by Bec McMaster
Gladly.
I bolt to the side, but a vicious snap of teeth catches the hem of my skirt, and I go sprawling. No time to look. I have to move. Scrambling to my hands and knees, I slash through the ends of my skirt, and suddenly I'm free.
I can practically feel its hot breath on the back of my neck. I know I said I wouldn't Sift in front of Keir, but right now—
Just a blink. A slip in shadows.
A clash of fierce teeth over open air, right behind me.
I gain enough space to scramble free, though the fucking skirts are doing their best to betray me. How, by the light of the Cauldron, do fae princesses do anything in these blasted things?
The Wyrdwolf screams in animalistic rage as those chains bite deeper into its putrid flesh. Bones pop. Fur sizzles with the wet reek of something from the swamp. It bites and snaps at the chains cutting their way through its flesh, but then its red eyes lock on me as if it knows its not going to escape. As if it knows death is but a mere twist of Keir's hands away and it wants to take every last living thing with it.
I see my death in its eyes.
I scream, kicking backward across the floor as the Wyrdwolf lunges for me, but then Keir is there. Hot golden light spills through the hallway, a flaming sword flickering to life in the prince's hands. It cleaves right through the Wyrdwolf's neck, and the afterimage burns my retinas.
Blood spatters across my skirts as the head rolls across the floor. The Wyrdwolf's body slumps into a boneless mess on the floor, and as I watch, its blood seems to run together into puddles and its ribs cave in. The fire in its chest dies. Wherever it came from, without that fire, it’s no longer bound to this plane.
Prince Keir kneels at my side, the sword evaporating into nothing. "Are you all right?" he demands.
"Fine." I stare at the dissolving puddle of sludge on the floor as I push to my feet. "What happened? How did that—?"
"I'll take care of it." He steps between me and what remains of the Wyrdwolf, as if he's hiding something. "Are you sure you're fine?"
Curse it. I forgot to swoon. No help for it now. "Well, as much as I enjoyed dinner, it is threatening to return with a vengeance. Apart from that—and the stink—I think I'll survive." I pause. "Thank you for the memorable evening."
The Prince of Dreams stares at me for a long, slow moment, and I have no idea what's going on behind those dangerous eyes. "Not quite what I had planned."
A smile escapes me. "You did get to show off your excellent skills with a blade and rescue the damsel from the nightmare. If I didn't smell like something that just died, I might be inclined to grant you a kiss."
"If a nightmare didn't just crawl out of the Shadow Realms and attack two of my guests, I might be inclined to accept it," he says in a dry voice.
Only a puddle of sludge remains on the floor. "How did it get here?"
There's that hesitation again, as if he knows more than he wants to reveal. "I'm sure my guards will perform a full investigation. You should clean yourself up and go to bed, Lady Merisel. I'll take care of this."
If I didn't smell like I'd rolled in a rotten carcass, I might take exception at being dismissed so readily. "As you wish, my prince."
An almost-kiss from Keir? Or the snap of a Wyrdwolf's jaws?
I don't know which one has proven more dangerous tonight.
I ripple through the shadows as Keir directs his servants to remove the mess in the hallway and see to the body.
Armored guards pour through the halls and the gardens, but I can't get close enough to hear what they're looking for. It's clear that nobody expected the Wyrdwolf to leap out of nowhere, and Keir's expression imitates a brewing storm. This is his court. His reputation on the line. Somehow he has to tell Lady Altrea's father that his daughter won't be coming home.
"How did it get in?" murmurs the Captain of the Guards, looking worried. "The safeguards are—"
"Impenetrable," Keir replies, kneeling by the body. He drapes his robe over Lady Altrea, hiding her from view and perhaps granting her a certain dignity. "I've checked. Nothing came through the portal."
"Then someone here opened a portal," says the captain.
"Or," Keir adds grimly, "we're dealing with someone who can twist the dream realm into flesh. This wasn't real. A true Wyrdwolf wouldn't have died so easily. It was dream-forged."
