by Jocelyn Fox
He shook his head at her evaluating look. “I’m fine. Got caught with a rock shard across my chest, but it’s just a flesh wound.” He grinned, showing gritty teeth. “I’ve always wanted to say that in real life.”
Tess slid the Sword back into its sheath, promising silently to clean it of all the dust and grime later. It accepted her promise as its power curled in her chest, reeking of smugness. She wasn’t entirely sure how a sword could be smug, but it was.
“That was fantastic.” Ariel said, appearing out of the dusty air.
“It would have been more fantastic if I’d never had to retrieve bodies from the rubble,” Tess replied wearily.
“That is true,” the puckish Seelie agreed, “but you saved three lives. That’s not nothing.”
“If they survive their wounds,” she said. She felt old and world-wise next to Ariel’s youthful optimism, even though she knew in the back of her mind that Ariel was probably at least a century older than she.
“Tess,” he said with a hint of impatience, tossing his head to brush an errant curl away from his eye. “You can either let despair drag you down, or you can rejoice in your triumphs, however small they may be in the grand scheme this war.”
She shivered as he put words to what she’d been dreading. “War.”
He nodded, his hazel eyes darkening. “Mab has fired the opening salvo.”
“Against the Vyldgard.” Tess swallowed down her burgeoning anger.
Ariel pressed his lips together and brushed dust from his hair. “I know you do not wish any harm upon my Court, Lady Bearer, but it seems that you are wondering why Mab attacked the Vyldgard and not the Seelie Court.”
“In a way she attacked both,” Tess said. She gestured. “Let’s see if the sentries need any help. I think they’ve got the healing covered.” Her hands still shook too badly to be any real help to the healers, and almost a dozen willing fighters already assisted Sage. The makeshift triage buzzed with activity, healers talking to one another in loud voices that carried through the heavy air, a few of the wounded unable to hold in their cries of pain. She spotted Quinn talking seriously to a Seelie woman she didn’t know.
Ariel nodded at her suggestion and they picked their way over the little piles of rubble toward the ruined gate. He seemed to have appointed himself her escort for the moment. Tess scanned the practice yard, the cloud of dust beginning to clear. They hadn’t heard an explosion in a few minutes.
“Wonder if she’s done lobbing those black globes at us,” Ariel said.
Tess didn’t answer, her eyes finding the still figures laid side by side in the far corner of the yard, near where the archery range had been. Broken arrows littered the ground around the dead. She counted first. Ten. Dread rose in her stomach as she scanned the faces that were still distinguishable beneath the layers of dust and blood. Some of the bodies were crushed beyond recognition, some missing limbs, terrible testament to the force of the explosion. When Tess took a deep breath, trying to will herself not to be sick, she noticed for the first time the scent of charred flesh and coppery blood in the air. She made it to the remnants of the gate before she went to a knee and retched.
Ariel took up a post behind her, turning to face the rest of the yard, shielding her from others’ eyes as well as his own. She felt inordinately grateful to him as she spat into the remnants of the ruined wall, dust coating her tongue and grinding against her teeth. She stood, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Her voice came out as a gravelly croak. “Haven’t done that in a while.”
“No shame in it,” Ariel told her.
“Did you find Tristan?” she asked as they stepped through one of the many gaps in the wall.
Ariel nodded. “Sage is working on him. Or he was.”
“How bad?” Tess couldn’t help asking.
“He’ll have to fight hard to make it,” Ariel replied. “He’s unconscious, and I didn’t want to get in the way of the healers.”
The indomitable Seelie sounded young and defeated with his last words. Tess reached out and touched his shoulder. “You wouldn’t be in the way.”
He gave half a smile. “Actually, I’m not very good with blood. So yes, I would be.”
“Well, you handled yourself better than I did, and I thought I was all right with it,” Tess said seriously.
Two more fighters had joined the sentries, making a total of four. They ranged across the pathway and stared into the silence, weapons drawn and catching the dulled light that struggled through the dust. Ariel strode over to one and spoke to him in a low voice. He nodded and then turned back to Tess.
