Fae King's Vengeance (Court of Bones and Ash Book 4)

by Layla Harper

  Menora safely delivered Rogar, and Queen Lyra had Aelinor. Before leaving the fortress, Lyra learned the truth about Rogar and swore to raise him as her sister’s child, thus protecting Menora’s secret.

  Aelinor must have accessed her mother’s memories. It’s the only explanation to account for how she discovered Rogar’s true paternity.

  “Here, child.” Arwen hands me a cup of steaming hot tea. “Drink this. It will settle your stomach for the crossing.”

  I take the tea from Rogar’s grandmother—oh my freaking word—and blow along the top. “Any word on whether or not the night realm will fight with us?”

  Tauriel snorts. “They claim neutrality. They will not get involved in affairs of Alfhemir. It is a wonder they are here at all.”

  She’s been working toward reversing the blocking spells Aelinor placed on Drengskador and Forvarra so we can communicate with Rogar’s third and Princess Daenestra. The contents of the beaker she stirs begins to overflow, orange foam sliding down the sides of the glass.

  “Surtyr’s fires,” she bellows, reaching for a tong-like instrument.

  I swallow a mouthful of minty-flavored tea. This stuff better work.

  “What about Tirian?” I ask. “He left hours ago.”

  “The prince is well on his way with our elven forces.” Arwen sits across from me. “They have encountered the goblin and his small band of warriors.”

  “Aelinor’s numbers are substantial. Frinhol’s army alone won’t be enough.”

  “Once we break the blocking spell, we can open portals to Drengskador and Forvarra,” Tauriel reminds me. “The orc and Forvarrian forces combined are undefeatable.”

  “Myrkur is the real threat,” Arwen says. “It is he we must destroy.”

  And that’s where I come in.

  I’m back to where it all started.

  The Forest of Night.

  The warm humid air caresses my face. The gloom no longer scares me. I marvel at the lys trae trees illuminating the night with their silvery veins.

  There’s a talisman around my neck. A special artifact created with a magical purpose. To hold magic.

  But not just any magic.

  Life force.

  “I’m here. I know you can feel me.” I walk slowly, my footsteps soundless although I kick the leaves on the ground with every step. I’m a vessel. I cannot wield magic. All I can do is store it. And maybe, if I’m strong enough, I may siphon it.

  Like the magic I’d taken from the portal.

  I hold my hands out, letting the warm breeze filter through my fingers. “I’m not afraid. And neither should you be. But I need your help.”

  I see the first coils of mist rolling over the forest floor.

  “Myrkur rises. We need to stop him.”

  A cloud of black surrounds me. The color morphs to gray, white, and back again.

  I sense trepidation.

  I sense vengeance.

  I sense acquiescence.

  “Thank you.” I open the talisman and invite the mist inside.

  21

  Rogar

  Aelinor sways under the spell’s power. Her voice grows harsher and louder and more powerful with each word she chants.

  I struggle against my restraints. I am trussed like a boar, tied by my ankles and hung from the bottom of a metal cage rigged inside the ruins of Azgagh.

  Ilearis lies on the ground by Aelinor’s feet, drained of her magic. Twenty of Aelinor’s soldiers sit on the stone floor, eyes glued to the pieces of bone rising in the air to form a whirling vortex of light and dust.

  My skin pebbles from the magic swelling around us. Suns above, never in all my years did I imagine my blood would break a millennia-old curse set by the high queen.

  Menora.

  My mother.

  Gasps sound from the crowd.

  The vortex is no more. In its place is a wizard’s skeleton. It takes several wobbly steps toward the audience.

  Several goblins jump to their feet, edging to the open door that slams shut, locking them inside. Heads turn left and right, concern etched on faces which only moments ago were lit with awe.

  Now weapons are drawn.

  The wind stirs, coiling from one corner of the room to the other like a hungry serpent. Several goblins pound their fists on the door, screams bellowing to their brothers in arms on the other side.

