by Chant, Zoe
“It’s only just turned midnight,” she said. “He’ll be here.”
“It is past the appointed minute. He has forfeited.” Morcant stood up. “You will come with me.”
Before Tamsin could even open her mouth, his cold fingers clamped around her wrist. Crap, he was fast.
“Let me go!” She twisted, but his grip was like steel. “Hey!”
She kicked him in the shins—or at least, she tried to kick him. Metal materialized around his leg an instant before she made contact. Her boot bounced off Morcant’s ether armor with a ringing clang.
Morcant looked down his nose at her, his shin-guard disappearing again in a puff of silver glitter. “I advise that you do not resist, human. It will go poorly for you if you do.”
“I’m not—” Tamsin kicked him again, once more hitting metal, “going,” clang, “anywhere,” clang, “with,” clang, “you!”
An expression of mild exasperation crossed the prince’s inhumanly handsome face. He held her away from him as though she was an angry kitten, waiting patiently as she swore and struggled.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked, when she’d finally run out of names to call him.
She panted, glaring at him. “Yes.”
He relaxed his grip.
Clang.
“Not high sidhe, asshole.” Tamsin bared her teeth at him in a crazed grin. “I’m perfectly capable of lying. And I can do this all night.”
“Do you require assistance, Prince Morcant?” Maeve asked from the high table. From the way her faemarks were gleaming, she was really enjoying the show.
“No,” Morcant shot back, cold and clipped.
His griffin cocked its head in a fluid, owlish motion, rotating so far its beak was practically horizontal. Its spotted tail flicked from side to side. Somehow, Tamsin had the impression that it too was rather entertained by its master’s struggle.
Morcant glared at his steed, as though it had made some comment. “That will not be necessary either. I think I can handle one human woman.”
“Think again,” Tamsin advised him.
Morcant returned his attention to her. She felt a sudden wave of cold.
“You will come with me.” Morcant’s voice dropped, into dark, rumbling tones. “You want to come with me.”
“Nope.” The iron collar was warm around her neck. The glamour washed past her, like an icy mountain stream parting around a rock. “Really don’t.”
The owl-griffin made a small, amused sound.
Morcant muttered something under his breath. He raised his voice again, glaring at her. “You will come with me if I have to drag you, woman.”
Oh crap, he really means it this time.
Morcant seized the back of her tunic. A surge of panic shot through Tamsin as he lifted her clean off her feet.
At the high table, Maeve abruptly sat up straighter. Her delicate nostrils flared, as though she’d suddenly smelled something delicious.
It is your passions that fascinate us, Cuan had said, what felt like a lifetime ago. Your kind feel things so strongly, so intensely…
That was why the unseelie had wanted her in the first place. So that they could savor her emotions…
Tamsin gulped, and let herself feel all the things that she’d been holding back behind her show of bravado.
Her fear for herself.
Her greater terror for Cuan.
Even more, the sharp, tearing stab of regret.
Because she could have saved him. Saved them both.
The court would make sport with you, Cuan’s deep voice said in her memory. Mock you, taunt you, uncover your weaknesses and destroy your sense of worth. That is how they capture the most treasured flavors; humiliation, despair, the bitterness of self-hatred.
She’d let him protect her. Let him risk his life over and over, even though he was fighting to lose her. And now he was lost, and it was all her fault. If she’d only mated Cuan earlier, before Morcant had arrived…if only she’d realized just a few hours earlier how much he’d come to mean to her…
“Ah,” Maeve breathed.
All around, the unseelie high sidhe were leaning forward, just like Maeve. Faemarks glittered with flashes of excitement. A couple even had their mouths open, almost drooling.
Morcant alone seemed untouched. He glanced around at the entranced court, and his lip curled very slightly, as though in disgust.
“This human is mine,” he said flatly. “I will take her now.”
“No!” Tamsin didn’t even try to hide the terror in her voice. Terror was good, the high sidhe liked the taste of terror. “Not yet! I still belong to Cuan! You haven’t beaten him yet!”