“Says that they’re pretty well covered, but they won’t turn down another set of eyes,” Ariel reported. He looked at her for a long moment. “You’ve already done a lot, Tess. Maybe just sit down for a moment,” he suggested carefully.
As Tess opened her mouth to voice an indignant reply, the ground shook beneath their feet again, but it wasn’t the rumble and crescendo of an explosion. The Caedbranr awoke from its self-satisfied drowse, its power digging sharply into her ribs. Wind sprang up around them, smelling of snow and pine, cool but not biting cold like the frost of Mab’s icy gales. The fresh wind swept away the dust, gathering it all and pushing it along like dogs herding sheep. But the shaking ground and the wind seemed to be two separate thoughts, one set in motion before the other. Tess grimaced, one hand brushing against her side as she tried to calm the Sword.
One of the Vyldgard sentries stiffened. He turned toward the cathedral, a question written across his face.
What’s happening? Tess asked the Sword, trying to prod it into giving her some actionable information. It paced with increasing agitation through her chest.
One of the High Queen’s Three, it replied in clipped tones.
Tess swallowed hard. What about one of the High Queen’s Three?
Mab has killed one, hissed the Sword, and she has sealed her fate.
“Tess?” Ariel touched her shoulder. “You all right?”
She shuddered. “No. I have to get back to the cathedral.”
Wait, commanded the Sword.
“You need to give me a bit more than that,” she growled at it in frustration. Her stomach cramped and bile rose in her throat, but she had nothing left in her belly to surrender. Which of Vell’s Three had been killed? “Get Merrick,” she told Ariel. He disappeared.
“Did you feel that?” Merrick’s lips looked blue and he walked gingerly, as if in pain.
“You said the Valkyrie went to fight Mab?” Tess asked urgently.
“Yes.” Merrick swallowed hard. He turned away, regained control of himself and then turned back to Tess. “Gray and Moira went with Calliea.”
“Gray went with the Valkyrie?” she whispered.
“I do not know with certainty…” Merrick stopped.
“Mab killed her,” said Tess. She knew the words were true as soon as she said them. Her lips felt numb. The Sword’s power flared within her, blazing down her war markings. She clenched her fists, imagining Mab’s icy beauty, wanting to wrap her hands around the Unseelie Queen’s slender throat. The depth and immediacy of her wrath should have surprised her, but she felt nothing other than a visceral need to avenge the fierce golden warrior who had always been the steady calm anchoring Vell’s Three.
Merrick swore fervently under his breath with a hot fury that she hadn’t ever heard from him. The sentries straightened as the rhythmic echoes of a galloping faehal reverberated from the direction of the cathedral. Nehalim rounded the corner, magnificent in his speed, his white coat shining. Finnead rode the glorious charger with graceful ease. He didn’t dismount and paid little heed to the sentries as Nehalim eased to a halt. He held out a hand to Tess, his drowning-blue eyes stormy with rage and grief. His expression confirmed the knowledge of Gray’s death.
“Go,” Merrick told Tess. “The High Queen will need you.”
A small part of her wondered why the High Queen would need the Bearer after the death of one of her
Three. The Vyldretning would baptize another warrior of the Vyldgard without any need of assistance from the Bearer. But she took Finnead’s hand and slid up behind him on Nehalim’s back. Without any pause, Nehalim leapt back into a gallop. Tess grabbed Finnead’s waist, looping one arm around him. The closeness of their bodies felt oddly comforting as Nehalim tore through the city toward the cathedral. Tess let the wind whip tears into her eyes, clenching her jaw so hard that her teeth ached as she imagined all the different ways she wanted to take revenge upon Mab.
Chapter 35
Ross maneuvered her new truck into an alley two blocks away from the warehouse, puddles of anemic light catching wet patches on the badly repaired pavement. She already felt the adrenaline surging through her veins. It felt good to be doing something. It felt good to be protecting the people she cared about and the people of her city.
