shoulder, and her skin shone like moonlit moss in the wash of the glowstone lamp. Her hair was pushed back, hanging long and loose down her back. She watched him with big, black eyes. She patted the empty space beside her.

“I missed you,” she said.

The problem was he missed her too. Like a bow without a string. Which complicated things. Even if he thought Mig had left, Jace was an elf. Mig had standards, unwritten rules. If he told her about the flirting, the kissing, the almost more, she’d be angry, hurt. And with Jace keeping secrets and Bex fragged, the landscape had changed, grown darker. More tense. Mig might leave for real, for good. Which meant he couldn’t tell her what had happened. Not if he hoped to keep her close. But he had to. Wasn’t one to run from the truth. He sat down, put his arm around her. She leaned into his chest, rested her head under his chin. She smelled like sweat and dust.

“You need a bath,” he said.

“In a bit,” she said. She pressed against him. “What are you going to do about Bex? She was strange, but Jace killed her. That’s not right.”

“We don’t know what happened. Not yet. I need to find Jace, confront her. Find out the truth.”

“Will you bring the bow?”

Sorrows laughed. Small, dismissive. “Would you be afraid of a bow? Or a blade?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Wouldn’t matter, anyway. She’s elf. Needs to be handled by the Mage Guard.”

Mig sighed, laid her hand on his chest. “Be careful. You saw Bex.”

“She won’t hurt me.”

“Maybe I should come with you. I could stay slipped in case you needed me.”

“No. Can’t risk her finding you.”

“What if you need me?”

“She won’t hurt me.”

A goblin’s gaze is as black as the back of your eyelids. And despite expressive features, any goblin with a modicum of self-control becomes unreadable behind that gaze. It’s like looking into shadow. Wondering what lurks within. Mig stared at him, said nothing. He stared back, searched her face for signs of what she knew, what she suspected. Unreadable. Full of self-control. The kind of self-control that helps a person wait a year without moving on.

She pushed away, still held his gaze, nodded slowly, spoke softly. “I see.”

He said nothing.

“A month is a long time, isn’t it?” she asked. “You probably thought I left.”

“I did, but it’s not like that.”

“It’s always like that, Sol. Gods, she was throwing herself at you from the start.” She sighed. “You stupid, stupid man.”

Sorrows said nothing.

“She could be dangerous,” Mig said.

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do. Not really. She’s pretty, and you have a weakness for pretty.”

“You’re pretty.”

“Don’t be a split,” Mig said. She slid off the bed, walked a pace away, turned. Her chin quivered. The self-control cracked a bit. “You should ask yourself why she didn’t tell you.”

“I am.”

“She’s hiding things.”

Sorrows said nothing. Mig stared at him, arms folded across her chest. Brow knit, jaw set, trembling. Eyes damp with hurt. Her self-control was crumbling.

“She has a job to do. The Archmage is pulling her strings.”

“Are you defending her?”

“No. I’m saying she may not have a choice.”

“You are defending her.”

Sorrows shook his head, rolled his eyes. “Gods, whatever.”

It’s rarely a good idea to piss off a goblin. The species has two very specific rules for dealing with perceived slights. First, address all insults immediately. Second, no other rules apply.

It’s never a good idea to piss off a Walker. They move too shunning fast. Sorrows had just registered Mig vanishing when her hand found the side of his face with enough force to turn his head. When he looked again, she’d moved beside the door and was blowing on her palm.

“Gods, Mig,” he said, rubbing his jaw.

She stared at him, said nothing for a moment. Her forehead smoothed and she took a step forward.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Does it hurt?”

He gave a dismissive wave. “Not your fault. I deserved it.”

She shook her head. “I just… I can’t believe you’d get close to an elf. Did you two kiss?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

Mig tensed, jaw flexed. Clenched her hands into fists. Looked like she was going to scream. She vanished. Sorrows waited a breath, then another. She reappeared, breathing hard.

“A month, Sol. I was gone one splitting month. And I didn’t leave angry.”

“I know. Entirely my fault.”

Mig shook her head. Didn’t look at him. “Did you two tangle?”

Hesitation is death on the battlefield. With Curselings swarming, or a tempest looming. A heartbeat is all that separates an arrow in the eye from a claw in the gut; a sword buried in a foe from a friend buried in the ground. Hesitation was an enemy, one Sorrows knew to watch for. Still, it caught him on occasion.

He meant to deny, to assure Mig he’d