by Rhea Watson
“Wait…” Elijah wiped his bloody hands on his jumpsuit with a frown, dragon eyes locked on me. “Did you say the ward is down?”
“I think it’s a fair assumption.” How else could the Master of Midnight pull off that display? “And I think we have a foxy little witch to thank for that… There’s more to our girl than we thought.”
Feisty vixen, Katja Fox. She had enjoyed brandishing a weapon during today’s revolt a little too much to ever go back to the life of a boring café owner. The look exchanged between Rafe and Elijah suggested that her fire was nothing new, that they had known she was a warrior all along. I rolled my eyes. Sure. She was a saucy creature in her own right, but no need to diminish her glory in battle now.
“And that infernal racket?”
“The Host of Horns,” I remarked, my grin sharpening when Rafe winced against the second wave of trumpets. “My brother’s here… Most likely with the court’s army backing him. I told you pricks I was a prince.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Elijah muttered, his eye roll near identical to Rafe’s, but at least they had the decency to smirk while they did it. Perhaps they had believed me all along. Perhaps they just liked riling me up.
No one had ever purposefully riled me up before except my sisters.
All the other sniveling courtiers, my various entourages through the centuries, focused on placating me.
More proof that I had found my tribe—my true friends.
“Well, just wait until you meet him,” I carried on. “Honestly, he’s so stiff and boring and proper… Rafe, you’re going to love him.”
The vampire straightened, blood smeared over that strong chin and rugged jaw, down his neck, severed forearm in one hand—and he then hoisted his middle finger with the other, eyes narrowed. I snorted just as the other inmates slowly made their way out of their cells. While the bird shifters lingered in the doorways, meek as ever, assessing the scene before them in silence, Deimos strode right into the common area like he owned it, demonic swagger intact, and his maenad sycophant pranced along after him.
“Gentlemen,” he purred, eyeing each one of us intensely, no doubt calculating the risks of what was about to come out of that foul mouth. “We appear to be allies in the end, no matter how temporarily, no matter our history…”
This fuck.
He had the sheer audacity to…
Every jovial bone in my body steeled at the memory of Katja’s battered face, her shriek of pain as I caught her around the torso when Rafe returned from his… operation. The aftermath of it all, the poking and prodding from Deimos and his cronies. Katja shuffling around the greenhouse, broken, her injuries only tightening Guthrie’s noose around her. Rafe’s sudden lisp without his fangs—Constance parroting it whenever she had the chance as Deimos cackled at her side.
Ordinarily I let drama and turmoil slide…
But this fucking fuck.
No matter our history.
For the first time, history mattered to me. It mattered so deeply that it had already scarred into my marrow, something to haunt me for the rest of my days.
I had never cared enough about anyone before to consider exacting revenge, but in that moment, a burning vengeance drummed inside me. It shrouded the edges of my vision, darkness billowing, tunneling my focus to the demon who I had fantasized about gutting and stringing up by his own entrails.
My eyes slid over to Rafe, then Elijah. None of us said a word—we just moved. Rafe and I had speed at our backs, my fae wings hidden in this realm and tapered down by the collar, which resulted in me and the vampire blitzing toward Deimos as one, as equals.
Constance abandoned him immediately, skipping back to her cell in a flourish of bright pink hair, her grey jumpsuit melding with the shadows.
“Now, now, wait…” Deimos retreated slowly, as if he didn’t take our threat seriously—like he thought he could talk his way out of this. That hit close to home. Now I saw it, how fucking annoying it was to listen to someone prattle on when they should really just shut their bloody mouth. The demon held up his hands innocently, fingers splayed wide and weaponless. “Gentlemen, I can make life very comfortable for you outside of these walls—”
Rafe and I reached him first, closing in on either side. His charm vanished in a flash, replaced by demonic fury. Eyes wholly black, he bared his teeth and lashed out, taking generous swipes with nails that were far too sharp by prison dress code regulations. Ten little blades slashed at us, but I dodged and weaved with ease, snapping one hand around his wrist and the other just below his shoulder joint. Rafe mirrored my hold on the other side, and when our eyes met, the brooding poet finally offered a smile worthy of his predator status.
