Rhys only said, his voice wary, Thank you.
Nesta didn’t ask about his visit to Miryam and Drakon—if he’d learned anything at all. She reached the table, Cassian keeping close. But she forgot about him as she faced Amren, who was watching her with cool distaste.
The words from months ago that Nesta had tried so hard to forget swarmed from the darkest pit of her memory, each one stinging. You have become a pathetic waste of life.
Nesta dropped Amren’s stare, focusing on the map. “Let’s be quick about this.”
Azriel asked from beside Amren, “When you attempted it two days ago, you felt nothing?”
“Nothing.” Nesta’s fingers hovered over the bowl of tools. “My mind circled itself.”
“What did you think of?” Amren asked.
How much she hated herself. Her father. How much she feared the Cauldron.
Nesta said, “The Trove. And what happened the last time I scried.”
Feyre said, “We won’t allow any harm to come to Elain. Rhys warded her this morning, and we have eyes on her at all times.”
“Eyes can be blinded,” Nesta said.
“Not the ones under my command,” Azriel said with soft menace. Nesta met his stare, knowing he was the only one aside from Feyre who could truly understand her hesitation. He’d gone with Feyre into the heart of Hybern’s camp to save Elain—he knew the risk. “We won’t make the same mistake twice.”
She believed him. “All right.” She scooped up the stones and bones. They were ice-cold against her fingers.
Clenching them tight, Nesta closed her eyes and held her arm over the map spread across the table. No one spoke, though the weight of their gazes pressed on her.
Cassian’s warmth seeped into her side, his wings rustling near her back.
She let that warmth, the rustle anchor her.
He had come to save her from her nightmare, had stayed with her while she slept. Had guarded and fought for her. He would let no harm come to her now.
No harm
No harm
No harm
What had been an endless spiral of thoughts vanished. A gaping hole yawned open in her mind.
No harm
No harm
No harm
Nesta eased into that darkness, as if slowly submerging herself in a pool.
Cassian’s arm brushed hers, and she let that anchor her, too. A lifeline out. She took his hand with her free one and interlaced their fingers. Let the touch ground her as she allowed the last of her mind to slip beneath the black surface.
And then nothing.
Falling slowly. Drifting, like a small stone fluttering to the bottom of a pond.
The Mask, she whispered, casting her mind into the eternity. Where is the Mask of the Dread Trove?
Still she drifted in liquid night.
In the beginning, and in the end, there was Darkness and nothing more. She had first heard that truth, understood it, during her battle with the Cauldron. And understood it again now as she floated into that same strange place, both full and empty, forever cold.
Where is the Mask? she asked the void.
Distantly, like a candle in a window, she felt Cassian’s hand tighten on hers. That was the way back. Nothing could trap her, hold her, if she had that way home.
Where is the Mask?
For long minutes, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner filled the study.
Nesta stood beside Cassian, her fingers now loose in his hand, her other hand extended over the map, bones and stones bulging within.
Cassian swapped glances with Feyre. He’d barely been able to look at her when he’d entered, to see the slight swelling in her lower belly. But he’d made himself grin, the portrait of casual, arrogant ease.
Now a chilled, phantom breeze drifted past him. The hair on the back of his neck stood.
Amren let out a soft hiss. “Where is she wandering to?”
Nesta’s hand remained over the map. But her fingers in his had gone cold as ice.
Cassian squeezed her hand, willing warmth into it.
Across the table, Azriel’s breath clouded. Rhys stepped closer to Feyre, positioning himself to intercept any unexpected threats.
“This didn’t happen that time during the war with Hybern,” Azriel murmured.
Before any of them could answer, Nesta’s eyelids shifted—like she was seeing something. Her brows bunched, just a quiver toward each other. Her fingers tightened on the stones and bones, knuckles going white. Still the air grew colder.
“If you see the Mask, girl, then now would be the time to let go,” Amren ordered, her voice wary.
Nesta’s hand remained shut. But her eyes still moved rapidly behind their lids, searching, seeking.
