Not that Sir Metal Dicks would care.
We walked in silence up a winding mountainside road. The humans that lived on the Rock had built their houses all along its gentler slope, almost to the halfway point. Occasionally, a car trundled up the one-way road. Children were playing games in alleys and old women were hanging wet clothes from lines overhead. Had I ever been as carefree as these humans? I could almost remember a few flickers of lightness, before everything had changed in one violent swoop.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The massive Storm Fae angled his head to the side, his golden locks shifting with the movement. At last, he spoke. “Sir Oren.”
“How many people do you have in the dungeons, Sir Oren?” I hoped only a few. It would be easier to find Wren that way.
Oren shot me a sharp look. “That’s not your concern.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to the dungeons.”
Shitting hells. What? “I’m not?”
“The Institute needs a powerful fae witch like you.”
My mouth opened and closed. “You want me to join the Institute? That wasn’t—” I almost blurted, That wasn’t my plan.
“You’ll join us only if you survive. You’ll be undergoing a series of trials with other fae witches. You’ll either die or join us as a knight.”
No … no, no, no, no! I just wanted to get into the dungeons. I shook my head. “I’d make a terrible witch. I only know one or two spells.”
He turned and grabbed my bicep, squeezing tight. “You’re lying. I feel the power of your magic; I saw that it was second nature to you. What are you covering up, little witch?”
I scrambled to think of a response. I had none.
Looked like a change of plan was in order. I’d have to find my own way to the dungeons once I got into the Institute. “Nothing. I’m not hiding anything. I’ll join your trials. What does it mean, exactly?”
“You will compete against other fae. Most of them better born than you. You’re unlikely to survive, but you might. If you manage to win, you will become a knight, like me. You will live in the hallowed halls of the Institute, and your life will have meaning at last. Fail the trials, and the Nathair kills you. Do you know what that is?”
I did, unfortunately, and my heart picked up speed. The Nathair was a dragon-blooded fae. So that’s what I’d seen flying above the Rock.
How in the gods’ names did the Institute have a dragon-blood? A dark sorcerer had created them eons ago—unnaturally mixing the fae with dragons, creating a malign, corrupted monster that never should have existed. The dragon-bloods wrought destruction wherever they went, slaughtering with abandon, their souls twisted by dark magic. They could kill with their minds. In fact, they were so brutal, the other fae had hunted them nearly to extinction. I didn’t even know they existed anymore.
“I’m going to give you a piece of advice. You’re about to meet the Nathair.”
Oh, gods.
Sir Oren’s fingers were digging into my arm. “You didn’t look appropriately afraid when I first met you. But the Nathair is not as nice as I am. He once severed an unsworn in two for passing on our secrets to the demons. I suggest you keep your mouth in check, otherwise you’ll feel his claws in your belly. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Sir Oren let me go, but only after another moment of awkwardly prolonged eye contact. He took a deep breath, turned again, and continued stalking up the hill. I followed behind him until the homes and children and cars began to thin out.
At last, when my thighs were beginning to burn and the bottom of my bare feet had been ripped to shreds by the gravel road, we reached a large set of stairs. On one side, the jagged rock towered over us, and on the other was a last row of houses. Windows shut as we walked past them; dogs barked bravely, then cowed at the massive fae’s scent.
We reached the top of the stairs, where they ended, but I saw no entrance here. Getting in and out of the Institute would not be easy.
Sir Oren turned to me. “Face the other direction.”
I turned away from him and cast my gaze across the Bay of Gibraltar. Hazy sunlight glistened on the surface of the water. Huge ships floated in the bay, some cargo freighters, others British military vessels proudly flying the flag of their motherland. Turning my gaze south, I could just about see the tip of the African continent, the Atlas Mountains slightly obscured behind a misty veil.
From behind me, a burst of magic thrummed over my skin, electrifying my senses.
“You may turn around,” said Oren.
