Chapter Twelve
The Wrong Way to Die
I move without thinking.
The smart thing would be to run. I have no idea how fast an elf can go, but with all the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I’m pretty sure I could win a fucking drag race on foot.
Instead, though, I reach for my knife, yanking it out and whipping it at the elf. The blade misses him by just a hair’s breadth, landing silently in the grass behind him.
Shit. That was stupid.
I try to remember what Seamus told me, back when he’d been busy kicking my ass. Patience. I need to stop. To think. But while the alcohol crashing through my system makes me virtually indestructible, it also slows my brain to a near halt. I grunt as I feel the back of a hand slam across my face, but in my state, I barely feel anything more than the heat of fresh blood as it trickles down my forehead.
I drop down into a squat, pulling another knife from my boot before leaping into a spring. I launch myself at the elf, blade glinting in my hand. He doesn’t notice until it’s too late. The white flash of steel. The black spray of blood in the darkness.
The elf stumbles back, catching himself on one of the great stone guardians of Newgrange, sliding down the surface and leaving a sticky trail in his wake. He comes to a stop at the bottom, propped up in a grotesque pose, head lolling to the side at an unnatural angle. Blood blossoms out across his shoulder, staining the plates of his armor. Deep, sapphire blue. Unseelie colors.
I can taste blood in my mouth. The hot metallic tang of my own mixed with the elf’s, saccharine and sickly sweet. As much as I try to spit it out, the taste won’t seem to leave. God, do I wish I still had a glass of whiskey to wash this down.
I need to get out of here, now. I got lucky with the elf, but if there’s any other Unseelie soldiers out there, I’m not sure that I have it in me to keep fighting. I feel like I’m about to collapse. Maybe throw up the evening’s festivities. I give my knife a quick wipe down and turn to leave, but freeze in my tracks.
Five more elves. All armed to the teeth and dressed in sapphire blue. All glaring directly at me. I glance at the body over my shoulder and gulp. Christ, I hope that guy hadn’t been one of their brothers or something.
I automatically raise the knife in my hand. It looks pitifully small next to the hulking blades they have hoisted over their shoulders. One of them takes a long stride forward, catching me off guard and knocking the blade from my hand in a single swipe.
I’m unarmed. Defenseless. Five against one.
Even I’m not stupid enough for this fight.
I turn on my heel and run, hurtling in the opposite direction of the Unseelie soldiers. Even though I can’t hear them, I know that they’re directly behind me. The grass whips against my legs, the cold air burning my throat as I gasp for breath. The damage from before is starting to make itself known, making it harder and harder to keep moving. I force myself to keep going, though. This isn’t how I fucking die. I don’t die until the Underking does.
A body hits me from behind, tackling me down with a brutish force. I crash to the dirt with a yelp, my legs crumpling beneath me, face slamming into the ground with an audible smack.
The pain drains away. The world fades around me.
Finally, peace.
When I wake up, the ground is moving beneath my feet. Stone after cobbled stone passing by, shiny from a thousand years of use and abuse. My legs are still, though. Limp.
I can feel two strong pairs of arms supporting me from either side, practically yanking my joints out of their sockets as they drag me alone. I glance up, and sure enough, two elves are hauling me along between them like I weigh nothing.
I’m still groggy, still tipsy. But even through the haze fogging up my brain, I start to come to the realization that I’m no longer outside. The hallway around me is dark, damp. The kind of musty chill that you only get underground.
I’m underneath Newgrange.
I kick out one leg out in an effort to free myself, sending one of the elves stumbling off-balance. When I bring it swinging back I aim for his groin, and grin to myself when I feel full contact. I don’t know if he’s wearing some sort of codpiece, or if elves just aren’t as big of pussies as human men, or if he even has anything down there at all. But despite the force behind my kick, he’s completely unfazed. He grabs me by the back of the hair with his free hand, yanking my neck back so that he can hiss in my ear, “Do that again and you lose the leg.”
