by Eva Chase
Well, it’d be worth it if this gambit takes us back to Hearthshire where I can bask in the deeper thrum of the Heart’s energy at my leisure.
I lift the woven basket I’ve been conjuring the vials into and carry it into the kitchen. A flurry of activity fills the lantern-lit room. Along the islands, pack-kin are sorting the existing vials into groups by squadron according to my written instructions with my best estimates of the numbers at the border. A couple of others are bustling in with supplies Sylas asked for—another bucket of fresh glist-oak sap, another jug of rock-tumbled water. A few more have joined August where he’s assembling our tonic in his largest pots, him stirring his current batch and them filling trays of vials with the earlier ones.
Sylas stands off in the corner with Talia, who’s perched as so often on one of the stools, although not helping with the preparations in quite the same way as she would with a meal. She’s holding out her arm, which Sylas is holding gently while he murmurs over it. A larger vial gleams scarlet with her blood on the shelf beside him.
The few times that Aerik deigned to offer us his tonic in the past, we studied it closely and came up with a pretty clear idea of the main ingredients—ones we didn’t realize were simply there to dilute and disguise the only element that mattered. We’re replicating that formula as well as we can, since while it may not be essential, we at least know it didn’t impair the effects of Talia’s blood. But we’re not quite sure exactly how much we can safely dilute the stuff. It appears my lord has just asked her to contribute a little more of her body’s gift.
She doesn’t look bothered about it, though. She accepted the initial blood-taking with equal calm, her posture straight and her expression determined. Why she’s quite so determined to put her freedom on the line to save a whole host of fae who’ve mostly been horrible to her, I can’t entirely fathom, but perhaps that says more about me than about her.
Our mortal lady is a lovely sight sitting there watching the results of her sacrifice come together, her striking hair cascading over shoulders still slim but no longer spindly, her eyes brightly alert. She knows what she’s risking—and she insisted on it anyway.
I hadn’t thought I could be more awed by her than in the moment when she summoned her inexplicable magic to bind the men who once caged her, but now the combination of admiration and longing socks me in the gut.
At that exact moment, she glances up and catches my gaze. A small, hopeful smile crosses her face, and I can’t bear to do anything except smile back, even though my stomach has just twisted twice as tight.
She wants me. She wants me. I told myself she was out of reach, but now that she’s shown that’s not true, I can’t shake the sense that with one touch, one taste, I could destroy everything I care about. How could having her possibly be as simple as August made it sound?
And yet a part of me can’t let go of the desire either. No, from the moment she met my eyes in our house by the border and told me she returned the feeling, that hunger has only expanded at a pace too manic to rein in. One kiss on the cheek the other morning, and all I could think about was having her gasping and moaning beneath me.
I shove those memories away and hand over the new set of vials to the pack-kin sorting them. Sylas hands off the container of blood to August and surveys my contribution.
“It looks as though we’ll have plenty—including extra doses if we’ve miscalculated,” he says. “If I could get it to every fae who isn’t at the border too…”
I wave to the room around us. “Considering we assembled this production line less than a day ago, I think we’ve accomplished an incredible feat. If anyone complains that we fell short, let them choke on their vial.”
Sylas snorts and motions for me to follow him. “I’d like to speak to you for a moment.”
Speak to me alone, it appears. We cross the hall to the dining room, where he shuts the door. To my irritation, a nervous prickling runs over my skin.
Given the subjects that have come up between us over the past few days, I may not like the direction this conversation takes. I can’t decide whether it’d be worse to have him chide me for refusing Talia’s advances or announce that he isn’t so keen on allowing me to pursue her after all.
He glances in the direction of the kitchen and then fixes his gaze on me. “I don’t feel it’d be safe for Talia to come with us to the Heart. It’ll be harder for me to negotiate her safety with the arch-lords if she’s right there for the taking. Since we’ll be joining the fighting at the border as soon as we’ve made our arrangements, I’m going to have August come with me. I ask that you remain here and watch over her.”
My eyebrows arch automatically. “So, I’m the babysitter?”
Sylas gives me a baleful look. “I think you know as well as I do that she doesn’t need a keeper. But she may very well require protection. We’ll keep the sentries watching the edges of our territory, especially to the south—at any indication that the arch-lords have sent forces to claim her, I trust you can ensure that the two of you are nowhere to be found.”
Fair enough. I do have extensive knowledge of all the ins and outs of this domain, as loath as I was to see us banished here. I nod. “I won’t let them get so much as a glimpse of her.”
“Heart willing, it won’t come to that in the first place. We’ll see what sort of reception I get.”
He sighs, and then grasps my shoulder firmly, holding my gaze with both his dark eye and the deadened one that sees more than it should. “I trust you, Whitt. As my brother, as my cadre-chosen. I know you will serve her well, in this and in any other ways you choose to attend to her. In case there was any doubt, when I spoke of sharing her affections, it was without reservation. I’d no sooner cage her heart than the rest of her, and I can’t think of anyone more worthy of her regard than my own cadre.”
I stare at him, speech stunned out of me. Sylas has never been cold—we are summer fae, after all—but I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him express his regard for me that earnestly. It was more the sort of thing taken for granted with the call to the cadre and the responsibilities he’s offered me since. And there were times when I wasn’t sure his full trust was a certainty at all, rather than a boon I needed to re-earn.
The declaration feels like a peace offering—or perhaps simply forgiveness for things we’ve never spoken of. Relief sweeps through me, sharp and sweet. Whatever I thought I’d broken here, it either never was or it’s mended now.
“I appreciate that, my lord,” I say, falling back into formality while I’m unexpectedly fumbling for my words.