When I did, I saw an enormous hole yawning open, a tunnel straight into the rock face—pure blackness, tall enough for Oren to stand.
“Come.”
Gathering a deep breath, I took a tentative step.
Just one step in and I could tell the place was freezing. With only my flasher coat providing insulation, I wasn’t wearing enough to keep my hands from trembling. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, reassured by the little bag of herbs. This was why I’d come. The medicine would act like my talisman for what came next, a bulwark against the fear.
That’s when a disturbing thought struck me, and I stopped walking. The knights were deeply paranoid. I was probably going to get frisked. Scratch that, I was definitely going to get frisked. If they found the herbs, what then? I couldn’t let the knights take this medicine.
I had to hide these—now. I’d come back for them, then find the dungeon.
Still near the mouth of the entrance, I froze.
Oren whirled. “Why are you not entering?”
Think fast. Think fast. “One second. I thought I saw a monkey.”
“There are monkeys everywhere,” he barked.
I slipped out of the cave mouth, pulled the little bag out of my pocket, and tossed it into the bushes near the tunnel entrance. Then, I stepped back into the cave. “Ah. He’s gone. So, you guys get a lot of those around here?”
His magic pulsed over my skin like a warning, and he seethed with annoyance. His patience engine was running on fumes. Then, he turned, prowling into the darkness.
“Sorry.” I followed after him as instructed, the soles of my feet screaming by now.
Behind me, the rock collapsed in on itself to seal the entrance off, eerily making almost no sound at all. Soft, golden lights bloomed into the air above us as Oren walked, illuminating mossy limestone walls. The walls themselves seemed to glow with faint colors as Oren approached, as if responding to his presence. It was beautiful, really; a calming ebb and flow of radiance in a rainbow of colors.
A cold droplet of water fell on my head, then another. I breathed in the damp, thick air. I had the strange sense that the tunnel itself was breathing.
I had no idea how deep I was, no clue if we were going up or down. As the tunnel started to branch off in different directions, I realized I’d be very confused when it came time to collect the herbs. This place was designed to disorient and confuse anyone who wasn’t in possession of a map.
The rocks in the tunnel bit into my bare feet, but we were nearing the end of our walk now. Ahead of me, Oren was approaching a black wooden door flanked by two torches in the wall. Magic—some sort of enchantment—radiated off the door, powerful enough that I could feel it in my chest.
Oren stopped just in front of it and pressed his palm against the wood. Instantly, blue and green light spread out from his fingertips. With a soft creak, the door opened into a steep stairwell that went upward. I followed Oren in.
I had arrived at the Institute of the Storm Fae—and soon, I’d have to face the Nathair.
Chapter 3
My thoughts about the Institute usually included words like oppressive, murderous, fascist. The one word I never expected to associate with this place was breathtaking. And yet as soon as I stepped through the magic door, that was the first thing that popped into my mind. Sleek, black marble walls reached high above to a vaulted ceiling that pierced the skies. The vast scal
e of the place took my breath away.
Impossibly tall windows spanned several stories above us—open to the air and the iron-gray clouds. Wind and mist rushed in through them. Lightning flashed outside, and thunder rumbled through the stone.
The rain picked up speed, lashing the stone floors. I hugged my coat tighter over my bare skin. Odd, because it had been sunny a moment ago, when I’d stashed my bag of herbs in the shrubs like some kind of half-naked drug addict.
Inside the Institute, I could feel Taru’s power charging my body, vibrating along my bones. It was like lighting igniting me from the inside.
A carpet of blue-gray flowers covered the floor beneath my ravaged feet, soothing them a bit. I swept my gaze over the rest of the hall. Floating crystals cast golden light over a magnificent black staircase that spiraled up to the upper levels. I took in the paintings on some of the walls—painted in gray and gold hues. The rainwater didn’t seem to affect them. Between the pictures, passages jutted off from the main hall like spokes from a wheel. The place was huge and distinctly un-human. And I had no idea in hells how to get to the dungeons. Did one of those passages lead to the cells?
