The Heartbreak Show (Bound By Ravens #3)

7. CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

Glenna Lonan

Owen gently plucked a common Traveler melody on his banjo. Patterned shadows fell across part of his lantern-lit face from the wrought iron and stained glass vaulted overhang. The worn toe of his brown boot tapped in line to the reveling beat.

The strange fae dudeen rested in my palm. One does not just happen upon the famed faerie pipe of a Love-Talker. Nor does one take a show prop that just magically appeared in Caledona Wood.

Cian was too clever to fall for such obvious faerie tricks.

Do mortal women truly find a male who smoked a pipe like an older gent seductive? Or was this an old-fashioned notion?

“Final boarding call for the 7:45 train for Ballykiln,” a signalman with a loudhailer announced from a central platform. “All aboard!”

A kaleidoscope of passengers rushed by where we stood. Men in sharp suits, women in rags, children in silks, Fair Folk in traditional or mortal attires.

The signalman lifted a clipboard, checked his stopwatch, then made a mark on his time roster with a piece of lead.

“The 8 o’clock ferry to Seren boards in five!”

Steam hissed from the train’s stack and banked the station in a thick fog. A few seconds later, the boiler steam mechanics that lifted the ferry from the docks to the floating island of Seren released a vaporous cloud that, unlike the train’s, shimmered beneath the gas lamps.

Odd. Though, given that Seren was run by the Carrion Crime Syndicate and stayed afloat by steam mechanics and magic, perhaps the illusion of enchantments wasn’t terribly surprising.

Owen met my nervously ticking eyes and arched a brow. Where was Cian? He had disappeared around the train shed’s wall for “preparations.” I started to turn away when Owen chuffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. George was scampering by him with a black ribbon in one paw and a small white parasol in the other.

Stars above, that man’s vanity was worse than mine.

I blew out a slow breath and wrapped an arm around my middle. I didn’t perform publicly. Not even music despite my songbird line. I preferred to work with my hands, creating confections, not live in the spotlight. But I had agreed to Cian’s bet—no, riddled into Cian’s bet.

I was an eejit.

The train whistled a long call and I jumped. The next second, the engine jolted forward and another cloud billowed over the station.

Gritting my teeth, I twisted toward where Cian disappeared. I would drag that arse out by his rounded ears to get this show started, if he didn’t hurry up—

A parasol opened around the overhang’s ornate wrought iron wall.

Finally!

Waves of disheveled blond hair fluttered in a light autumn breeze as he lifted his head and . . . and . . .

. . . áine’s suns . . .

A dizzy rush tickled down my body.

There was truly no creature alive as beautiful as Cian Merrick.

Ash was smudged around his steely moonlit eyes, as if he were a Raven Folk male. Dark red rouge lined his lips. The black ribbon George had pilfered was now tied around the side of his neck in a flirty bow. He wore my strapless corset, no bodice. And my skirt and petticoats were hiked up on the side to reveal a scandalous flash of a stockinged calf.

Holy Mother of Stars , I was dying on agonizing repeat.

Cian slowed before me and twirled the parasol behind his head.

My skin, it was too tight. My pulse was pounding too hard, too fast.

Not quite looking at me, he gripped the edge of Rhylen’s top hat and tilted it more on an angle and lower over my brow. “A proper saucy gent,” he said with a wink. “The pipe?”

I uncurled my fingers, not even aware I was doing so at first.

George handed Cian a large maple leaf that same moment, then scurried off.

“I’ll warm the crowd up first.” Using the leaf, he pointed to the mortals moving through the various gates around the platform. “Burlesque humor, aye? We’re a classy but bawdy song and dance.”

Could an elf be mortal struck? Halfling struck?

Lovestruck.

I was lovestruck.

“Keep looking at me like that, Gent of Fem,” Cian murmured, still not quite meeting my eyes, “and you’ll be screaming ‘Cian, you’re a sex god’ loud enough for all to hear instead of breaking hearts for ol’ Rhylee Lo.”

That snapped me out of my spell. “Rhylen?”

“We need revenue.”

“The 8 o’clock ferry is now departing for Seren,” the signalman announced. “Last ferry of the night in forty-five minutes.”

The ferry undocked in a glimmering whoosh of fog and began rising above the mainland on a steam-powered track.

Cian lifted my chin with a forefinger. “Ready to be heroes?”

“All of this is for the tribe?”

“And for bets.” He leaned in close. “Darlin’, your battle ribbon is no match for mine.” He brushed a tail of black satin over his shoulder and I scoffed. “Now,” he lilted, leaning back. He placed the maple leaf into my free hand. “Illusion this into a sign that reads ‘Sacrifices to the Love-Talkers,’ and lean it up against the cock boots of nightmares.” He gestured with his head to where George was now dragging one of the red leather monstrosities in front of a grimacing Owen.