  The skeleton takes its first victim. Followed by a second. And a third. Black flesh fills where empty space once grew.

  Jatta.

  The time to stop this madness is now.

  The sounds of battle reach my ears. Frinhol’s army? It matters not who. If I cannot stop Aelinor now before Myrkur’s power grows, there will be nothing a fae army can do to stop him.

  Aelinor’s mage trembles in the corner.

  “Release me,” I growl. “If she unleashes his full power, we are doomed.”

  The mage looks to Myrkur’s blackened form devouring the life force of yet another goblin. A crescendo of screams builds around us, blocking out the sound of the growing battle outside.

  The mage visibly trembles. “I cannot release you.” He extends his hand in my direction and winces, his arm shaking. He slumps to the floor. “I am prohibited. But…”

  His gaze follows the length of the cage. The chain. The castle wall it is anchored to.

  “Do it.” It is reckless, but I would rather die fighting than hanging here helpless.

  At first, nothing happens. Then a block of stone from the castle wall, a foot from one of the anchors, falls. Followed by another. And another. I shift my legs, using my weight and the force of gravity to pull against the metal grate.

  The mage’s power weakens. Blood leaks from his nose. “I can do no more.” He sags against the wall.

  I work the restraint, curling my body and swinging my legs until the cage bounces and swings. More rock crumbles to the floor until finally the final support breaks.

  I brace myself for the crash, twisting my body as far from the cage as possible when it falls. I hit hard, the metal grate landing on the back of my legs. With a groan, I crawl from beneath the metal bars.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. The massive doors tremble under the force of the pounding coming from outside. The wood begins to splinter. The glint of an axe blade wedges between the planks, pulling them apart.

  Myrkur continues to feed, oblivious to the incoming attack.

  Aelinor, however, snaps from her chant. Drunk on magic, her eyes glaze and then focus on the door. She extends her hands. A flurry of black shoots forward, flying across the room like a swarm of bees.

  The elf warriors squeezing through the broken planks stop. Some back away. Some are caught in the stream and are pulverized. Others narrowly escape the magic, jumping to the side.

  I grab a weapon and make quick work of my bindings, ignoring the pain shearing my bones.

  My cousin is distracted. By the magic flooding her system. The attackers entering the room. By Myrkur’s form becoming more and more faelike as he feeds.

  Forgive me, cousin.

  She does not see me approach.

  Nor does she see the blade I thrust through her back with enough force to pierce her black heart.

  She stills in my arms.

  Her death seems easy. Too easy.

  And then my world turns upside down.

  Kyra steps through the wooden doors, and the moment she steps into the room, Myrkur raises his head from the desiccated body gripped in his skeletal hands.

  “No.” I jump over the altar into a wall of air. Wild with panic, I drive my shoulder into the invisible barrier repeatedly.

  Her eyes meet mine, fearful yet courageous. She mouths, “I love you,” and then raises her hand to something around her neck. Mist escapes from the capsule and streams angrily through the room, circling Myrkur’s hunched form.

  The devil screeches, attempting to outrun the black coils of mist. They swarm around his wriggling frame, shoving him forward.

  Shoving hi
m toward the light of my life.

  When the dark wizard’s reanimated form is several feet from Kyra, I see her chest rise. I see the waver in her step, followed by the firm set of her jaw.

  The mist forces the wizard’s hand up, separating his bony fingers to meet Kyra’s. Palm to palm.

  She means to…?

  Terror explodes in my chest. “No. No. By the ancestors, no. Do not do this, my love. I beg you. No.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Rogar.” She forces out a breath. And a smile. “Trust me.”

  And then I watch the female I love be consumed by a monster.

  22

  Kyra

  “Kyra.”

  I moan and roll over. Who the heck is calling me at this time of the morning? Sheesh. Do people not sleep?

  The voice is insistent.

  “Wake. Hear me, my càirdeil.”