“Nesta,” Feyre commanded. “Open your hand.” Feyre had gone into Nesta’s mind the last time—had pulled her out, thanks to the daemati power she’d inherited from Rhys. Feyre swore softly. “She never lowered her shields. Her shields are …”
“A fortress of solid iron,” Rhys murmured, eyes on Nesta.
“I can’t get in,” Feyre breathed. “Can you?”
“Her mind is guarded with something that no faerie magic can break,” Amren said. The essence of the Cauldron itself.
But Nesta showed no sign of fear, no scent of it.
“Give her time,” Cassian murmured. Gods, it was cold. Nesta’s eyelids fluttered again.
“I don’t like this,” Feyre said. “Wherever she is, it feels deadly.”
The cold kept dropping. Nesta’s hand tightened in his—a hard squeeze.
A warning.
“Get her out, Rhys,” Cassian demanded. “Get her out now.”
“I can’t,” he said softly, his power a cloak of stars and night around him. “I— The doors to her mind were open the other night. They’re shut now.”
“She doesn’t want it seeing her. Or us,” Feyre said, her face tight. “She’s locked it out, but also locked herself in.”
Cassian’s stomach twisted. “Nesta,” he said into her ear. “Nesta, open your hand and come back.”
Her breathing sharpened. The cold deepened.
“Nesta,” he snarled—
And the cold halted. It didn’t vanish, but rather … stopped. Nesta’s eyes flicked open.
Silver fire burned within. Nothing Fae looked out through them.
Rhys shoved Feyre behind him. She shoved her way back to his side. But Nesta’s hand continued to squeeze Cassian’s. He squeezed back, let his Siphons send a bite of power into her skin.
She turned her head so slowly it was like watching a puppet move. Her eyes met his.
Death watched him.
But Death had walked beside him every day of his life. So Cassian stroked his thumb along her palm and said, “Hello, Nes.”
Nesta blinked, and he let his Siphons bite her with his power again. The fire flickered.
He nodded to the map. “Let go of the stones and bones.” He didn’t let her scent his fear. Here was the being the Bone Carver had whispered about, exalted and feared.
Her eyes flamed. No one dared breathe.
“Let go of the stones and bones, and then you and I can play,” Cassian said, letting her sense his heat and need, forcing himself to remember that taunting kiss at dinner and her promise to let him fuck her wherever he wished in the House; what it had done to him, how much he’d ached. He let it all blaze in his eyes, let the scent of his arousal wrap around her.
Everyone tensed as he leaned in, head dipping, and kissed her.
Nesta’s lips were chips of ice.
But he let their coldness sting his own, and brushed his mouth against hers. Nipped at her bottom lip until he felt it drop a fraction. He slid his tongue into that opening, and found the inside of her mouth, usually so soft and warm, crusted with hoarfrost.
Nesta didn’t kiss him back, but didn’t shove him away. So Cassian sent his heat into it, fusing their mouths together, his free hand bracing her h
ip as his Siphons nipped at her hand once more.
Her mouth opened wider, and he slid his tongue over every inch—over her frozen teeth, over the roof of her mouth. Warming, softening, freeing.
Her tongue lifted to meet his in a single stroke that cracked the ice in her mouth.
He slanted his mouth over hers, tugging her against his chest, and tasted her as he’d wanted to taste her the other night, deep and thorough and claiming. Her tongue again brushed against his, and then her body was warming, and Cassian pulled back enough to say against her lips, “Let go, Nesta.”
He drove his mouth into hers again, daring her to unleash that cold fire upon him.
Something thunked and clinked beside them.
And when Nesta’s other hand gripped his shoulder, fingers now free of stones and bones, when she arched her neck, granting him better, deeper access, he nearly shuddered with relief.
She broke the kiss first, as if sliding into her body and remembering who kissed her, where they were, who watched.
Cassian opened his eyes to find her so close that they shared breath. Normal, unclouded breath. Her eyes had returned to the blue-gray he knew so well. Stunned surprise and a little fear lit her face. As if she’d never seen him before.
“Interesting,” Amren observed, and he found the female studying the map.