The captain falls silent.
Either way, it's not a pleasant thought.
To manipulate an Other World requires either a dangerous sort of power—or a relic. It's also a direct challenge to the prince.
Perhaps I'm not the only one who took advantage of the Summons to attend. Every princess in the palace has their own agenda, after all, though I thought they were mostly benign.
But why would someone murder Lady Altrea?
Was she competition? Was it a grudge?
Why reveal their hand so swiftly? They have to know Prince Keir won't take kindly to the threat.
Unless…. Whoever did this has the power to twist a world Prince Keir controls. Maybe this is a deliberate taunt, and they intend to challenge the prince for his court.
Excellent. Sounds like I've walked directly into a war. It ought to be the perfect cover for my own intended crimes, but I can't help thinking the stakes suddenly got higher.
I Sift away through the shadows, seeking refuge in my own chambers.
Infiltrate the Court of Dreams, Father said. Steal the Dragon's Heart. It will be easy.
I shudder as I melt back into mortal flesh.
This task just became a thousand times more dangerous.
6
The next day, one could be forgiven for thinking anybody died within these walls.
Everybody is summoned to the audience chamber. It's far too early to be out of bed, let alone coherent, but I do my best, because the Lady Merisel would be just as thrilled as all the other females by the promise of time spent in the prince's company, even if she had to jostle for a place at his side. I might not have fooled Keir, but I cannot allow any of the princesses to start wondering why I'm here, if not for him.
I let them all crowd the prince.
No point fighting my way through that gauntlet of elbows and slippers stomping on my feet, just to catch a glimpse of his wit.
"I hear you managed to steal a moment alone with his Royal Studliness last night." Calliope appears at my elbow, and I didn't hear her coming. "Someone saw the two of you conversing in the hallway, and the Twisted Twins are up in arms. You ought to watch your back today."
"The Twisted Twins?"
"The leaders of the prince-hunting pack."
Ah. Ismena and Narcissa. I can't summon the hate today, however, for there's a gaping hole in their little coterie. Not that any of them look disconcerted by Altrea's death.
What if one of them summoned the creature? It would certainly explain the lack of concern.
"Did they happen to mention I was covered in Wyrdwolf gunk at the time?" I drawl wryly. "It took me three baths to get the wretched stink off me. Trust me. There was nothing romantic about it."
"Inconsequential details," she says, waving it away. "So what happened?"
I swiftly explain the night's events, leaving out the more interesting parts.
"A Wyrdwolf?" she asks dubiously. "Someone brought a Wyrdwolf into the court?"
"I believe the prince is investigating, and he's certainly roused his guards." There's an armor-plated guardian at every corner. "But you ought to watch your back, just in case." A thought occurs. "I'm not one for the courts. Do you know of anyone who might have borne Altrea a grudge?"
"You think it was summoned directly to kill her?"
"I don't know. Could be coincidence."
Calliope turns her gaze upon the other princesses. "Princess Altrea was of the Court of Fauna. I heard Narcissa call her a beast yesterday. There was no love lost between their courts—some old grudge, I think—but I don't know the specifics."
The princess of the Blood Court just keeps com
ing to my attention. Narcissa is cruel, but is she a killer? "Is she powerful enough to twist an Other World to her whim though?"
The sounds of excited gasps forestall Calliope's answer.
It takes a moment to work out what has them all so excited. Prince Keir has called for a hunt. Apparently we're all to go together; a chance for the prince to get to know us a little better.
Now the request to wear riding leathers makes sense.
Not that half the crowd has taken notice of it. There's more silk and ruffles around me than a milliner could boast.
"A hunt." Calliope screws her nose up. "I think I may abstain. There's been enough blood spilled of late." She heads toward the palace. "You'd be wise if you take my advice. I don't think any of us should be alone out there with... certain princesses."
I'm supposed to distract the prince today. Soraya wants a closer look at the palace. Besides, with so many guards suddenly at attention, the bright light of day is no place to make a move. Patience is a thief's best weapon, and there'll be plenty of time to make a move when the furor dies down. "I think I'll take my chances."
