Jerking forward, he bunched her worn cloak in his fist and brought her face to within inches of his own. “And you know this how, witch?”
Brushing his hand off with a mere flick of her wrist, Robin frowned down at his fingers. She was powerful. Not so much in strength, but in will. “Who are you?” He snapped. “You’re no mere fortuneteller.”
She patted his cheek gently. “You’re a smart one. Good to see that my judgment is still sound even after all these years.”
He cocked his head. Who the devil was this woman?
“As to who the devil I am—” She smirked.
His nostrils flared. The witch had read his mind. Robin’s skin prickled with fury and apprehension.
“That is my concern and none of yours. But if you wish to bring down your king—”
“He is not my king.” His voice was curt and full of dripping disdain for the man known as Crispin the Lionhearted. “And I will kill him.”
She shrugged. “You may. You may not. But if you’ve a wish to succeed, ye’ll need the dark one.”
“And if I don’t believe you?”
Her wide grin exposed rotted teeth. “Och, well then, I canna help you there, can I? Believe. Don’t believe. It’s up to you, really. I’m only here to pass this information along.” Her hand slipped into the lining of her cloak.
Robin withdrew his knife, pointing it directly at her heart. “Slowly, witch.”
“Not to worry, young man. I’ve not come to kill tonight.” Then she set a glass vial before him. “Drink that—it’s laced with a finder spell. Focus your thoughts on the dark genie, and ye shall see that I speak nothing but truth tonight.”
He chuckled, hefting the slight weight of the vial in his palm. “Drink it. Do ye take me for a fool? What do you really want, witch?”
A bright red glint burst through her eyes then, and he knew the moment he saw it with whom he actually spoke.
“Baba Yaga.” He dropped the vial, scooting his chair back.
The witch with three faces—child, maiden, and crone. To have her come within his camp. Why, why was she here? A knife could do nothing against her. His heart hammered painfully in his chest now. Robin did not fear death, but he feared dying before bringing Crispin down.
She cackled. “My bloody damn eyes, always giving me away. Trust when I say I dinnae want you dead, boy. I’ve my reasons for wanting to see your…”—she rolled her wrist—“plan succeed. That potion is exactly what I say it is. You find that genie, and you fix this. Or not. ‘Tis entirely up to you.”
A violent clap of thunder exploded then, deafening Robin and tossing him from her wagon to the muddy ground below. When he sat up, the caravan was gone.
In his hand rested the vial.
*
“Are you daft, Robin?” Little John grunted in astonishment thirty minutes later after Robin told his friend almost all of the story.
John would never place his trust in Baba Yaga, and, honestly, Robin might be a fool to do it himself, but the more he thought on it, the more he trusted his gut. She’d been telling the truth. Why the witch cared, he knew not.
Robin leaned back on his bench and kicked out his leg. “I’ve never thought more clearly, John. Why would you think me—”
“Why?” He gaped. “Why!” Every time John got excited the plump folds of his cheeks turned scarlet and mottled. “Because this is a fairytale! The damned thing doesn’t exist, if it did, dinna ye think it’d have been found by now?”
John was a solidly built man, with fists like iron hammers and a belly that jiggled when he walked. But for all that, he was a quiet, contemplative soul. Unless, of course, while drunk—then John could be a wee bit of a hellion, though Robin would never tell him so to his face.
He was also Robin’s right-hand man, the only man within his inner circle to whom Robin admitted the true workings of his mind.
A master thief by trade, Robin didn’t actually need his Merry Men—and that term was absolutely ridiculous, one he’d never held with, but the damn fairies had labeled them as such and for better or for worse it was a moniker that’d stuck—to do what he willed, he’d taken in the motley assortment of men for reasons which were his own, and definitely not as altruistic as the stories might lead one to believe.
“If the stories are true, then that would mean that genie devil killed her last master.” He crossed himself quickly before kissing his thumb. “To even contemplate bringing that into our camp,” he sneered.
Robin shook his head, rolling his eyes at his man’s theatrics.
“No, you mind my words.” John wagged a blunt finger. “That’s the devil’s toy, it is. And thank the gods that it is nothing more than mere myth; we’ve enough monsters in our world.”
Robin snorted. If John only knew the monster that’d just been in their midst moments ago.