I don’t kick him again. I don’t doubt for a second that his threat is legit. However, I’m not just going to lie back and let them take me to whatever torture chamber they have me destined to die in. I struggle against them, yank their arms back and forth, claw at their faces, hiss and spit and call them every name in the book. I’m a Slayborn, damn it. A fucking Gallagher. This isn’t how I’m supposed to die.
I’m no match for two full-grown elves, though, especially not now. My head is pounding, the blood-caked hair stuck to my forehead obscuring my vision. Sabrina would probably love to see me now. I can hear her now, words honeyed, a simpering smile on her lips. “You really don’t think anything through, do you?”
No, bitch. I guess I don’t.
The elves drag me down a labyrinth of dark, dripping stone corridors until we reach a dead end. A solid stone slab stands in our way, overarching and unyielding. I briefly wonder if this is where they’re gonna tie me up. Chain me and leave me to rot. Or worse. I can’t hold back the shudder that crawls its way down my spine.
But one of the elves utters a word—foreign, unfamiliar—and the stone begins to tremble. A rumble overtakes the chamber around us, one that quickly grows to a grating roar as the stone begins to slide in on itself. I don’t struggle anymore. I’m not even sure that I remember to breathe. The massive stone shifts of its own volition, shuddering back into the wall and disappearing from sight.
And in its wake, color. Cacophony.
Walking in, this is nothing like the halls of the Làidir headquarters. There, you could see some semblance of order. A method to the madness. Seamus kept a strict watch over his people. Here, though?
Complete pandemonium.
Fae of every shape and size, all trying to be heard over the din, flashes of red and green and gold from every different direction. Over in the corner, a group of ratty little fenodyrees brawl over top of a spilled deck of cards; across the hall, a wrinkled old bodach has tricked some hapless fae girl into draping herself across his lap.
A little bit closer, a nearby gancanagh watches me pass—he’s near indistinguishable from an Abercrombie model, with his chiseled chin and pearly white smile, but there’s something just uncannily inhuman about him. He winks as I pass, reaching out to give my ass a firm squeeze.
I almost instinctively tense to take a swing at the bastard, forgetting for a second that my arms are currently out of commission. The elves continue to push me forward, ignoring the crowd that surges our way, a thousand faces ranging from curious to downright disgust. A few even lunge, and some manage to land blows. It’s not like those damn elves are doing much to stop it.
They’re dragging me to the very end of the great hall, where a groaning table rests laden with just about every dish imaginable. Dewy jewels of fruit resting in crystal bowls, thick red cuts of charred mutton and venison, steaming mounds of spiced potato. On the wall behind, gaudy banners light up the dreary wall behind from floor to ceiling, swirling patterns of gold and silver woven against vibrant blues and rich greens.
And there, at the head of the table, seated on a throne of silver and ebony—there he sits. Because I haven’t got a doubt it my mind that it could be anyone else. I’m forced down on my knees in front of him as he rises, stepping around the great table in slow, calculated strides.
“Berkeley Gallagher,” he says. His voice is deep. Smooth. Like silk. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am King Gentry. But you...you might know me better as the Underking.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kings and Cowards
“Fuck you.”
The words slip unbidden from my lips, but it’s not like I regret them. Because honestly? Fuck this guy. Fuck his band of brainless yes-men. Fuck this whole Unseelie Court.
Gentry cocks a brow, taking a step toward me. Up close, I can see that he’s younger than I thought. Not much older than me, it looks like. His skin is smooth, his features chiseled to inhuman perfection, with sharp cheekbones and ears tipped like knives. Hair so blonde it almost looks white. He could almost be handsome, if he weren’t such a raging asshole. His silver eyes narrow as he stares at me, like he’s examining something he just stepped in.
“Would you like to try that again, Miss Gallagher?”
“Ah, yeah. Of course.” I look up, meeting his eyes in challenge. It’s not easy to do. His gaze is steel, sharp and silver, glinting as he studies me in the lamplight. “I meant—fuck you, fuck your people, and fuck the horse you rode in on.”
