Tin (Faeries of Oz Book 1) Read online

  Tin

  Candace Robinson & Amber R. Duell

  Copyright ©2020 by Candace Robinson & Amber R. Duell

  Edited by Tracy Auerbach

  Cover Design by Covers by Juan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book may not be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  For Elle

  Chapter One

  Tin

  Tin picked absently at the dried blood on his iron-tipped gloves. Day had turned to night with no sign of his target. Lord save the ugly bastard if he was off killing the brownie who’d hired him. She still owed Tin half his money, payable only when the dwarf’s head was delivered. The dwarf was as good as dead either way, if only because Tin was stuck perched in the damn tree for so long, but he was a professional.

  And professionals got paid.

  With an exaggerated huff, Tin pried his iron axe from where it was imbedded in the tree near his head. An unusual weapon for a faerie, but he had long ago embraced the pain of iron. He had no choice, really—it was that or go mad. Almost as mad as this dwarf was making him. It was no wonder someone wanted the miner dead.

  A light-skinned sprite landed on the branch just above him, all spindly limbs and unkempt hair. She seemed oblivious to Tin’s presence as she plucked delicate white leaves from the otherwise-green foliage and tucked them into a little basket on her arm. Her wings shook, golden pollen raining down.

  Tin jerked away from the shimmering powder before it landed in his long silver hair, and snatched the sprite in a blindingly fast motion. The tiny creature shrieked inside his closed fist, then fell silent as he tightened his grip until bones crunched.

  “Nasty creature,” he spat, though sprites weren’t particularly bothersome, and unfurled his fingers. Bits of sprite coated his gloved hand. He brushed it off the best he could, wiping the remnants on his pants.

  The sprite’s innards weren’t the only relic of a kill to adorn his clothing. Kelpie scales were artfully sewn into his dark clothing for extra protection, and the small rings holding the right side of his hair back were whittled from their blackened bones.

  A low whistle sounded in the distance, the tune cheerful and carefree. Tin gripped his axe tighter and leapt lithely from the tree, landing silently in the grass. He edged around the wide trunk and peered in the direction of the lighthearted song.

  The dwarf he’d been waiting for crested the hill with a massive pack strapped to his back. Over his shoulder, a pickaxe was visible in the moonlight, the handle tucked safely away. His hands were empty. Good. It was annoying when they fought back.

  Tin held his breath and watched his mark close the distance between them. The dwarf had a gnarled beard, ratty, knotted black hair, and a bulbous nose, all of which were coated in dark powder from the mineral mines. Suddenly, Tin regretted not bringing a bag to carry the head in. Mineral powder was even harder to wash from around the kelpie scales than pixie dust. Alas…

  The dwarf was still whistling his merry tune when Tin leapt from his hiding place, axe swinging. His mark flailed and his heavy pack pulled him backward where he landed in a heap. “Wait! I—”

  His eyes went wide and he sucked in a breath as the moonlight flashed over Tin’s face. The mark of shame—or as Tin thought of it, his badge of honor—was known in every corner of Oz. The Wizard had taken pity on him after Tin’s heart turned back into stone. Instead of being sentenced to death for assassinating eleven fae lords, he’d been branded. Shackled and bound, he’d been unable to escape as liquid iron was dripped slowly onto the side of his face. Each drop had landed at the edge of his cheekbone where it scalded a path across his skin. By the time it was finished and the iron cooled, Tin had been left with a design of wild, twisting silver lines that covered nearly half his right cheek.

  “Have mercy,” the dwarf begged.

  Tin grinned savagely. The Wizard should’ve killed him. “There is no mercy in this world.”

  “Why?” the dwarf asked in a cracking voice. “I’ve done nothing!”

  “Everyone has done something.”

  Tin swung his axe, severing the target’s head before he could scream. He bent, fisting the dingy hair. Bright red blood gushed from the neck as he lifted the proof of his work. As he sauntered back toward the brownie’s house to collect the rest of his fee, leaving a red trail in his wake, he whistled the end of the dwarf’s song.

  Firelight and music reached the brownie’s cave from the nearby village. When Tin arrived, he found the old female atop a rock outside the opening, swaying to the song as she waited for him. Thin wisps of white hair floated around her molting head. Toenails curled over the ends of her feet. Age spots marked her olive skin, just as red stripes decorated her loose dress.

  “You’re late,” she snapped.

  “What do you care? He’s dead.” Tin threw the bloody head at the brownie, nearly knocking the portly faerie off the rock. This job was too far below his skill-set—and his pay grade—for him to put up with snide comments.

  “I hired you to kill him before sundown.”

  Tin cracked his neck. It would be more profitable to kill the brownie and take whatever valuables she owned. She was ancient and barely came to his knee—it would be easy—but if he began killing his clientele, no one would seek him out. It was already hard enough finding work outside of the Emerald City. Country folk weren’t much in the way of intrigue like those in the capital, but they made up for it with their ruthlessness. If the fae here didn’t take care of their own problems, no one would.

