by Eva Chase
The fae lord’s voice is even as ever but brutal in its force. As Aerik meets his stare, the color leaches from his face. From this angle, I can’t see what rage Sylas’s expression holds, but I doubt I’d want it directed my way. He means every word of that threat.
“If you really think this is going to be enough to buy your way back to prominence,” Aerik begins, but his voice is too thready for the disdain in it to have any impact. He can’t even manage a real sneer now.
“I tire of waiting for your answer,” Sylas rumbles. “How many more seconds do you suppose it is before I can reasonably count your delay as a direct refusal? You won’t have any prominence at all in your family’s mausoleum.”
“Fine,” Aerik snarls. A magical thrum enters his voice. “I accept your conditions and yield. I’ll leave the girl, you, and your pack alone. Now get your mangy paws off me.”
Sylas retracts his claws but keeps his hand braced against the other man’s collarbone, holding him down. “Hmm. Not quite yet. Tell your cadre they’d better take the same bargain, or you’ll find yourself a little short on supporters.”
Aerik tips his head to call to the others. “You heard him. Yield. We did plenty well without that cringing thing; we don’t need her.”
My hands ball into fists at the way he’s describing me, but he doesn’t so much as glance my way. It’s better for all of us if they yield and Sylas doesn’t find his actions under the scrutiny outright killing them would provoke. All the same, in that moment, I wish he would make one wrong move to ensure his murder.
The other men have shifted while Sylas and Aerik debated. Cole grimaces and offers his yield in a sharply snarky tone. Cutter gives his dully, his nose dribbling blood. Then my three men shove off my former captors, drawing back to surround me.
He may not be dead, but it’s still incredibly gratifying to watch Aerik stagger to his feet, favoring a knee that seems to have been knocked off-kilter during the skirmish, holding his broken arm carefully against his abdomen. Dirt smudges his lordly face; his yellow hair doesn’t gleam quite so bright. He raises his chin, but he can’t quite overcome the doleful slump of his shoulders.
“Come on,” he snaps at his cadre. “We have no more business with these cast-offs.”
They turn their backs on us and shuffle away into the forest. As their forms disappear amid the shadows, sweet relief wells up inside me. For the second time today, tears prickle at my eyes, but these ones barely sting.
It’s over. I’m free of them. They might haunt my dreams for who knows how much longer to come, but they can’t do one more bit of real harm to me.
Sylas squeezes my shoulder. “You were perfect, Talia. I know how hard that must have been for you, but you showed them what you’re really made of. Let’s get you home.”
Yes. Home. The home Aerik can now never steal me from.
Sylas speaks the true name to melt the cage’s materials back into the earth, since we have no more need for it. As we turn toward our own vehicle, I slip my hand around his on one side and August’s on the other.
An ache of determination rises up through my joy. These men showed just how far they’re willing to go on my behalf. I won’t really deserve to share their home until I find some way to fight just as hard for them.
Chapter Twenty-Five
August
The carriage is just passing into our domain when Talia raises her head. She’s spent most of the journey nestled between Sylas and me in grateful silence. Holding her close, reminding myself and her that we made it through the confrontation with Aerik with all our skins intact, felt much more important than anything I could have said.
But there are other important matters we haven’t dealt with yet, and somehow Talia is already thinking beyond the freedom she just won for herself.
“Are we going back to the border now?” she asks, glancing up at Sylas. “I guess you’d have to rebuild the house, but at least we wouldn’t need to worry about having the glamour on me or what Aerik might do.”
Sylas frowns, and my spirits sink. Both of us know we accomplished a lot less than we were hoping for out there.
“I’ll have to think on that,” my lord says. “The other lords—and arch-lords’ representatives—weren’t exactly open to our offers of assistance. I’m not sure we were achieving anything more than looking incompetent because we couldn’t make ourselves more useful.”
Whitt swivels on the bench where he’s been poised watching the forestlands fly by. “The full moon is only three nights from now. We shouldn’t plan to be on the move in the midst of that.”
Sylas nods. “We can’t leave the pack in Oakmeet completely unguided, but we do have more flexibility with less to hide.”
Talia straightens up. “We can give them my blood. The pack-kin in Oakmeet, our squadron at the border—all the packs. Make some kind of tonic like Aerik did so we can spread it out without having to take too much from me. No one should have to keep suffering from the curse, not while I can prevent that.”
She makes the offer so easily my heart lights up like it does so often in her presence. Of course that would be her first thought at the reminder of the full moon. Of course she’d want to solve this problem as only she can, giving of her own body. That generosity and compassion is what makes her Talia.
The softening of Sylas’s expression tells me he’s touched too, but he shakes his head. “I don’t think we’re in a position to make that leap yet. I’m not even sure it’s the right leap to make.”
“But if Aerik can’t come after me again, then we don’t have to keep it a secret, do we?” she says. “That was why we couldn’t risk helping even our pack before.”
“Yes, but— We also have to consider the same possibilities that led Aerik to keep you secret. If I suddenly present myself as the provider of the tonic, there’ll be a lot of questions. The arch-lords will demand an explanation, and when they find out where it comes from, it’s likely they’ll want to take you for themselves. We can’t fend them off as easily as we could Aerik.”