It’s a bad idea. I know it is the moment the words leave my mouth. Myanger, the alcohol, the overwhelming urge to spring up and stab this guy in his perfect face. It’s all too much. There’s a rousing cry in response to my words, angry jeers and shrieks from the mob around us. Gentry raises a hand to silence them.
“Miss Gallagher,” he says, a tight smile across his face. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline the invitation.”
The entire hall breaks out into a cacophonous uproar once more, this time bawdy laughter pouring in from all sides, hoots and cackles and hysterical titters at my expense. God. This is so much worse than getting my ass kicked in Làidir training. I try to struggle into a more dignified position, but a hard foot against my back keeps me kneeling.
“You’re a fucking coward, you know that?” I ask, and the hall falls silent once more. Gentry turns to me, anger flashing through his face. His hand slowly creeps toward the sword at his hip.
Good.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I snarl. “Pathetic. Hiding behind your men, letting them do your dirty work for you. You call yourself a king? Maybe your father was one. But you, Gentry—you’re just a spoiled little brat. Winning your battles through deceit and treachery like a fucking coward. Were you even the one who killed my parents? Or did you just get one of your henchmen to do what you’re too much of a goddamn pussy—”
“Enough!”
The word cuts through the silence around us. Sharp. Unforgiving. Though Gentry’s face remains impassive, I can just barely make out a muscle twitching at the corner of his lip. He steps forward, eyes dead set on me, fingers curling their way around the hilt of his sword.
“My king!”
Gentry pauses, his glare redirecting itself to the man who dares interrupt him. One of the elves behind me steps forward—the one whose balls I smashed to smithereens earlier—and draws his sword with a screech of metal.
“Allow me to be your champion. I will fight the Slayborn in your name. I will bring glory to the Unseelie Court.”
There’s a clamor of approval in response, but Gentry doesn’t join. He eyes the elf with almost as much distaste as he was looking at me with earlier.
“No,” he says, his voice still silken smooth. “The girl wishes to see me fight my own battles? I’m more than happy to oblige.”
It’s exactly what I was hoping for. Provoke him into a fight. Get his Unseelie minions out of the way. And then drive a sword through his heart. I don’t care what the others do to me afterward. They can rip me apart, as long as Gentry is good and dead.
The king motions for the knight to step back, drawing his own sword instead. It’s a massive thing, all folded damascus and inlaid obsidian, its edge vicious enough to chop through bone in a single swing. From the crowd someone thrusts another blade at me—smaller than his, lighter, but no less deadly. These are no training swords. I have to give the bastard props for trying to make it a fair fight, I suppose.
But as Gentry begins to prowl around me, sword raised, the reality of the situation starts to set in through my half-drunken haze. This is what I came here to do. This is what I’ve been wanting to do for four long years. In all reality, I’m probably going to die here tonight.
But so is he.
I shut out the jeering howls around me, centering my focus on Gentry. He moves fluidly, each step perfectly calculated, muscles visibly flexing even under the thick fabric of his doublet. I try to keep pace with him, but it’s clear that he’s better at this than me. More practiced. I tighten my grip on my sword, taking a deep breath. I can do this. My parents, my people, the Làidir—they’re all counting on me.
I can do this.
I swing first, aiming a hard blow toward Gentry’s shoulder. He parries it easily, whirling around in a swirl of his cloak, immediately dropping back down into stance. I strike once more. Another miss. I ready myself again, gaze narrowing to a scowl.
Gentry barely seems to have broken a sweat, the rise and fall of his chest calm and even. Me, on the other hand? My breathing is already ragged, the lactic acid building up in my joints. I’m fast approaching the realm of fucked.
Patience, Berkeley. Goddamnit—stop and think.
It hits me. Gentry is trying to tire me out. He wants me to keep striking.