Maeve licked her lips. “Perhaps…perhaps you are being just a little hasty, my prince. Midnight is scarce past. We should give my beast at least a little time.”
“Yes,” Tamsin sobbed. “Please, I know Cuan will be here soon. He wouldn’t leave me. Don’t just let Morcant snatch me away from the court. Don’t let him win so easily.”
Come on, you evil elf, she thought, in some calm, distant, carefully locked-away part of her mind. Figure it out. You don’t want this show to be over so quickly, do you? Not when there are all these juicy emotions leaking out of me…
Maeve’s tongue ran over her top lip again.
“I did tell the beast that he must face one challenge per night,” the elf queen said slowly. “According to the letter of the law, he has until dawn before he forfeits this match.”
“What difference does it make?” Morcant snapped. “If he does show up, I shall simply run him through. This delay is pointless.”
It was overly dramatic, but at this point Tamsin was willing to chew as much scenery as necessary. She burst into tears, noisily and messily.
Morcant—looking highly alarmed—actually let her go. She collapsed to the floor in a heap at his feet, clutching at his armored ankles.
“No!” she wailed. “Please don’t hurt him! I know he’ll turn up, I know he’ll fight for me! Please show mercy! Don’t make me watch him die!”
Maeve inhaled sharply. Tamsin had been betting that the evil cow wouldn’t be able to resist that bait.
Maeve straightened, her voice firming into a tone of command. “The formalities must be obeyed, Prince Morcant. We are high sidhe, after all, not some lawless wild fae rabble. My beast has until dawn to answer your challenge. You must wait until then before claiming this woman.”
Morcant’s jaw tightened. He shook Tamsin off his boots, as though he’d stepped in filth.
“Very well.” He stalked back to the throne, every line of his body tight and angry. “Dawn. And not a moment longer.”
And Tamsin could only pray that it would be long enough.
Chapter 31
“I know what you’re thinking,” snarled a voice in his ear.
Oh good, Cuan would have said, if he’d been able to form words. I’m glad someone does.
There was nothing in his mind but pain. The back of his skull throbbed as though he’d been kicked by a centaur. He tried to reach up to touch the injury, and discovered that his hands were tied behind his back.
Well, this is not auspicious.
Someone grabbed his hair, forcing his head back. Cuan blinked, trying to focus. He found himself staring at a number of sharp steel hooks, pointed directly at his eyes.
Shining Ones. I think I’m being tortured.
The hooks were being held by a round-faced blonde woman. Save for the terrifying implements in her hand, she did not look like a torturer.
“Does she have six hooks, or only five?” the woman asked.
“Err…” Cuan croaked. He honestly wasn’t sure. Everything was still spinning.
The woman went on without waiting for an answer. “Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I’ve kind of lost track myself. But being that these are nickel-coated steel Odyssey Furls, the most ergonomic crochet hooks in the world, and would take your eye clean out, you’ve got to ask yours
elf one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well do you, punk?”
Cuan stared, cross-eyed, at the hooks in question. He did not feel lucky.
“Daisy, he’s from the fae realm,” said a different female voice, from somewhere off to Cuan’s left. “Do you really think he’s seen Dirty Harry?”
“Probably not,” the blonde woman said, in a much more cheerful voice. “I’ve just always wanted to have an excuse to do that speech.”
She had not, Cuan noted, lowered the steel hooks. He leaned as far back as his bonds allowed.
The second woman sighed. “I told you, Daisy, alloys won’t work. It’s only cold iron that hurts them.”
“Which doesn’t make any sense,” said yet another female voice, this one distinctly peeved. “There’s no such thing as cold iron. Etymologically, that’s just an old poetic term for a sword. And even the purest cast iron has alloys in it. Carbon, silicon, manganese, chromium, molybdenum—”
“It’s magic, not metallurgy, Jack,” the second woman said, sounding weary. “I don’t understand how or why it works. All I know is that iron hurts fae. Steel doesn’t.”