I let out a rough laugh. “I’m not sure I’d call what we just did exactly easy.”
Sylas smiles wryly. “Indeed. And on top of that, I meant what I said before about us needing to find a more permanent solution to the curse. Relying on Aerik’s tonic gave too many of the Seelie a false sense of security.”
Talia clasps her hands in front of her. “But if I can at least spare everyone from the violence and the loss of control while you’re looking for a real solution…”
Sylas touches her cheek with a stroke of the backs of his fingers. “I appreciate the devotion you’re showing to my people, Talia. Perhaps if we can regain the arch-lords’ favor, I could count on them trusting me to preserve such a… resource.” He grimaces at the phrasing. “I won’t put you in their sights until then.”
She sinks back against the seat with a resigned sigh. “Eventually.”
“Eventually.”
I give her hand a quick squeeze. “You still have so much more freedom now than you did before. No more glamours—we can tell the pack that we hid your injury until you’d gotten to know them a bit because you were self-conscious. No more needing to stay so close to the keep all of the time.”
Talia brightens up as I hoped she would. “I know. I’m looking forward to being able to just… be without all those worries hanging over me.”
Whitt hums to himself and stretches his legs toward the opposite bench. “You know, even the arch-lords aren’t half so intimidating when you’ve found yourself in a position to learn their odd little quirks. A bunch of kooks they all are, I’d say.”
Sylas snorts. “Thankfully I know you know better than to say that in anyone else’s hearing.”
As Whitt smirks in response, Talia looks across the carriage at him. Her own smile falters. Abruptly, I’m aware of the separation between us, my oldest brother set apart from the three of us—and based on his reaction the other morning, it’s not by our design this time but
by his own. I don’t like the unexpected division that’s formed within our original unit, but if that’s what he wants, what can I do about it?
My love appears to have her own ideas. After a moment’s hesitation, she eases to her feet and limps over to sit on the bench next to Whitt, gingerly but deliberately. She leaves a foot of space between them, hardly cuddling like she was with Sylas and me, and her stance is cautious, but a twinge of possessiveness quivers through my chest anyway.
I told her it was fine if she wanted him too, that I wished for her to have every happiness—but it turns out that confronted with the reality, a part of me would rather scoop her up and hide her away someplace only for myself.
It’s a selfish urge, especially after witnessing the bliss Sylas and I were able to bring her to together. And it feels even more selfish watching the startled expression that crosses Whitt’s face now, flickering into something like delight before he recovers to his usual nonchalance.
“I want to hear all the crazy arch-lord stories you’ve got,” Talia informs him, leaning back against the side of the carriage. “Laughing at them sounds a lot better than being scared of them.”
Whitt relaxes, setting his arm on the edge just an inch from her shoulder so carefully that this time I’m hit with a twinge of brotherly affection rather than jealousy. Whitt and I don’t always agree, and I often don’t understand his moods, but I’ve never doubted his loyalty to our family and to the pack. And I can see that same devotion gleaming in his eyes as he prepares to launch into a tale for Talia’s benefit.
He fought for her as hard as any of us. If he can offer her things I can’t, why shouldn’t she have those too?
After everything that’s been stolen from her and all the abuse she’s had to endure, she deserves every bit of love she’ll welcome.
“It’s my opinion that Ambrose goes around like he has a stick up his ass,” Whitt says in his typical wry tone, “and that might be due to all the cartilage he ingests. I’ve had it from a member of his household staff that he likes to gnaw on the old bones from the roasts and stews when he’s working, as though he’s some kind of woe begotten mongrel rather than a regal wolf. Leaves the chewed-up bits all over the floor for the servants to clean up too.” He makes a tossing gesture as if flicking a bone across the carriage.
Talia makes a face. “He’s the one Tristan is related to, right?”
“Yes. Pricks, the whole lot in that family. Oh, and Celia, our lady arch-lord? I hear she’s so terrified of smelly feet that she has her chamber maidens paint her soles with rose petal paste each night before she goes to sleep. Frankly, she’d do better slathering it on that sour face of hers.”
Even Sylas guffaws at that. Talia scoots a little closer, so her shoulder rests against Whitt’s elbow. “What about the third one?”
Whitt rattles off a story about Donovan’s insecurities with being the youngest of the arch-lords, and Talia watches him with rapt attention while I watch the two of them.
No, clever tales aren’t my forte. But I have other strengths. If I want to be sure I stay worthy of her, I have to play to them.
My gaze travels past them to the distant horizon now appearing where the trees have fallen away. A kernel of an idea tumbles through my mind. We weren’t done out at the border, not by a longshot. I can work on proving myself to Sylas at the same time.
When the carriage comes to a stop at the edge of the forest closest to the keep, we climb off, and Sylas dismisses the materials that made it, a juniper tree springing up in its place. Whitt rolls his shoulders.
“I’ll make the rounds, check in with the sentries,” he says.