“You’re sure this is the place?” she asked Ramel.
The Unseelie man nodded. “It is.”
Ramel looked pale in the wan light, but Ross told herself that it was just his Unseelie coloring. She stuffed down the prickle of guilt she felt at roping him into this. He was partially responsible for this mess. Or if not him specifically, then his kind. The Fae. Sidhe. Whatever their name, she refused to let them kill without consequence, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Vivian go head-to-head with Corsica, Molly and the bone sorcerer. Niall was useless without his taebramh, and she still didn’t trust Tyr. She gripped the steering wheel and took a deep breath. This was how it had to be.
One of the little ones, perched on Ramel’s shoulder, said, “We shall go scout.”
The Glasidhe had followed them with surprisingly little protest. Ross thought that the sister, Farin, just wanted revenge on Corsica for nearly killing her twin. Ramel seemed glad to have them along. She rolled down the windows, the humid night air thick as it seeped into the cab of the truck. Farin leapt into the air, dimmed her aura and sped away.
“I shall keep watch,” Forin said stoutly, following his twin. He seemed slower than Ross remembered, but she supposed that was because of his brush with death.
Ross cut the engine. Ramel closed his eyes as they waited. She wondered if she should have called in a tip to Jason, her buddy on the NOPD, and then answered her own question as her mind supplied the worst-case result of police officers trying to take down Corsica without having any real idea what they were up against. No. She couldn’t endanger anyone else. She just needed to make Corsica understand that she couldn’t wantonly kill innocent people. Her hand brushed the cool grip of her Beretta in its holster at her hip.
“All I want to do is talk to them,” she said, her voice loud in the silence.
“I don’t remember much of her, but even I know she’s not much for talking,” said Ramel without opening his eyes.
“Then why did you come along?” Ross said, restraining her irritation. Ramel had emerged from the study as she’d slipped out the front door. She’d expected Niall to be the one to find her out, if anyone did, but the big Seelie Knight slept on unawares on the couch. Ramel’s vibrant eyes had pinned her in place for a moment, but then he’d turned silently away. He’d reappeared by the passenger door of her truck as she turned the key, his sword strapped to his waist and the two Glasidhe perched on his shoulder.
“Because it would not do for me to let you get yourself killed,” he said, his eyes still closed.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with seeing Molly?” she countered.
He lifted his head and looked at her with his gimlet gaze. “Making sure you don’t die is part of the deal, so if I were you, I would simply accept it.”
“Fine,” she said. “No skin off my nose.”
She thought she heard him snort softly – in amusement or disdain, she couldn’t tell.
“So, what is your plan? Other than…talking,” Ramel said, raising his eyebrows.
“Confirm where they’re holed up. Tell Corsica that she can’t just kill people. That’s about it,” Ross replied.
“Predators hunt,” Ramel said, glancing out the window into the darkness.
“Sorry, but humans don’t have any natural predators,” said Ross with a hint of acid. Her mind supplied the image of the unidentified man, his face waxen and drained of blood, the wound on his neck so precise and careful, ringed by that bruise.
“Oh, you do,” he replied, his voice low and certain. “You just live in blissful ignorance.”
“I don’t believe in ghost stories,” growled Ross. She shifted restlessly.
“Why not? The man you love returned from another world. Why is it such a stretch to believe in spirits and magic?”
“Because,” she said impatiently, “I believe things when I see them.”
“You have seen what you call magic. You have seen evidence of this other world.”
“Why do you care what I believe in?” she retorted in irritation.
“Because even the strongest are made weak when they do not allow themselves to accept reality,” he said. A hint of self-reproach and melancholy colored his words.
Ross hesitated and then took a breath. “Was that what happened to you?”
“Yes.” Ramel let the one word fade into silence. They listened to the distant sounds of the city, a siren echoing in the distance and a car passing by the alleyway, its lights searing through the darkness.