  I grab the pillow and plop it over my head. “Nuh-uh. No way.”

  I haven’t slept this good in years.

  Shit on a stick.

  Does this guy never sleep?

  I groan and stare at the familiar ceiling. Dorm room interiors are nothing to write home about, but something feels off.

  I don’t know.

  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be somewhere else.

  Fuck.

  What time is it?

  I jolt out of bed, looking for my cell. It should be right here on the nightstand. The mattress across from mine is empty.

  That’s weird.

  “If you hear my voice, come back. Come back to me.”

  Someone’s drunk and lovesick.

  “I am here. I wait. I will wait for all of time if I must.”

  He’s kind of sweet. And romantic.

  Lucky girl.

  I frown. There’s a timbre to his voice I recognize. Do I know him?

  He can’t be one of Victoria’s one-night stands. They’d never serenade her like this dude.

  I pad across the floor and open the door. The hallway is eerily quiet, and I see no sign of the owner of the haunting voice.

  I stride over to the only window inside my dorm. It has a decent view of a small grassy area attached to senior parking.

  Sexy Voice isn’t there either.

  This is shaping up to be a really weird day.

  I yawn. I’m so tired. Maybe I should just nap a bit longer.

  Fifteen more minutes…

  “Ow.” Rubbing my sternum, I wake with a jerk.

  What the fuck is happening now?

  And… there it is again. A sharp stabbing pain to my center. Like someone’s going to town with a sledgehammer trying to break apart my ribs.

  “Fuck, that hurts.” I throw my legs over the side of the bed, open the top drawer, and search for the Advil or Tylenol that should be within hand’s reach.

  Lovely. Figures when I need it most, I’m out. Freaking Victoria must have gotten into my stash again.

  Something about my roommate stabs at my memory. A vague fleeting concern.

  The pain eases but is followed by a splintering sadness that leaves me gasping for air. Tears rush to my eyes.

  I’ve lost something. Someone.

  “Find me.”

  I cock my head. Him again?

  A growl, then a choked “Ancestors, please. Please. Please. Hear my plea.”

  The sound of his voice is anguished, the pain so thick I can’t breathe.

  “Hey. You. Sexy Voice. Wherever you are, it’s going to be okay. Go back to bed. Sleep it off. Things will look different in the morning.”

  They always do.

  There’s silence.

  Then a soft chuckle. “Will you swear an oath, female?”

  I prop my pillows and settle against the headboard. I should be really pissed about being called “female,” but there’s something sweet about the endearment.

  Still…

  “Hey, FYI. Modern women do not appreciate being called ‘female.’ How would you like to be called ‘creature with balls’? Or ‘he who must shave’?”

  A rich laugh rolls through the wall. “Only if it is you calling me such sweet terms, my mate.”

  A burst of happiness shoots through me, which… My head clouds.

  “Kyra?”

  “I feel… not so good.”

  “Stay with me. Follow my—”

  His voice fades, and try as I might to stay awake, I can’t.

  I don’t remember waking up. My room is dark. I can barely make out the outline of the window, and none of the emergency lights are on.

  Instead of panicking, I think about Sexy Voice and wonder if he’s still here pining for his lady love.

  “Yo, sexy dude. You still here?”

  “Kyra.”

  I sit up. “You know my name. That’s so weird. Victoria doesn’t normally date nice guys like you.”

  He grunts. “I know not this Victoria you speak of. Are you in pain?”

  I take a minute to assess my body.

  “I feel…”

  I lift my hands, turning them over in front of my face. There’s something strange about how weightless they feel.

  And I hurt. A deep, aching throb, like my organs are emptying out. I’m rarely sick, but I remember having a bad fever once. My insides felt twisted and cleaved for days. This feels ten times worse.

  “Kyra. Speak to me. Are you in pain, love?”

  A wave of dizziness washes over me. “I’m so thirsty.”

  What’s happening to me?