And so I fall back, stepping back into pace with him, watching as a shadow of confusion flits across his face. As quickly as I spot it, though, it’s gone. He straightens, sword flashing as he positions himself. He’s going on the offensive.
Our swords clash together once more. I manage to block him just before he slices my arm clean off, and the blow reverberates throughout my entire body. I almost lose my footing, stumbling into the hard line of Gentry’s chest.
He allows me to steady myself against him before shoving me back again. The mob around us is roaring, stamping their feet, garbled chants of “Gen-try! Gen-try!” whipping through the air.
The Underking twirls his sword in his hand, smirking as he waits for me to move again. Now the bastard is just showing off. Like he thinks I don’t have a few impressive tricks up my sleeve as well.
I charge forward, feinting to the left. He falls for it. Gentry twirls around to meet my blade, but in a flash of steel, I dive to the right instead. The tip of my blade slashes straight through the arm of his tunic, digging deep enough to draw a few drops of blood from his bare shoulder. If he feels it, his face shows no sign.
Gentry attacks again with renewed vigor, this time sending two blows my way, then three, an entire flurry that I can’t fight off. Eventually one of the slices makes it though, a vicious slash straight across my thigh. I cry out, falling to one knee. The crowd roars.
And Gentry—his perfect face staring down at me, a mask of granite—circles around me before lifting his sword once more. I can feel the tip graze against the petal-thin skin of my throat. Just the smallest breadth away from my jugular.
“I fight my own battles, Miss Gallagher.” Gentry’s voice is low. Only for me to hear. “You best remember that, because I won’t hesitate to remind you again.”
He turns, throwing his arms in the air. A clear sign of victory.
At first the crowd shifts, glancing around toward one another, utterly confused. They’d obviously been expecting something a little more bloody. A good show to top the night off. But none dare question their king. It starts as a scattered handful of clapping, quickly rising to an uproar that makes the very ceiling of the room tremble and shake.
And through the noise, the king turns to the soldier standing next to him, though his gaze remains fixed firmly on me.
“Have the Slayborn bathed and dressed,” he says. “And then—bring her to my chambers.”
Chapter Fourteen
Fine Wine
I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is, having his minions fucking bathe me.
I snap at the two fae girls to turn around as I rise up from the modest cover of bubbles. Even though it’s humiliating, I can’t deny it’s nice to finally be clean. All the sweat an
d dirt and congealed blood has been scrubbed away to reveal fresh, soft skin soaked in rose-scented oils.
I dry off and reach for the outfit that Gentry left me, finding myself pleasantly surprised. I was worried he was going to have me wearing some skimpy getup—maybe even nothing at all—but what’s hung up on the mirrored room divider is actually fairly tasteful.
A fitted uniform, deep blue and lined in silver with a sharp collar and severe shoulder plates. Cut low. The same one that the elves wear, I notice, only smaller. The armor of the Unseelie Court. But now that the fae girls have removed my old, tattered clothing from the room, it’s the only option left. Better than nothing, I suppose. I tug it on, the fabric soft and snug against my skin.
The two fae girls lead me out of the small chamber with the pewter bathtub, back out into the maze of cold stone hallways. I debate attacking them, knocking their heads against the cobblestone floor, running for the Làidir—but I know that there’s no chance in hell I’ll be able to find my way back out of here.
I follow the two of them, trying my best to memorize every twist and turn, but it’s hopeless. I’m completely turned around by the time we come to a stop. The girls step aside, silently gesturing to a small wooden door.
God, I wish I had my knives right now. Brass knuckles. Hell, even a big stick would do. I take a deep breath, steeling myself before pushing through the door.
I have no idea what to expect on the other side. What the Underking might want. I mean, he’s had ample opportunity to kill me, and with an audience, no less. I really doubt he’s got anything sexual in mind. I mean, I saw what sort of operation he’s got going on here. There’s plenty of fae tail running around that’s way hotter than me. Not to mention, I’m sure fraternizing with a Slayborn is against his code of conduct or whatever.
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