I burst into laughter; I couldn’t help it.

“Our pot for gold,” he said with a smug grin. “Cobbled by a leprechaun, it is.”

My eyes shot back to the boot. I hadn’t seen a leprechaun since I was a wee hennie. But I could see what Cian suggested now. It had all the markings of being faerie made. I would bet all my petticoats that the knots in the stitched rooster were spelled.

A chill prickled my skin. “How do we know these bring good luck?”

Cian reared back. “You dare question the thieving ways of Georgie Dirty Paws?” The raccoon waited for me to notice his “innocent” dark eyes. I huffed a quiet laugh. If I had a cookie, I’d give him a chunk, the adorable wee thing.

My shoulders sagged a notch.

Stars how I missed baking . . .

Well, better get this show on the road or—what did we say now that our wheels no longer roamed? Sighing, I focused on the leaf. A warm trickle of magic traveled down my fingers and whirled in my head. The leaf illusioned into a small painted wooden sign, similar to the kinds I’d seen in village storefronts. George appeared at my side and lifted his paws. I handed him the illusioned leaf. Industrious fella. That raccoon always appeared right when he was needed . . . like Cian.

My brows pushed together.

Speaking of the pretty eejit, Cian twirled the parasol again while studying the mortal travelers.

A man slowed as he passed, a scowl between his brows as he took in Cian with equal parts disgust and curiosity. Cian flashed his ash-lined eyes to him, a flirty smile teasing the corners of his mouth as he made a show of taking the mortal in from head to toe and back up. Then, in an equally as dramatic fashion, Cian’s silver gaze swung back to mine and intensified.

Was he reading me? To see if I was jealous over his come-hither interaction? I wanted to glare at that judgy stranger. But Cian might think I was pissed for reasons other than his defense.

“I’m not jealous,” I said instead.

Cian smiled that boyish, rascally up-to-no-good grin of his. “You are a little.”

“Do you want him? Or do you want me?”

“Gent of Fem,” he whispered roughly, stepping close. “The ways I want you . . . to lose.”

I chuckled low under my breath. “Owen,” I hollered and he lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “A song to kick his mortal arse to!”

The tune he plucked on the banjo kicked up to a livelier melody.

Cian snorted. “Pastry shrew.”

“Tawdry Trollop.”

Barely had the words left my lips, when he skip-stepped back and shouted, “Ladies and gents,” in a slightly higher-pitched, sultry voice. “Beware of faerie boy smiles for he will break your heart.”

Those coming and going slowed.

“Beware mortals,” he called out again, moving by the travelers to the rhythm of the music, his hips in full swing. “Do not fall for his confessions of love!”

Nerves violently buzzed in my middle. Showtime . . .

Lifting the gancanagh pipe to my mouth, I stuck a trembling hand in my pocket and strutted toward where Cian stood near Owen.

“You there”—Cian pointed to a couple, then pointed at me—“resist his honeyed tongue or you’ll grow sick with want.”

“My tongue isn’t the only thing that’s sweet,” I bantered in a flirty tone to a group of girls around my age. They giggled and whispered to each other behind gloved hands.

A much older woman behind them gasped. “You ought to be ashamed.”

“Owen.” The music abruptly stopped. With the quiet now brighter than a spotlight, I placed a still-trembling hand beside my mouth, as if sharing a secret, then pretended to gesture to Cian on the sly. “The only shameless hussy here is the Lady of Man.”

The dramatic arse threw an exaggerated, suggestive wink to the crowd. Owen strummed a well-known bawdy pub song to add to the humor. People laughed in reply.

The older woman harrumphed and stomped off toward the carriage platforms, probably to hail a ride to a fancy inn nearby. A few others followed in her wake, but their moral grandstanding only served to bring more curious spectators our way. There was nothing else to do while waiting for the last ferry of the night anyway—

My mouth parted.

That lad was fecking brilliant.

Cian, already on the prowl again, bit his lip at a young man in a fine tailored suit and silk top hat. “You, sir,” he simpered, placing a hand on the gent’s bicep. “Beware . . .”

The mortal blinked bashfully. Cian leaned in closer and the crowd around them hushed. A half-dozen more passersby stopped to see what was going on.

Trailing his fingers down the mortal’s arm, Cian heaved a breath to draw attention to his chest, then stage-whispered, “Your heart will break unless you have him and only him.”

I removed Cian’s hand from the man’s arm. “Has me , the Love-Talker.” With a tap of the pipe on Cian’s nose, I added, “Not you .”

Shite, I meant to use my finger.