“Ready, Mr. O’Dwyer?” I crooned, Deimos wriggling and snarling and struggling between us. Rafe wrenched his arm straight, as did I, and the vampire closed his eyes for a moment, as if to really take it all in. When they opened again, bloodlust shone bright.
“Ready, my prince.”
I cocked an eyebrow. Was the sarcasm really necessary? Elijah’s chuckle as he strolled toward us suggested so, a little bit of brotherly ribbing before we got down to business. Fine. I’d probably never escape my title with this lot, and with them, prince wasn’t a term of endearment.
But I needed that.
So desperately.
“One,” I started.
“Two,” Rafe growled.
“Wait, wait, we can make a deal,” Deimos cried, jerking harder, black eyes snapping between us. “Please, we—”
“Three.” Elijah’s low snarl spurred us on, and we ripped both arms out of their sockets in tandem, unleashing another wave of blood with which to drown Cellblock C. Only the spray was black this time, spattering across our jumpsuits, our faces, up our arms, hot and sticky and scented faintly of death. Rafe made no move to lick the black splotches away—apparently even starving men had their limits—and Deimos howled loud enough to make the block tremble, his pain a chorus of varying baritone timbres.
Music to my pointy fae ears, honestly.
Deimos folded to his knees, jumpsuit sleeves fluttering around him like useless wings. Slowly, his gaze soared to an approaching Elijah, and for once, he held his tongue.
Dying beasts always sensed the end.
Without a word, Elijah gripped the demon’s face, twisted hard left, then right, then left again. He planted a foot on Deimos’s chest, pinning him to the wall—and cleaved his fucking head straight off his shoulders. Bone and cartilage came loose with a squishy pop, spinal cord snapping, and as soon as Deimos’s head left his body, Elijah tossed it aside like the piece of garbage he was. No pomp. No ceremony. No parting words or victorious grins.
Just another day at Xargi—taking out the trash.
Magnificent.
Behind Rafe, I spied the maenad loitering in her cell doorway, caressing herself, eyes wild and manic, full mouth kicked into a seductive pout. No surprise that carnage got her off given her kind’s history, and before Katja, before Elijah and Rafe’s companionship, that was a mare I would have happily ridden until sunrise.
Now, when Elijah took a menacing step toward her and she scampered into her cell with a crazed giggle, I let her go—happily.
“So…” I clapped my hands together, beaming at the pair, at the brothers I had chosen. “Who’s ready to meet the family?” The pair swapped wary looks, and I patted Elijah on the chest as I breezed toward the cellblock’s main door, soaked in demon blood and ready for more. “Don’t be nervous, boys… The future king of the Midnight Court is going to love you.”
31
Katja
Shimmering teal arrows cut through magenta flames, humming with magic, shot from unseen archers beyond the wall. Their tail feathers cut through the air with a whistle that reminded me of clear, high bells, razor-sharp tips slicing into warlocks like pins through paper, and imploded as soon as they hit the penitentiary. Stone blasted, spiraling and splintering, little pieces of that hellhole stark against a purple b
ackdrop—the most beautiful firework display I had ever seen.
Seconds later, warriors charged through the fire, untouched by its raging heat, the baying horns at their zenith. Fear solidified me on top of Lloyd, and we both just sat there, helpless, watching as an army invaded the prison grounds, as it washed over all in its path like raging floodwaters. Most of the warlock guards bolted as soon as the invaders appeared, sprinting in all directions, collared wolf shifters at their heels, anarchy unfurling beneath the relentless floodlights.
Dressed in lightweight steel armor, flexible at the joints and stamped with stars, the warriors showed no mercy—they cleaved down anyone who stood against them with swords and axes and arrows forged by magic. Lloyd’s warlock cronies took a few out, blasts of color zipping around the once silent grounds, but then a second charge poured in from the left of the prison, then the right, more trumpets erupting from the rear. They had the place surrounded, the fire holding us all in. No escape. Nowhere to run.