If Narcissa had anything to do with Altrea's death, then I want to know more.
We're led to the courtyard, where saddled horses await. Over a dozen vicious princesses fight for the most pleasing mount. I watch with faint amusement. Fae politics can be brutal, and I can't be bothered playing back.
I'm left with a fractious gray gelding named Ghost that tries to bite me when I take his reins. I snap my teeth at him. "Don't annoy me. It's barely a civilized hour."
"Not fond of morning?" Prince Keir murmurs as he leads his stallion past.
Of course it's enormous. And black, with a long silky mane and feathered fetlocks. One would think he had something to prove.
"I had trouble sleeping," I mutter. "I'm surprised you look so cheerful this morning. Someone did summon a Wyrdwolf to your castle, after all."
His smile doesn't slip. "And I will find them."
There's no time to ask more, because he's instantly surrounded by a swirl of lilac-scented silk.
"What are we hunting?" Princess Ismena calls as she whirls her bloodred bay in tight circles. She's one of the few in leather breeches and a trim little leather corset that displays her narrow waist to best effect.
"And what is the prize if we're the first to bring it down?" cries another princess, one with flowing blue hair that looks like she's just stepped out of the waves.
Keir swings into the saddle, his leather breeches creaking over his thighs. It's a sight to behold, despite the fact I should not be even looking in that direction. "The woods to the north are wild and untamed. They're the haunt of one of the last unicorns in the land. It's an ancient, mighty beast, and it can only be brought down by wiles."
Or a noose made from the hair of a virgin.
"Capture the unicorn," he calls, "and you will win a private dinner with me tonight."
The squeals are deafening.
The loosely knotted bridle hanging at my saddle suddenly makes sense. Some brunette somewhere has lost a length of hair.
"If I capture it, can I have its horn?" asks the Princess of the Dawn court.
Keir's smile fades, and I can sense that Princess Dawn just fell highly out of favor. "Am I not prize enough? It would be a shame to destroy such a mighty creature for the mere sake of a horn. No. If brought down, he'll be released at the end of the day. He is one of the last, after all."
It makes me like him a little more.
No beast should be hunted for the sake of a body part that cannot be eaten or used for warmth. Some say to grind a unicorn's horn into their drink will increase their fertility, but it’s never been proven. And unicorns are rare creatures. There used to be more of them, but now all that's left is worthless scepters scattered through the fae courts.
"You should stay behind, worm," Princess Ismena hisses as she drives her bay into the path of my gelding. "You'll never capture his attention. You're not worthy of him."
It's a good thing I wasn't planning on winning.
But despite that fact, I cannot help snapping back, "I think it falls to the prince's whim to decide who's worthy."
She bears her teeth at me. "Don't get in my way."
"Or what?" I refuse to let her cow me. "Usually these warnings come with a threat."
Princess Ismena's smile is merciless. "Oh, I'd hate to ruin the surprise. Why don't you try me?"
Maybe I should convince Soraya that Ismena needs a good dose of bitterroot.
It might improve her personality.
Capture the unicorn and win the company of the prince.
It's a prize I don't want. No. Hopefully one of the other princesses gains victory—and the precious dinner. With Keir distracted there's a chance to search his rooms.
But I hate the thought of Princess Ismena winning.
So, while I stay at the back of the pack as they gallop madly for the trees, I don't let Ghost fall too far behind.
Hours pass.
The darkhounds race ahead of us, slipping like shadows themselves through the trees as they hunt for any sign of the unicorn. The woods are old and tangled with thorns. Gnarled roots sprawl across the path, forcing me to keep my eye on what I'm doing. One princess has already fallen and been escorted back to the palace, though it’s her horse I feel sorry for.
Ismena cuts me off on a narrow path, forcing me to rein the gray in hard. I don't want him to twist his leg, though she has no such compunctions.
"Give in, worm," she calls, using brute force to push me back.