Cian’s lips twitched.

Before he could make a joke, I quipped, “Most ladies swoon when I show them my . . . large pipe .”

Owen switched to the bawdy pub song he played earlier and the crowd erupted into laughter once more. Late evening Seren travelers were a rowdier bunch. A tad on the younger side too—which Cian knew .

“Gent of Fem,” Cian practically purred. Owen paused his playing. “I don’t need to flash my large pipe to make the lads swoon. Every part of me is divine .”

If he uttered one more I’m-a-demi-god joke, I might flick his forehead with both hands.

“Only half of you is, darlin’.” I made a grand sweep of my arm before Cian and Owen began fingerpicking a reeling tune again. “Ladies and gents, beware of halfling faerie girl smiles, she’ll—"

“She’ll break more hearts than you.” Cian twirled the parasol behind him and blew a kiss to the gathering, who ate it up.

“That so?” I slid the mortal girls a smirk. “If a lady touches my arm, she’ll pine for my honeyed tongue.”

“If a gent touches my hair, he’ll ache for my throbbing confessions of love.”

His hair ?

He was asking strangers to preen his hair ? My fingers started to curl into fists. “That wasn’t in our rules,” I whispered low enough so only he could hear.

“Head, face . . .” Mischief glittered in his laughing eyes. “The first punishment.” The crowing delight in those three words ignited a fire just beneath my skin. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Glennie Lo.” The words he said to me about his fake engagement to Owen.

Oh the lad would be weeping into his pillow later.

“Lady of Man,” I cooed, “bets.”

“Gent of Fem, bets.”

Swishing his skirts for the crowd to glimpse his calf, he pranced over to where a group a men had gathered to watch. He pointed at the males as if counting them, then stopped on one. Cian placed his finger under the gent’s chin and lifted his face toward his, as if he were going to kiss him. The man’s eyes grew wide and he stepped back. The friend beside him reached out and patted Cian’s hair, making the group laugh.

“Darlin’,” Cian said to the friend, “I confess to love head”—he paused a comedic beat—“on a stout ale.”

The men grinned, appreciating the lewd joke.

Cian threaded through the gathering, interacting with as many males who would let him.

Taking his lead, I angled into the crowd. I barely had to say anything and girls were reaching out and touching my arm—the poor wee elf struck mortals. It was almost too easy sometimes.

“Your long, silky hair is luscious,” I murmured to one.

I caressed the blushing cheek of another and stage-whispered, “The dark wine of your lips brings the sky out in your blue eyes.”

“The fit of your pink gown is sweeter than decadent cake.”

With each brush of fingers, I gave a honeyed compliment.

A couple of girls touched the gancanagh’s pipe instead of my arm, erupting into giggles, and I threw them a seductive wink.

“Last ferry to Seren begins boarding in ten!”

Cian and I locked eyes through the gathering.

“Ladies and gents,” he sing-songed, then sashayed his way back toward Owen. “There is only one cure to ease your breaking heart as we part ways. Aye, only one way to reverse our faerie bargain.” When an anticipatory hush settled, he continued. “Sacrifices to the Love-Talkers.” He pointed to the cock boots and the crowd, once more, erupted into laughter. “Coins, jewels, sacks of flour, barrels of sugar . . .”

I sucked in a quiet breath.

He was asking for baking ingredients?

A crack fissured across the furiously pounding organ in my chest.

“. . . bottles of whiskey. A ribbon from a Wishing Tree will do too.”

My brows shot up. Was the man so vain he now needed a Wishing Tree’s ribbon to battle me?

Cian gestured to our pots for gold once more. “Left boot for the Lady of Man and right boot for the Gent of Fem.”

No one moved.

But no one left either.

My pulse pounded loudly in my ears. Perhaps we had misjudged the younger crowd. They may come from money but that didn’t mean they brought enough to spare if traveling to Seren.

I tucked the dudeen into my pocket, looking anywhere but at our audience—and stilled. George capered through the travelers to the shadows, where he scampered behind Owen and around the wrought iron wall, a bottle of tooth powder and a lady’s bathing cap in his paws.

Well, someone had been busy.

“Glenna . . .” Cian whispered and I lifted my gaze.

The girls I had flirted with most were dashing over, purses in their hands. They dropped a few coins into my boot. One removed a silver hairpin from her curls to sacrifice. When finished, they walked arm-in-arm toward the ferry. Others came forward with offerings immediately after.

I was so stunned at first, I almost missed how Cian was grinning at me.

It worked.

Cian’s coin beggar show actually worked!

Tears pricked the back of my eyes. My brother would have wages to buy food for his flock.

And maybe, if we did well again tomorrow, I could start baking again too.