Feyre gaped, though, Rhys’s hand gripped tight in her own. Caution blazed on Rhys’s face. On Azriel’s, too.
What the hell did you do to pull her out of that? Rhys asked.
Cassian didn’t really know. The only thing I could think of.
You warmed the entire room.
I didn’t mean to.
Nesta pulled away—not harshly, but with enough intent that Cassian peered at where she and Amren focused on the map.
“The Bog of Oorid?” Feyre frowned at the spot in the Middle. “The Mask is in a bog?”
“Oorid was once a sacred place,” Amren said. “Warriors were laid to rest in its night-black waters. But Oorid changed to a place of darkness—don’t give me that look, Rhysand, you know what I mean—a long time ago. Filled with such evil that no one will venture there, and only the worst of the faeries are drawn to it. They say the water there flows to Under the Mountain, and the creatures who live in the bog have long used its underground waterways to travel through the Middle, even into the mountains of the surrounding courts.”
Feyre frowned. “It can’t be more specific, though?” She asked Rhys, “Do we have a detailed map of the Middle?”
Rhys shook his head. “It’s forbidden to map the Middle beyond vague landmarks.” He pointed to the sacred mountain in its center, where he’d been held for nearly fifty years. “The Mountain, the woods, the bog … All can be seen from land and air. But its secrets, those discovered on foot—those are forbidden.”
Feyre’s frown didn’t lighten. “By whom?”
“An ancient council of the High Lords. The Middle is a place where wild magic still dwells and thrives and feeds. We respect it as its own entity, and do not wish to provoke its wrath by revealing its mysteries.”
Feyre faced Nesta, who was staring blankly at where the stones and bones had fallen in a neat little pile atop the bog. “The Middle is where the Weaver of the Wood dwelled,” Feyre said, voice tight. “If you go to the bog, you’ll need to be armed.”
“We’ll both be armed,” Cassian declared. “To the teeth.”
When Nesta didn’t respond, they all looked at her. None of them dared ask about that power, the being that had looked out at him. The one he’d melted away with his kiss. He could still taste that ice on his tongue, smell the scent similar to hers yet wholly different.
Nesta said, “We go tomorrow.”
Feyre started, “You need time to prepare—”
“We go tomorrow,” Nesta repeated. Cassian gleaned everything she wouldn’t say. She wanted to go tomorrow so she didn’t have the chance to think better of it. To learn more about the peril she’d be facing.
His fingers brushed against the small of her back, savoring her warmth after all that cold. “We’ll leave after breakfast.”
CHAPTER
32
“I should go with you,” Rhys said to Cassian as they gathered in the foyer of the river house the next morning.
“I should go with you,” Feyre countered, leaning against the stair railing, frowning at her mate and Cassian.
Nesta watched them in silence, the weight of the weapons she carried like phantom hands pushing on her back, her thighs, her hips. You’re still as likely to hurt yourself as you are an opponent, Cassian had said as he laid his weapons on the dining table this morning, but it’s better than going into Oorid unarmed. She’d selected a dagger and he’d grinned. Pointy end goes into your enemy.
She’d given him a withering look, but had allowed him to assist her with the straps and buckles of the various sheaths, focusing upon his strong hands whispering over her skin and not the task at hand.
“We both should go with you,” Rhys amended. “But at least Azriel will be there.”
“Thanks for your confidence,” Cassian said wryly, and kissed Feyre’s cheek. Rhys must have lowered her shield—for the moment. “You two aren’t even parents yet and your mother-henning has reached an unbearable level.”
“Mother-henning?” Feyre choked on a laugh.
“It’s a word,” Cassian said, so casually that Nesta wondered if he comprehended the danger they were walking into.
Nesta slid her gaze to Azriel, who shrugged subtly in confirmation. Yes, they were about to venture into a lethal, ancient bog. No, Cassian didn’t seem as disturbed as the two of them were.
Nesta scowled, and Az offered her a slight smile. They could be allies, that smile seemed to say. Against Cassian’s utter insanity. She found herself answering Azriel with a slight smile of her own.