I rein the gray in tight circles, and suddenly we're knee-to-knee. I grab her reins, just as a flash of light highlights the knife in her hand.
For a second I think she's going for my leg, but then I feel the saddle pitch sideways, threatening to take me with it. The bitch has cut my girth.
Ismena laughs as she kicks me in the chest. I try to grab Ghost's mane, but all I get is a handful of ethereal nothing. The virgin-hair bridle, damn it. I'm unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Thankfully, not into the vicious patch of brambles to my right.
A baying goes up. Clearly, they're on the scent of something.
Ghost bolts at the noise.
"Long walk home, worm," Ismena calls as she turns her horse in the direction of the cry. "I'll give your regards to the prince when I'm dining with him tonight."
Then she's gone, and I'm all alone in the middle of a shadowy forest with nothing but a fistful of virgin's hair.
"Cauldron's piss," I swear, kicking at the brambles.
There's no sign of Ghost, who's been aptly named. The bastard's probably halfway back to the stables by now.
And Ismena's laughter rings through the trees.
I never wanted to win the prince's challenge, but rage boils through me. It's one thing to lose fairly, quite another to have someone cheat you of the chance.
And I have a bridle. This game's not over yet.
Looking up, I focus on the shadows beneath the canopy, and a smile stretches over my lips. This is an old, dark forest. It was practically made for me.
I Sift into the shadows, moving faster than the swiftest horse.
Nothing moves faster than light, and I am merely the absence of it.
Ahead of me, the hounds are baying in excitement. A horn sounds, echoing through the trees. It's dark in the shadows, and occasionally I catch glimpses of gold embroidery or flashing gemstones as I pass one of the young princesses.
I Sift from tree to tree, until I'm finally ahead of them. Below me, darkhounds scramble around a narrow valley, sniffing and baying.
Forging back into mortal form, I run along the bridge of a tree limb, as nimble as a squirrel.
The unicorn snorts in front of me, cornered in a rocky canyon snarled with brambles. Dapples of light gleam on its pale coat, and its mane is long and tangled. A horn juts from between its eyes, as dull as unpolished marble. There's a certain sense of wildness that emanates from it that almost
makes me catch my breath.
That anyone could think to hunt it down for its horn makes me feel ill. This is a creature to worship, to cherish. It belongs here in the wild, not harnessed by any man's hand.
"Easy," I whisper, as I slip from tree limb to tree limb until I'm on the ground.
The creature snorts, its eyes flashing their whites.
That horn lowers in my direction, and suddenly I'm staring directly at a two-foot-long weapon that could impale me.
"I'm not here to cause trouble, old friend," I murmur, holding up a hand. "I just want to borrow you for a few hours."
It could escape, but to do so would mean forcing its way through those inch-long thorns. Nobody else has arrived, which means it's not quite panicked enough to risk it, though I expect it will bolt the second they do. And while it's clearly uncertain of my intentions, it's not precisely afraid.
I have this one chance.
Easing the bridle forward, I watch its hindquarters tense. Nostrils flare, as if it's scenting the hair.
"See?" I take a slow step forward. "I mean you no harm. And while this might not have come from my head, you can smell the innocence on it, can't you?"
Another slow, stealthy step.
The unicorn's muzzle trembles.
I can't believe I'm about to touch it.
Then my fingers are stroking down that velvety muzzle.
"Aren't you a beautiful boy?" I whisper.
Horns blare.
The unicorn snorts and dances away from me. Suddenly, it's rushing at me, and I'm two seconds away from being trampled when I Sift.
Just a second.
Just a moment in the shadows.
Then I'm locking a fist in its tangled mane and sweeping onto its broad back. The thought occurs: I am riding a fucking unicorn.
And then it goes ballistic beneath me.
A furious, spine-bending rage that threatens to jettison me straight into the thorns. I've never felt such uncontained fury, such rage. Knotting my hands in its mane, I'm forced to ride it out, knees and thighs squeezing around its barrel-like chest.