I’d find out at some point. If I had to become a knight to get to the dungeons, then so be it. I’d scour the whole place from top to bottom until I found Wren.
Taru’s power flowed all around us, so strong that the hair was standing up on the back of my arms. Magic skimmed along my bones, making me sigh. I almost liked it in here.
“This place is amazing,” I whispered. I said it softly enough that Oren couldn’t hear. I didn’t need him knowing I was impressed with his life.
As I walked deeper into the hall, stepping over the soft flowers, I could hear someone humming. No, not someone. A chorus of people. But when I looked around the enormous circular tower, it was just Oren and me.
“Follow me,” said Oren.
I hugged myself as I walked, following him up the spiral staircase to an upper level. A window overlooked the stairwell, and rain lashed us as we climbed. Oren looked untouched, with his stupidly perfect hair, but my coat and hair grew soaked.
My teeth chattered as he led me onto a stony mezzanine overlooking the hall. Across from the mezzanine railing, an exterior balcony jutted out into the air from the tower. With the stormy clouds around us, I couldn’t see much, and cold rain drenched my skin.
It occurred to me that the very architecture of the Institute was built to convey their dominance. This place had been designed to exclude the uninitiated, to make them feel afraid as soon as they walked in.
Oren turned to stare at the balcony, unperturbed by the rain. The knight seemed to be waiting for something—what, I had no idea. But I had the disturbing feeling in my gut that if I looked closely enough, I’d see the Nathair swooping for us. Dread flickered between my ribs. A creature that never should have existed…. If it weren’t for Wren, I’d have stayed as far away from this creepy place as possible.
How in the gods’ names did they have a dragon-blood fae? It was hard not to think of my nightmares: dragon claws, the smears of blood and gore on the white marble…. Weirdly specific. I’d woken in the mornings covered in sweat, promising myself dragons weren’t real. That they’d all been killed for their ferocity.
And yet, here we were.
Through the window, a crack of light split the sky in two, illuminating a terrifying shadow in the clouds, deep and dark. Yep—I was definitely about to come face to face with my worst nightmare. I hugged myself in the damp cold, teeth chattering.
Gods, Wren, you owe me.
The dark shape, large as a house, swept past the window. The Nathair was circling the tower like a bird of prey.
What I wouldn’t give to be back in London, drinking beer and eating pho with Wren. Instead, I was watching a living, breathing nightmare skimming past the windows outside.
In the storm clouds, I caught another glimpse of giant wings beating, the sound thumping slowly like the heart of a great beast, a battle drum booming through my belly. Another arc of lightning lashed the sky, so bright I shielded my eyes. Thunder roared, rattling my ribcage.
Stay in control, Cora. Think happy thoughts.
I closed my eyes again, retreating for a moment to my happy place. Eating sweetened pancakes, licking sugar off my fingers in the sun outside our little shop….
Before she’d come to Gibraltar, Wren and I had worked in a little magical shop in London. A cozy place with potions, amulets, a few shriveled demon hearts on the wall. Our friend Aenor had set it up, and Wren and I had worked there for years. We’d hang out after work, eating crepes and pies from the nearby food trucks. We never got bored.
Then—for reasons I still didn’t understand—Wren had decided to take off for this godsforsaken place. And I had to break her out. What the hells had she been thinking?
My thoughts were going a million miles a minute.
But when I opened my eyes again, my thoughts went quiet.
A powerful silhouette darkened the clouds outside—fae-shaped now. The Nathair had transformed out of his dragon form. And yet even in this body, his enormous figure exuded menace. I still took a step back, pressing myself against the balcony railing.
I took in his powerful form as he walked, thickly corded with muscle. He had the body of a warrior, but his movements looked completely at ease—languid, almost. A dark cloak billowed behind him, and magic snaked off his body, staining the air around him with dark silver.