Rhys sighed to the ceiling. “Shall we?”
Nesta glanced up the stairs past Feyre. Elain had again opted to remain in her room when Nesta was present, which was just fine. Absolutely, utterly fine. Elain could make her own choices. And had chosen to thoroughly shut the door on Nesta. Even as she fully embraced Feyre and her world. Nesta’s chest tightened, but she refused to think of it, acknowledge it. Elain was like a dog, loyal to whatever master kept her fed and in comfort.
Nesta wrenched her attention from the stairs, cursing herself for a fool for even looking.
“I don’t like this,” Feyre blurted, stepping toward her. “You haven’t had enough training.”
Cassian smirked. “She has two Illyrian warriors guarding her. What could go wrong?”
“Don’t answer that,” Rhys said drily to his mate. He met Nesta’s gaze. Stars were born and died in his eyes. “If you don’t want to go—”
“You need me,” Nesta said, chin lifting. “The bog is large enough that you won’t be able to find the Mask without my … gifts.” She had no idea how she’d find the Mask in Oorid, but they could at least begin exploring the area today. Or so Cassian had said this morning.
Feyre seemed poised to object, but Azriel extended his scarred hands to Cassian and Nesta. Feyre stepped forward again. “The Middle is like nothing you have experienced before, Nesta. Don’t let your guard down for a moment.”
Nesta nodded, not bothering to say that she’d operated by that principle for a long time.
Azriel didn’t give them a chance to exchange another word before murmuring shadows swept around them. Nesta couldn’t help clinging to Azriel, gleaning on some innate level that if she let go, she would tumble through this space between places and be lost forever.
But then gray, watery light hit her. And the air—the air was heavy, full of slow-running water and mold and loamy earth. No wind moved around them; not even a breeze.
Cassian whistled. “Look at this hellhole.” Dropping Azriel’s hand, Nesta did just that.
Oorid stretched before them. She had never seen a place so dead. A place that made the still-human part o
f her recoil, whispering that it was wrong wrong wrong to be here.
Azriel winced. The shadowsinger of the Night Court winced as the full brunt of Oorid’s oppressive air and scent and stillness hit him.
The three of them surveyed the wasteland.
Even the Cauldron’s water hadn’t been as solidly black as the water here, as if it were made of ink. In the shallows mere feet away, where the water met the grass, not one blade was visible where the surface touched it.
Dead trees, gray with age and weather, jutted like the broken lances of a thousand soldiers, some draped with curtains of moss. No leaves clung to their branches. Most of the branches had been cracked off, leaving jagged spears extending from the trunks.
“Not one insect,” Azriel observed. “Not one bird.”
Nesta strained to listen. Only silence answered. Empty of even a whistle of a breeze. “Who would bury their dead here?”
“They didn’t put them in the earth,” Cassian said, his voice oddly muffled, as if that thick air gobbled up any echo. “These were water burials.”
Nesta said, “I’d rather be burned to ashes and cast to the wind than be left here.”
“Noted,” Cassian said.
“This is an evil place,” Azriel whispered. True fear shone in the shadowsinger’s hazel eyes.
The hair on Nesta’s arms rose. “What manner of creature dwells here?”
“You’re asking this now?” Cassian said, brows high. He and Azriel had both worn their thicker armor, summoned by tapping the Siphons atop the backs of their hands.
“I was scared to ask before,” Nesta admitted. “I didn’t want to lose my nerve.”
Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel said, “Things that hunt in the water and feast on flesh.”
“No one’s seen a kelpie in a damn long time,” Cassian countered.
“That doesn’t mean they’re gone.”
“What’s a kelpie?” Nesta asked, heart pounding at the tension etched into their faces.
“An ancient creature—one of the first true monsters of the faeries,” Cassian said. “Humans called them by other names: water-horses, nixies. They were shape-shifters who dwelled in the lakes and rivers and lured unwitting people into their arms. And after they drowned them, they feasted. Only the entrails would make it back to shore.”
A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses) Page 32