  The brownie must’ve sensed the shift in Tin’s thoughts because she made a show of checking the validity of the head. “Fine. It’s done.” She reached down the front of her dress for a small bag. She pretended to weigh it in her hands before tossing it at his feet. “This concludes our business, assassin.”

  He caught the bag with the toe of his boot just before it landed in the dirt. It took every ounce of his meager self-control not to lunge for her throat. Tin opened the bag to be sure it was full of diamonds and not pebbles, though he was confident the brownie wasn’t stupid enough to swindle him. The last person who’d tried that ended up impaled.

  Satisfied, he turned on his heel and walked toward the town for a well-deserved drink. If he could find a room for the night, and someone to buy the gemstones off him before he moved to the next town, all the better.

  Glimpses of fae flashed through the trees as he neared the edge of the clearing. Vivid, gem-colored fabric swirled around their lithe bodies. The firelight caressed exposed skin, some pale, some dark, some flecked with scales and others with feathers. Ribbons tied to posts lifted and fell in time with their flawless movements.

  It seemed a nightly ritual in this part of Oz to greet the dawn with dance, which meant they would be at it all night. He’d never stepped foot in this particular town and wasn’t sure what their reaction to him might be. Sometimes they called for his head, other times they hid inside and bolted the doors. Often it was a mixture of both. Whatever the response to his iron scars, Tin didn’t much care unless it created extra work for himself.

  Tin touched the rings in his hair without meaning to. He refused to hide his face, even if it made things easier, so he dropped his hand and strode straight into the town and through the party. The dancers faltered as they noticed him. Hooves ceased stomping, wings stilled, and soon the music sputtered out as well.

  Tin made an exaggerated bow and held his breath. When no one screamed or made to attack, Tin dodged the decorative floating balls of light on his way to the tavern. It was better to hurry before they made up their minds on how to respond. The sign for the Peppered Pike hung crooked over the door in elvish writing. He steeled himself for the owner to give him the boot the moment he stepped inside, but he could really do with a night in an actual bed. Right after a drink.

  Inside, the tavern was empty save for a female wiping down the bar. Two ribbed horns circled the sides of her head and her dark hair was styled to run parallel with them. “Welco—” Her words cut off as her gaze met his, recognizing him immediately.

  Tin did his best to give her a reassuring smile but the iron distorted half of it. “Do you have any rooms?”

  The girl shifted back warily. “We’re … closed … during the…”

  He didn’t mention that she’d started to welcome him before she looked up. Instead, he pulled out one of the larger diamonds and held it in the cent
er of his palm. Her eyes grew impossibly wide at the sight of all the fresh blood on his glove.

  Shit. Diamond or no diamond, he knew she was five seconds away from bolting.

  “Give the man a room, sweetmeat.”

  Tin froze at the familiar voice—one he blissfully hadn’t heard in years—and eyed the alcohol behind the bar. “What are you doing here, Lion?”

  “Good. You remember who I am,” he said with a chuckle. “Join me.”

  The last time Tin saw the bastard was at his hearing, when Lion was called as a witness against him. For all the courage Lion gained, it had only made him a fool. Tin ground his teeth together and turned to face the other fae. Lion was exactly as he remembered: coarse golden hair tied in a low ponytail, bronze skin, and piercing golden eyes. The tuft at the end of his tawny tail skimmed the floor beside his boots. A fur cloak wrapping around Lion’s broad shoulders made him appear even larger.

  But, no matter how much bigger Lion was, Tin was certain he wasn’t a threat. Lion had a heart, after all, even if it was darker than most, and that bloody organ made all creatures weak.

  “What are you doing out of the South?” Tin growled.

  Lion smirked arrogantly and flicked a look at the tavern girl, who let out a sharp gasp from behind the bar. “Another drink, if you wouldn’t mind, and one for my friend.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  Lion rolled his eyes. “Stop being an ass and sit down.”

  Tin drew a slow, steady breath and reached for the axe at his hip.

  “You’re going to scare the lady,” Lion warned coolly.

  The hell if he cared. “I warned you. If I ever saw you again—”

  “We’re immortal, Tin. There’s plenty of time to kill me. I have a job for you, so you may as well make your fortune first.”

  Fortune. Tin kept his hand on his axe but didn’t wield it. He didn’t kill people because he needed money—he liked killing—but that wasn’t to say that he didn’t recognize its usefulness.

  The horned female sat the drinks down on the table with shaking hands. Some of the foam splashed over the sides, landing on Lion’s sleeve. He growled at her and she hurtled out the back door.

  Once they were alone, Lion continued. “You remember Dorothy, don’t you?”

  Tin narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on his weapon. It was rather hard to forget the little human girl who’d crashed into his life and set him on the path to self-destruction.

  “Of course you remember the little bitch.” Lion took a long gulp of his drink, studying Tin over the rim of the glass. He nudged the empty chair across from him with his boot. Another invitation to sit.

  This time, Tin accepted.