“Why this warehouse?” muttered Ross. She’d tried to research the place, but there was scant information available on public-access websites.
“I think you would call it a safe house,” replied Ramel.
“What?” She frowned.
“We have places throughout your world. Places that are safe for our kind. Each Queen’s Three and those that she designates as her emissaries know the location of these places.”
“So then why does Corsica? I thought she was banished.” Ross found herself interested despite herself.
“I did not say that this was one of our safe houses,” Ramel replied steadily. “The Exiled have been in this world for four centuries. It only makes sense they would create their own safe houses.”
“Then if this is an Exiled safe house, Tyr knew about it,” said Ross, pressing her lips together.
“Probably.”
“Why wouldn’t he say something?” Ross shook her head.
“He has no obligation to you.”
Ross wanted to feel irritation at Ramel’s words, but he uttered them with such smooth calm that she could only see their logic. “Does he still feel an obligation to Corsica?”
Ramel stayed silent for so long that Ross thought he was going to ignore her question. Finally, he said, “I do not know, but I do know that loyalty to someone even when they have hurt you badly is a difficult matter.”
Ross circled back to more immediate matters. “You think Tyr knows where this warehouse is?”
“It is a possibility that I would not discount.”
“Then we better make this quick,” she said. She knew that her text wouldn’t exactly reassure Duke, but she hadn’t been able to think of any other way to keep him from tagging along. He’d already survived a war on the other side of the portal. She wasn’t going to put him in the line of fire again. Especially since she was only here to talk, she reminded herself firmly.
The Glasidhe dampened their auras so adeptly that Ross thought they were moths that had flown into the truck’s cabin until they alighted neatly on the dash.
“It is as you thought,” Farin reported. “The white-haired woman is in the warehouse. She has the bone sorcerer chained and bound to a pole. He seems bespelled somehow.”
“And did you see Molly?” Ramel asked, his voice catching on the name.
Farin hesitated. “Yes.” She fluttered her wings as she considered her words. “She…looks different.”
Ramel pushed open the door of the truck. Ross opened her own door and slid into the humid night, her pulse tripping faster.
“I do not think this is wise,” Far
in said, flying above them. Her disembodied voice emerged from the air, the blur and whisper of her wings the only trace of her location.
“Why is that?” asked Ross, letting her hand settle on the butt of her pistol as she followed Ramel out of the alleyway. She walked through reeking oil-sheen puddles without any second thought. Her black Chucks had sloshed through worse.
“She seems to be expecting you,” said Farin.
“Then the conversation should be short,” replied Ross.
“I think you are walking into a trap,” persisted the diminutive warrior, flying closer to Ross’s ear as she spoke urgently. Ross resisted the instinctual urge to swat at the air at the sound of whirring wings.
“I can’t just let Corsica kill people,” Ross replied.
“She has been killing people in your world for centuries,” pointed out Farin.
Ross stuck to the shadows, picking over the broken sidewalk with practiced speed. Ramel strode unconcernedly through the pools of light under the streetlights. She glanced over her shoulder. The neon lights of the Chinese restaurant cut through the darkness behind them, a beacon back to the modern world. As they neared the big brick warehouse, Ross’s skin prickled with unease. The four streetlights leading up to the gated entrance of the warehouse were out. She shifted to the center of the sidewalk as the darkness closed around them. Even the omnipresent background of city noise faded as they strode toward the warehouse.
The painted letters of some forgotten manufacturing company, probably once part of a mural advertisement on the side of the building, showed here and there through the dirt of neglect. Jagged glass glinted from broken windowpanes, making it appear as though the centuries-old brick building grinned at them with pointed teeth.
“No lights on, no sign of habitation,” said Ross in a quiet voice, still feeling as though she were shouting. Ramel gave no sign he heard her, striding with intent focus toward the warehouse. Ross pushed down the feeling that the events of the night had already slipped out of her control. She just needed to keep her head in the game, she told herself firmly.