I squeezed my fists tight as he drew closer, and my breath caught when I saw his face: short hair, jet black. Pale skin, and eyes the cold gray of storm clouds shot through with gold.
I stared as something strange happened to my own magic, the pale gray-blue straining for his silver coils. Our magic twined together, and my body went hot. His aura washed over my skin—raw, powerful magic that radiated from him like heat from the sun, scorching everything it touched.
All at once, the cold was gone.
The Nathair stood even taller than Oren. Besides the cloak on his back, the dragon-shifter wore a black suit of leather armor, with many straps and places to hang a blade from. Unlike Sir Metal Dicks, he carried only one sword, sitting comfortably against his hip. Perhaps the ability to transform into a bloody terrifying dragon was a suitable substitute for a bunch of knives. He appeared completely in control.
With all the other weirdness going on, it took me a moment to realize that the Nathair and I had simply been staring at each other, and no one had spoken. Only our magic was moving, still coiling together, embracing like long lost lovers.
So, this was awkward.
His pale eyes piercing me, the Nathair adjusted the obsidian arm guards on his forearms and took another step closer. An amused smile played about his lips, as if a half-drowned witch was the funniest shit he’d seen in ages.
My body felt oddly electrified. I didn’t know if that was his magic, or if it was just an effect he had on people. All I knew was I wanted to run from him, fast, and find my way to Wren.
The Nathair narrowed his eyes. “I see you brought me a new prisoner,” he said, his voice as smooth as a good bourbon. He smelled faintly of whiskey, too. “We’ll see if you are capable of becoming one of the unsworn. What do you call yourself?”
“Cora.”
“Cora,” he repeated. His eyes swept up and down my body. “If you disobey our rules, I’ll kill you slowly.”
“Great. Nice to meet you, too.”
“Full name.”
“Cora Th-Th-Thursday,” I stuttered a bit on my name, and my cheeks flamed red. “I hear you need a witch.”
Despite his relaxed stance, an air of cruelty rippled off him. Maybe it was his dark magic or stark beauty; the black sweep of hair, sharp cheekbones, pale skin. Maybe it was the fact that I’d just seen him in his terrifying dragon form, circling the building like a predator. But I think it was mostly the look in his gray eyes—arrogant and disdainful.
I couldn’t exactly just ask him to direct
me to the dungeons, now could I? Maybe a bit more subtlety was in order.
“Will I get a tour of the place?” I asked.
“No. Only the knights may know how to navigate the palace. But I have good news. I’ll let you live for now, for which you may express your gratitude however you like.”
Express your gratitude however you like. The arrogance on him.
Tell you what, dragon. I’ll express my gratitude by finding my way to your cells and blowing a hole in your bloody walls with my magic.
Chapter 4
His glacial gaze traced down over my body again. “Do you often walk around barefoot? The blood from your feet is staining our stone.”
This actually annoyed him. My blood actually was some kind of inconvenience.
“I don’t typically walk around without shoes. Sir Oren busted in on me mid-shower and claimed I had no time for shoes.”
“Hmm.” The Nathair’s placid expression remained unchanged. Not sure why I’d expected a dragon to care about the particulars of my footwear situation.
However, Oren’s mouth twitched like it was hilarious. HA, HA, HA, bleeding feet are a scream! His expression irked me, and I wasn’t entirely sure I could keep a lid on it. Wren was set to die, and it was all a big joke to them. I gritted my teeth, trying to control my emotions.
Darkness seeped from the Nathair’s body, a disturbing sense of wrongness that seeped into the air around him. “And why did you bring this prisoner here instead of into the dungeons, Oren?”
“I could feel an immense power within her.”
The smile left the Nathair’s lips as he stared at me. “In accordance with our laws, you will be put through a series of trials to test your skills. Witches are contemptible, but unfortunately, we need one.”
I wanted to ask where the dungeon was and how I might break someone out of it, but that might come across as suspicious. Instead, I asked, “Do you have anything else I could wear?”
Queen of Storms Page 2