  Chapter Two

  Dorothy

  Dorothy gripped the handle of the garden fork so hard that her palm would most likely bleed. With the tool and gritted teeth, she ripped a carrot from the dirt—then another and another and another. Her fierce actions were scarring the flesh of the vegetables, but she didn’t care because she needed as many as possible.

  Blowing out an exhausted breath, she stared at her aching hands—red and rubbed raw. She didn’t mind the aches and pains. This farm had to survive, not only for her, but for Aunt Em and Uncle Henry. It had to.

  Tears ran down her filthy cheeks, landing against her striped overalls as she thought about her aunt and uncle. Uncle Henry had been gone for five years now, and Aunt Em nine months. After Uncle Henry died from scarlet fever, most of the workers had left, and the farm’s profits took a nose dive. The remaining workers had stopped showing up when Aunt Em passed from a heart attack. There was no way to make the business thrive with only Dorothy. Nobody in town wanted to work for Crazy Dorothy Gale. No one.

  She fisted a carrot, fingernails digging into the vegetable as she thought of the place that everyone had told her didn’t exist—no matter how many times she screamed and yelled that it did. At times, she wasn’t so sure what to believe anymore. A flash of emerald crawled into her thoughts and she closed her eyes, shutting out what Aunt Em had beaten into her head—it wasn’t true.

  “There’s no place like home,” she said through clenched teeth. “There’s no place like home, Dorothy. Because this is the only place that’s real. Oz never existed.” She breathed heavily, remembering the needles, the pokes, the prods, the medicines, the shock therapy—all of it.

  And still, the place lingered in her mind when she opened her eyes.

  As Dorothy leaned back down to grab her shovel and return to the task she’d set for herself, a line of dust, farther out from the farm along the dirt road, filled the air with brown smoky clouds. She froze.

  Dorothy recognized the black two-seater Roadster, and knew right away it was Jimmy. Time wasn’t on her side anymore. Jimmy was a friend she’d known for years, but more importantly, he was the messenger for his father. His father, Glenn, had been trying to take the farm from under her feet for months. Dorothy had made the decision two weeks ago that the last way to possibly prevent the farm from being taken was to sleep with Jimmy. She liked him well enough, and she was desperate, but it was a terrible action on her part. A terrible action she’d repeated multiple times since then.

  Brushing a dirt-covered hand across her forehead, Dorothy wiped away the beads of sweat that had collected, as best she could, and removed her sun hat. The hot ball of fire in the sky beat down against her tan skin as she watched Jimmy’s car approaching from afar. In that moment, she wished so badly that Aunt Em was here. She had always been better at prolonging things than Dorothy.

  The car came sputtering across the pebbled drive, past the wheat fields, and stopped in front of the foundation of the old porch. After the tornado had torn across everything with its windy paws, the rebuild hadn’t gone easily, especially with the cost of supplies and labor. That had been the start of the farm’s downfall.

  As Jimmy stepped out from the car, she waited for her heart to speed up at the sight of him, wished she could make it thump harder. But she just couldn’t fall in love with him, no matter how much he dreamed of her doing so, no matter how much she wanted to. He was nice and it would save her farm but the convenience would never be enough.

  He took off his hat—displaying his neatly side-swept blond hair—and placed it at his chest while he moved toward her, as though he was prepared for a funeral. Dressed in an all-black suit, he seemed calm, but she noticed the rhythmic motions of his fingertips against his hat. She knew right then and there the news wasn’t going to be good. It was a funeral, one for her home—a home she would have to leave, and never return to. She didn’t know where she would go next. Back to the institution? That was where the town would try to send her anyway, even if Jimmy tried to stop them.

  “Hello, Dorothy.” Jimmy smiled, his pearly teeth shining under the sun.

  “Hello, Jimmy.” Dorothy tried to smile back, but she couldn’t. Her heart did start pounding then, because she needed him to just spill the beans instead of hoarding them in his pocket.

  Jimmy craned his neck and studied the pile of vegetables on the ground behind her. “You know you can’t pluck all those carrots and save the farm.” He wasn’t being mean about it, only speaking the truth.

  “I know.” She sighed, taking a step closer to him so he could unharness the news.

  “Then come with me.” He dropped his hat on the grass and grasped her hands with his warm fingers, his sky-blue eyes catching hers. “Marry me.”

  Dorothy hesitated, thought about saying yes, since that would make things better. But it wouldn’t be fair to Jimmy because she didn’t love him like that. She had never loved him in the way that two hearts should be drawn together. Instead she’d made mistakes in her desperation and done things she shouldn’t have. With all her being, she didn’t mean to hurt him. “You know I can’t...”

  “Who else are you going to find to take care of you?” His hand skimmed the side of her face, cradling it.

  “Why?” Dorothy tore herself away from him. “Because everyone in town thinks of me as Crazy Dorothy?” She pressed her finger to his chest, jabbing it in as deeply as she could, not caring that it was un-lady like. It may have been the 1920s, but sometimes this town felt as if it was trapped in centuries past. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? Besides, I can handle myself just fine.”