“Pointy things hurt everyone.” The blonde—Daisy, he presumed—demonstrated, fortunately by jamming one of the wicked hooks into his side rather than his eye-socket. “Don’t you even think about moving, mister elf.”
“I assure you, I am not,” Cuan said fervently.
The hook was indeed very pointy. And slim enough to slip neatly through the gaps between his armor plates. If the woman exerted any more pressure, she would probably be able to fish out a kidney.
A hand even darker than Tamsin’s closed around the blonde woman’s wrist, forcing her to stand down. Cuan breathed a little easier.
Then he looked up, into burning red eyes, and his breath froze once more.
“You,” he blurted out. “You’re the hellhound. Betty.”
Betty drew back her lips in something that was more snarl than smile. She was a tall, striking woman, with midnight skin and elegant features. Even though she was in human form, balefire gleamed in her eyes.
“How nice,” Betty said. “Apparently even random unseelie scum have heard of us, Hope.”
Something growled, right in his ear. Turning his head, Cuan found himself nose-to-teeth with another hellhound. This one was pure white, with ice-blue eyes. It snarled at him, giving him an excellent view of the fierce blue fire burning at the back of its throat.
Betty folded her muscled arms. She was powerfully built, with strong hands and the taut, balanced stance of an experienced warrior. Even if there hadn’t been a hellhound breathing in his face and a madwoman delving into his tripes, Cuan would have found his situation alarming.
“No tricks, unseelie,” Betty warned. She jerked her chin, indicating the rest of the room. “We have you surrounded.”
With some difficulty, Cuan tore his attention away from the white hellhound. Looking around, he discovered two more woman lurking nearby.
One was small and scowling, holding a large hammer like a sword. A tool belt, somewhat like a blacksmith’s, was slung around her boyish hips. He would have bet everything he owned that she was the one who’d been complaining about iron alloys earlier.
The other was taller and plumper, with tired shadows under her eyes and wispy brown hair escaping from a messy bun. She looked considerably more nervous than the rest of the group, but she still held a cast iron frying pan poised and ready.
Cuan had a dim recollection of having seen that pan before, very briefly. Coming for his head, and at high speed. Just before everything had gone dark.
“Don’t even think about trying glamour,” Betty went on. “We’ve all got cold iron.”
“Or high-carbon iron alloys, at least,” the woman with the hammer—Jack, Betty had called her—muttered. A rather worrying gleam appeared in her eye. “Maybe fae are actually allergic to carbon. Anyone got a graphite pencil? Or a diamond?”
“We all have cold iron,” Betty repeated more loudly, casting Jack an exasperated glance. “And we won’t hesitate to use it. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll be co-operative.”
“No—I mean, yes, of course, but—” Cuan struggled to marshal coherent speech through his throbbing headache. “You don’t understand! Tamsin sent me!”
“Tamsin!” Daisy gasped. She jabbed her pain-hooks at him. “Is she okay? Is she hurt? What have you done to her, you fiend?”
“Nothing!” he yelped—which wasn’t precisely true. High sidhe honesty compelled him to modify that to, “That is, nothing bad. Er. I am fairly certain she enjoyed herself, at least.”
This did not seem to reassure Daisy. She dug her torture device into his ribs again. “What’s that supposed to mean? Answer me!”
“I would very much like to do so!” He winced as she found a particularly tender spot. “For the love of the Shining Ones, would you kindly cease doing that?”
Betty put a hand over her eyes. “He can’t talk while you’re trying to puncture his lungs, Daisy. Will you all please let me handle this interrogation?”
Cuan was beginning to like Betty very much. Even if she did currently have him tied to a chair.
“No interrogation is necessary,” he said hastily, before anyone could resume either poking him or launching into baffling monologs about metal. “I am on your side. I came to find you, Mistress Betty. To plead for your aid. Tamsin is in dire peril. You are our only hope.”
Daisy finally lowered her hooks, much to his relief. She bit her lip, casting Betty a sideways look. “You said elves couldn’t lie.”
“Which doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth,” the hellhound replied grimly. “High sidhe can’t tell a direct lie, but they’re very good at twisting the truth. Especially unseelie high sidhe.”