Lloyd suddenly shoved me off his lap with a snarl. Gravel bit into my bare arm when I landed, shoulder taking the worst of it, but he had barely twisted around and away before I jabbed the Swiss Army knife into his calf. He went down with a shout, fumbling, blood painting the little grey stones at our feet, and I crawled after him, frantic but focused, to snatch the wand from his hand. Like hell he was just going to slip off into the night while all of us were slaughtered.
Nope. Not today, asshole.
Trembling, I staggered to my feet. Even if my knees were seconds from buckling, I still shoved Lloyd’s wand in his furious face and shook my head.
“Don’t you fucking move.”
“I have a panic room underground, kitten,” he growled. “We can go there—”
“Mutus,” I hissed. A burst of soft yellow struck him in the mouth, sealing his lips until I undid the spell. There were less invasive spells to keep someone quiet, but I needed him totally mute until I decided otherwise—not something that might fade at the most inopportune time.
Like when the small band of warriors peeling away from the rest finally made it to us. Drawing in a shaky breath, I kept Lloyd’s wand at his throat, ready to knock him out if necessary, then halfheartedly tugged down my dress so I was at least sort of covered by the time the squadron arrived.
The warrior at the helm was the tallest of the bunch, his helmet the most ornate, insanely detailed with the star patterning and a deep indigo mane trailing down his back, threads of dark purple and blue spilling out the top of his helmet, blending together like the midnight sky…
I blinked hurriedly, mouth falling open. Midnight.
Had Fintan been honest with us this whole time?
Flanked by two armored guards carrying flagstaffs with fluttering material at their spiked tips, a constellation of stars against a black backdrop, the warrior went for his helmet, which had only left his eyes visible in slits…
And the second he removed it, I saw Fintan. Not exactly the fae I loved, but an obvious relative. Older, gruffer, more weathered in the face, he had the same brilliant shamrock-green gaze I had fallen for that first day. Thick, luxurious hair spilled down to his armored shoulders, a shade darker than I’d expected—the espresso to Fintan’s warm French roast. Not a stitch of facial stubble, clean-shaven with the same rugged jawline that I loved to rake my nails over during a toe-curling kiss. Handsome. Regal. He carried himself like a king.
Oh, gods, Fintan had been honest from the start.
While I held up one shaking hand in surrender, I kept the one with the wand on a seated Lloyd. The bastard at my feet motioned frantically to his mouth like someone might actually help him, while Tully wove protectively around my ankles, which wobbled in these stupidly high heels.
“Be still, mortals,” the fae barked, the wind brushing his mane aside just briefly enough to show a pair of delicately pointed ears. “I am Prince Rollo of the—”
“Midnight Court?” I offered, throwing caution to the wind and hoping, just this once, things would go our way. Those bright greens zeroed in on me, and I swallowed hard as every ounce of color drained from my face. Terrifying, the intensity of his stare, the weight of it threatening to crush me into the gravel. As if posture created an air of authority, I rolled my shoulders back and lifted my chin. “Are you by any chance here for Fintan of the Midnight Court?”
Mercifully, the horns had died down, still bleating but at half the volume, musicians in battle armor flitting around the warriors charging for the main building. Already, someone had planted a black flag on one of the guard towers, a heap of bloody, broken warlocks piled at its base.
“My youngest brother, yes,” Rollo growled, taking a menacing step toward us. While Lloyd flinched back, knocking into my legs, I held firm—not like I could move even if I wanted to, fear rooting me in place. Tully hissed at Xargi’s former warden, then puffed up when purple fire erupted at the penitentiary’s front door. While Rollo’s men cast the flames quick glances, the prince refused to look away from me. “You have illegally detained a member of the royal court—”
“He’s inside,” I insisted, wand stabbing into the back of Lloyd’s head. “I can show you.”
Rollo’s eyes narrowed, his scrutiny falling on me like a ton of bricks, and that deepening frown spoke volumes. Not that I could blame him if he was suspicious: given how I was dressed and the mute, bleeding warlock at my feet… Hardly a crystal-clear situation he’d stumbled into.
“Fintan and I… We…” Oh, gods, how to describe it to his brother. “We, uh… I…”
Lloyd’s head snapped up, splitting his neck wounds open again just so he could sneer at me—petty bastard. Rollo, meanwhile, seemed to soften, his handsome mouth twitching like he was holding back a smile. With a flick of his hand, the fae warriors at his back sheathed their swords.