  “Stay with me. Follow my voice.”

  “If only I could—”

  “Trust me. Trust in your love for me. Close your eyes and follow the sound of my voice.”

  I snort. “That might get my nose broken.”

  “It will get you in my arms. I need you, min droning. I break without you here.”

  The urge to find him overwhelms me. I close my eyes and stand, but the weakness in my limbs threatens to consume me. “Have we met? You sound so familiar.”

  “It pains me that you cannot remember.” He sighs. “You were badly hurt. We almost”—his voice cracks—“lost you. There have been some residual effects as a result of your injuries.”

  “What do you mean, residual effects?” Walking tentatively, I keep my eyes closed, surprised I haven’t banged into the wall or stubbed my toe.

  “You are unconscious.”

  “Like in a coma?” Holy shit.

  “Comparable, yes.” A few seconds pass, and then he says, “I feel you.”

  I sense a presence too, and there’s a distinguishable fragrance in the air. I inhale. The scent smells amazing. It stirs a longing in my soul. A memory. Home. Security.

  Love.

  The doubt chirping in the back of my mind whittles away. If this is a dream, or if I am unconscious somewhere, then so what? I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m in the protected space of my dorm, behind a locked door.

  Unless this guy is David Blaine, and if that’s the case, I’m sure the world’s greatest magician would have better things to do than break into my dorm room.

  And if it’s real?

  Shit. My mind isn’t ready to grapple with that reality yet. It’s impossible. It would mean some kind of voodoo magic, and stuff like alternate realties and realms doesn’t exit.

  Unless I’ve lost my mind, in which case listening to the voice in my head for another minute or two won’t make much difference. Right?

  “Come back to me, min droning,” he pleads, his hoarse voice barely above a whisper. “Save me from the misery tearing my guts apart.”

  And I want to.

  I really, really want to. Something about the pain in his voice stirs a fierceness inside me. An urge to kill anyone and anything that tries to hurt him.

  But more than anything, I need to hold him. I need to kiss away his pain. To feel his body against mine where he belongs.

  Forever.

  I let go of my insecurities. An invisible manacle snaps, and the weight pinning me to t
he floor releases. I lift off the ground.

  And soar.

  23

  Rogar

  “He has not left her side in weeks. He won’t eat. He barely sleeps.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Gauron asks Talti.

  “Leave me,” I growl. “Both of you.” I squeeze Kyra’s hand, then press a kiss against her cold skin. “Come back to me, love. I am here. Follow my voice.”

  I flinch at the hand on my shoulder. “My king—”

  “Do not. Your pity is useless.” My eyes rake over my queen’s lifeless body. “I can hear her voice. She is not lost to me.”

  I feel the bond.

  She cannot be lost to me.

  “I know. I am at your service. Whatever you need.”

  I snap my head to Gauron. I have been too consumed by my grief to feel happiness over the return of the male who has been like a brother to me.

  I stab a hand through my hair. “I—”

  He smiles. “I will fill you in on my adventures when our queen returns.”

  Relief washes over me. I clasp the hand gripping my shoulder and nod, words unable to form over the knot in my throat.

  She will come back to me.

  She must.

  Fingers thread through my hair, inciting the spread of a rash of gooseflesh over my scalp.

  I moan in pleasure, my mate’s scent filling my lungs. I open my eyes to find I fell asleep, cheek pressed to Kyra’s hip and my arms wrapped around her legs.

  For days, weeks, perhaps more, I know not, I have kept vigil. I have begged the ancestors. I have pleaded with the old gods. I have attempted to enter the dreamscape over and over until Talti hid the smoking herbs, and even after tearing the castle apart, I could not find them.

  I have tugged on the bond with desperation of a heartsick male to receive no response from the other side. Not even a twitch of awareness.

  I hear her voice. Often. And each time, hope flares in my chest to then deflate when I wake from a dream. But I hold on with fisted claws to keep from losing what precious faith I have left.