“I swear on my blood and honor, I am not attempting to deceive you in any way.” He racked his mind for some proof he could offer them. “Angus! Where is Angus? He can vouch for me!”
“You’re calling the dog as a witness,” Betty said, in very flat tones.
“Angus is a very good judge of character,” said the brown-haired woman with the frying pan.
The other two women nodded. The white hellhound barked, as if it too agreed.
Betty did not fling up her hands. She did not seem to be that sort of woman. Nonetheless, Cuan had a strong impression that she wanted to fling up her hands.
“Fine,” Betty sighed. She had the expression of a woman whose evening was not at all going as planned. “Someone get the dog. Let’s see what Angus thinks. Why not. We’re so far off track by now, we couldn’t find ‘professional’ with a map and a compass. Our alpha had better never find out about this.”
The white hellhound leaned against Betty’s side in silent consolation. Its long pink tongue lolled out. It very much looked like a smirk.
Daisy disappeared through a door. In a matter of seconds, she returned carrying a grumpy-looking Angus.
“Okay, mister elf.” She thrust the dog into his face. “Say hello to my little friend.”
Cuan sent up the most fervent prayer to the Shining Ones that he’d ever made.
Angus squinted at him, sniffed his nose…and then subjected him to a very enthusiastic face-licking.
“Mercy,” Cuan gasped, trying not to drown in dog slobber. “Mercy!”
Daisy withdrew Angus again, much to the hound’s annoyance. “I think he is telling the truth.”
The white hellhound glimmered. Its form stretched up, solidifying into a slender, middle-aged blonde woman. She had delicate bones and, looking up into her kindly blue eyes, Cuan was abruptly very glad he was not facing her on a battlefield. Only a fool mistook kindness for weakness.
“I don’t think he’s lying either, Betty,” the woman said, touching Betty’s arm. “He did come alone. The unseelie must know that we’re here. They wouldn’t send one lone warrior against the Wild Hunt.”
Betty still did not look convinced. “Don’t underestimate unseelie cunning,
Hope. You know how subtle they can be. His story doesn’t make any sense. Why would an unseelie high sidhe want to free a human tithed to his own sidhean?”
“I would do anything for her.” Cuan hesitated, searching for words. “I am not sure whether I can explain this in a way that you will understand. I do not think you have this concept here in the human realm.”
Betty folded her arms. “Try us.”
“Tamsin and I are…connected.” He would have gestured, had his hands not been tied behind his back. “We are not fully joined by vow and ritual, but even so, our souls resonate to each other. We were brought together by fate, not chance. She is the only woman in any realm for me. From the moment our eyes met, I knew—”
“Oh,” Betty and Hope said together, in exactly the same tone. It was very different from the way they’d spoken to him before.
Daisy looked from one hellhound to the other. “Oh?”
Betty drew a knife from her belt, flicking it open. She stepped forward, and Cuan braced himself—but she only reached round to slice through his bonds.
“You’re Tamsin’s fated mate,” she said, as the ropes fell away. “Tell us how we can help.”
Chapter 32
“You do not even know the names of your seelie allies?” Cuan stared at Betty, aghast. “Let alone where they can be found?”
Betty spread her hands, looking grim. “They’re incredibly secretive, and understandably so. They’re going against the decrees of the seelie ruling council just by communicating with the Wild Hunt, let alone helping us to smuggle humans into seelie territories.”
“We have a friend who’s a fae hound, down in the city of Brighton,” Hope put in. “We talk to Michael, he talks to someone in your realm, they leave a message at a dead-drop location…and if we’re very lucky, the seelie send a response back the same way.”
They were all packed into Tamsin’s small…he had no word for the room. It was something like a tiny, intimate reception hall, if such a thing was designed for comfort rather than to impress.
Hope and Betty sat together on a low, deeply padded piece of furniture, shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh. Now that he was no longer distracted by the threat of having his lungs pulled through his ribs by steel hooks, it was obvious that the pair were fated mates.