“Ah,” he murmured with a knowing nod, and just like that, color raced back to my cheeks like a blazing comet. Humiliation burned at what he must have suddenly thought of me in this skimpy red dress—what Fintan’s reputation implied about the nature of our connection. Sure, we’d had phenomenal sex in the world’s grossest bathroom, but it had only happened once—with all of them. One fleeting moment of intimacy in a hellscape of Lloyd Guthrie’s design, yet I loved them from months of conversation and card games and shared work shifts, from countless meals in the dining hall.
I was not his brother’s prison floozy.
So, I didn’t deserve that look.
Rollo offered me his hand, armored glove and all. “Come along, then, little witch. Take me to him.”
“We…” Oi, was the whole family this hot? Nothing like having those looks and a title to boot. If he was single, women must have waged wars just to claim him. While Lloyd huffed and shifted about at my feet, I did my damnedest not to let this prince see just how much his handsomeness and control flustered me. “Fintan and I were cellmates in the penitentiary. We’re friends…” Rollo’s dark brow cocked like he didn’t believe me even a little. “We… Okay, more than friends. Anyway. Doesn’t matter.” Gods, how embarrassing. “We need to remove his shackles before he leaves. These bastards charmed collars to stifle all our powers. And this one…” I poked Lloyd in the back of the head again in lieu of kicking him as hard as I could in the kidney. “He’s running the show—and he holds all the keys.”
Probably.
Me and the boys had speculated what powered the collars many times over. Sure, the sigils engraved in the leather were what hindered our abilities, but something else charbroiled inmates when they tried to take them off. Just because the ward was down didn’t mean any of us were truly free.
If those collars stayed, Xargi Penitentiary would haunt the men I loved to the end of their days.
Lloyd had removed mine personally. Disappeared into a little room behind one of the bookshelves in his office, then emerged less than a minute later to peel my collar off like a fucking perv.
Couldn’t be all that complicated a process, then—right?
Before I could share that little tidbit with Rollo, the fae prince swept forward, beyond intimidating in his armor, a massive sword sheathed at his side and a trio of curved blades hanging from his belt, the glint in his eye murderous. His gloved hand found Lloyd’s hair, even as the warlock flailed in protest, and hauled him upright like the man who had tormented the Fox coven for decades weighed nothing. He then shoved Lloyd toward Xargi as inmates sprinted from the side doors, falling to the ground before fae warriors, crawling toward salvation. Midnight Court flags topped the main building, Lloyd’s disgusting experimental prison utterly overrun.
“Walk,” Rollo barked. After another rough shove toward Xargi, the fae pointed a finger at me, not an ounce of warmth in his voice as he added, “You too, witch. And if either of you cast, you die…”
“So, he’s actually a prince, huh?”
When I woke up this morning, miserable and alone and fighting to stay away from the three men who made my heart sing, I never would have thought this was how the day would have gone. A prison riot. Conceding to Lloyd—then literally and magically kicking his ass. A fae army invasion and meeting Fintan’s big brother.
And now here we were, striding through the fancier corridors of Xargi Penitentiary as the prison came apart all around us.
Rollo had sent men out to find his brother already, but freed inmates raced through the halls, blitzing by us and their muzzled, limping warden, desperate to get outside. Guards ran. Some fought, but they paled in comparison to Rollo’s garrison. The main man himself, meanwhile, strode alongside me, all armored up, his helmet tucked under one arm and Lloyd at the end of the other. He had maintained his grip on Lloyd’s neck all this time, through run-ins with warlock guards and brief interludes with escaped prisoners. At one point, sirens screamed through the halls. Then they stopped—and they hadn’t started since.
Situated at the front of the group, elite fae warriors at my back, the future king of the Midnight Court to my left, and Tully in my arms, I could have sworn this was a dream. A fantasy, even, to see Lloyd bleeding and tethered, trapped in Rollo’s metal grasp, the sigils on each armored finger suggesting they kept the warlock from teleporting.