Sylas tips his head in acknowledgment and heads toward the keep with Talia. I hang back a moment, raising my hand to signal to Whitt to hold on.
He raises an enquiring eyebrow at me. “What’s on your mind, Auggie?”
There’s enough fondness in the teasing nickname that I can let it roll off me. “I just wanted to say, in case it wasn’t clear—what Sylas said the other day about Talia and sharing—he was speaking for me too. If you want to pursue something with her, at any point, I won’t resent it. I just want her to be happy.”
Whitt considers me for a long moment—long enough that the back of my neck starts to prickle with the sense that I might not have been entirely coherent, or at least not to his standards. Then a small smile crosses his lips, more subdued than his usual smirk. “I appreciate the vote in support, little brother.”
Without another word, he leaps away, shifting into his wolfish form in mid-spring. As he trots off to survey our domain, I turn toward the keep.
Sylas has stopped on the way there to speak with a couple of our pack-kin, Talia already vanished into the keep. I pause and catch my lord’s eye, and when he’s finished, he strides over to join me. I wait until we’ve reached the privacy of the entrance room before I speak.
“I have an idea about how I might be able to advance our cause with the arch-lords at the border.”
My lord folds his arms over his chest. “Let’s hear it then.”
A jab of nerves makes me hesitate, but only for an instant. He’s trusted me with major tasks before, if nothing quite this significant.
“I can go back to the border now, alone, and carry out the mission the arch-lords denied. They didn’t want to approve of anyone sneaking into winter territory to try to pick off a warrior who could betray their plans, so we won’t ask their approval again. If it goes wrong, they can blame our defiance. But if it goes right, I may come up with the information we need to fend off whatever attack they’re anticipating.”
Sylas studies me with more intensity than Whitt aimed at me. He’s watched me train—he’s carried out some of that training himself. He knows I’m as capable as any fae warrior out there. I know I am. What has all that training been for if I don’t put it to use in the field when it matters most?
“You’ll keep your distance, only press in if you can catch one alone?” he says. “I don’t want you risking yourself against more than one of them, even if I’m sure you could give two or even three a good fight.”
I nod adamantly. “Only one, only when I can do it out of sight of any others. I may have to prowl along the border for a while—that’s why I think it’s best I head out now so I can start tonight.”
Sylas’s jaw clenches and then releases. “All right. You know your way around those lands now, and you’ve always known your way around a battle. Do me proud, and make sure you come back hale and whole—for both my and our lady’s sake, hmm?”
A grin springs to my lips despite my attempt to remain cool and professional. “You can count on it.”
Several hours later, as I stalk through the haze that marks the border between the summer and winter realms, I’m starting to think that while I may return to Oakmeet whole, it could be a whole man who’s frozen solid.
On the winter side, the wind howls loud enough that I could hear it before I even stepped into the heat haze that’s the summery part of the border. Snow whirls through the air, some of it wisping into the narrow strip of the border, bringing currents of frigid air with it. My wolf fur can fend off the worst of it, but the cold is starting to seep through to my skin.
I don’t like it. Cold is for leaping into a chilly pond to escape from a heatwave. This constant, icy bluster is pure torture. How can any fae stand to live in it?
I guess that might explain why they’re trying to move on our lands, though not why they’re doing that now after putting up with their wintery weather for so long before.
Thankfully, while I don’t know the true name for snow, water was one of my first, and the crisp flakes are nothing but frozen water. With a little coaxing, I’ve gathered a barrier of snow around my body that both deflects the worst of the wind and hides me from the view of anyone patrolling the edge of Unseelie territory.
I need the camouflage. Even though it’s the middle of the night, the light of the near-full moon reflects off all that icy groun
d starkly enough that my dark fur would be unmissable against it.
I had a close call in the evening when I first slunk out here. I emerged into view of the winter realm just as a squad of five Unseelie warriors were marching past. If my well-honed instincts hadn’t sent me recoiling at the first glimpse of them, they’d have charged after me in a matter of seconds and called a whole bunch of their brethren to join the patrol even if they hadn’t caught me. I’d have lost my chance and possibly my life before I’d really gotten started, not to mention the disgrace to the pack if the arch-lords found out we defied their orders and failed.
I’ve passed another, smaller group since then, and spotted a few lone sentries at a distance across the glinting plain, too far for me to risk stalking after them. My paws are starting to ache with the splinters of ice that have collected in the fur around my toes.
I can’t stop until I’ve fulfilled my goal. I didn’t say good-bye to Talia for the second time this month for nothing.
Finally, a spindly shape of a sentry ventures closer to the border up ahead. Like all of the Unseelie warriors I’ve seen, he wears a silvery helm and a similarly pale chest plate with looser plating hanging to his thighs for ease of movement, his padded jacket and trousers an even paler gray to blend into the landscape. He peers into the border haze and then turns to amble toward me.
Perfect.
I prowl a little closer, lacking the patience to simply sit and wait. Anticipation coils through my muscles. This bastard is one of the wretched winter fae who’ve killed my pack-kin and so many others over the past three decades. For all I know, he slaughtered some of them personally.