Sylas peers at me with deeper attention. “I am still your brother as well as your lord. And I wouldn’t want to be the sort of lord who holds himself above criticism regardless, as I hope you know. If the way I approached the subject before offended you in some way, I’d want you to tell me. That wasn’t my intention.”
He’s worried… that he offended me. I can’t hold back a sputter of a laugh, but I manage to recover quickly. I set my hand over his briefly in a firm pat. “There was no offense taken. I apologize if it appeared that way. I was taken by surprise—I had some things to sort out in my own thoughts—but my mind is clearer now. Thank you. For your trust and your concern.”
Speaking that earnestly myself brings a clenching into my chest, but not enough to offset all that’s good about the moment. Sylas offers me one of his subdued but warm smiles, claps my shoulder once more, and turns back toward the kitchen. And I realize there’s now nothing standing in my way at all.
After all, if our glorious leader believes in me with all his lordly experience and wisdom, who in the lands am I not to?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Talia
The dawn glow is only just seeping over fields around the keep when Sylas and August load up their carriage. I watch from a short distance beyond the keep’s front door, my arms crossed over my chest against the night coolness lingering in the breeze—and against the anxiety twining through my ribs over
the mission they’re setting out on.
Only the two of them are going, figuring that when—if—the arch-lords agree to their terms, there’ll be plenty of fae on hand who can help distribute the tonic. They didn’t want to leave Oakmeet completely undefended. Sylas assured me that fae law will protect them from any harm from the arch-lords, but I can’t help wishing they had a few more allies with them for their own defense.
Of course, it’s not just the arch-lords we have to worry about. Even if everything goes well at the Heart, the men I love still plan on joining the warriors in the battle along the border. It’ll be easier to fight the Unseelie without the curse gripping them, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. Warriors from our pack died in the last skirmish.
To hold the baskets upon baskets of vials, Sylas has summoned a carriage twice as long as the ones that conveyed us before. The magic has left a tang of juniper scent in the air. The thing looks like an immense canoe with a wooden shade arching over the middle portion, albeit an immense canoe that’s floating a foot off the ground.
When the baskets are all nestled in their compartments, the two fae men walk back to me. August tugs me into a tight embrace, his heat and musky scent wrapping around me. “We’ll be back tomorrow, Sweetness. I always kept my promises before.”
Between the lump rising in my throat and the mugginess from lack of sleep that’s filled my head, I don’t know what to say in return, so I just hug him as hard as I can. He pulls back only far enough to find my mouth, capturing it with a kiss so tender and lingering that I’m tingling down to my toes when he’s finished. He smiles, apparently not concerned about our audience—most of the pack has come to see them off too, gathered in a loose cluster at the edge of the village.
Sylas merely tucks a strand of my hair back from my cheek and brushes a kiss to my forehead, but I can feel the affection in that reserved gesture. “Little do the ravens know their downfall will be a single human woman. Get some rest and try not to worry yourself too much.”
He glances at Whitt, who’s propped in the doorway behind me, and gives his cadre-chosen a confident nod. Whatever instructions he had for the other man, he’s clearly already given them. Then he turns to the assembled pack.
“Thank you all again for your assistance in preparing the tonic. Enjoy this full moon free of the wildness, and let us hope we can ensure we never face it again. I look forward to rejoining you with good news tomorrow.”
An eager murmur ripples through the crowd. They bob into bows, with calls of “Thank you, my lord!” and “Safe journeys!” and from Astrid, off to the side, one, “Give those feather-brains plenty to regret!” Sylas raises his hand in farewell, and he and August climb into the carriage.
I stand there watching as it glides away toward the south-eastern horizon. The pack drifts back to their homes, but Harper hesitates. When the carriage has vanished from sight amid the trees and rocky spires, I drag my gaze away, and she wanders over to join me.
“Hey,” she says. “How are you doing?” Her attention falls to my arm, where a faint mark shows just above my wrist. Sylas sealed the cut after I gave my blood, but wounds don’t disappear in an instant.
Harper and I haven’t talked since I made my dramatic announcement to the pack yesterday morning. In the rush of activity that followed, there hasn’t really been time to. The wariness in her wide eyes sends a twinge of guilt to my stomach.
“I’m all right. They didn’t need to take all that much.” I look at the ground and then back at her. “I’m sorry I lied to you about how I came here. We just—we were worried the lord who brought me to the faerie world in the first place would find me, and he… wasn’t anywhere near as kind as Sylas is.”
Harper blinks, her lips parting with surprise. “I’m not upset, not at all! Of course you’d be careful. You must have been through a lot.” She cringes. “I’m sorry I asked you so much about your home beyond the Mists and all that… If they dragged you away against your will and then kept you like a prisoner, it must be painful thinking about what you lost.”
“That’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” I take in the houses beyond her, the terrain that stretches out all around the keep, becoming more familiar with every day. “This is my home now. And you helped me feel like I could belong here. And now that Sylas has taken care of the lord who dragged me away, it’s safe for me to do more adventuring. You can show me the most interesting places in the domain that are farther out from the keep.”
A smile brightens Harper’s face. “Perfect. And… People are saying that by giving the tonic to help with this battle, Lord Sylas might be able to reclaim our real home in Hearthshire. It’s right in the middle of everything instead of out here on the fringes, and if we have the arch-lords’ pardon then the other packs will be more friendly again.” She throws her arms around me in a hug so quick I barely have time to return it before she’s stepped back again, outright beaming now. “If that’s true, then you’ve given us so much more than if you’d just talked up my dress with the lords and ladies.”
I grin back at her. “I hope that all works out. But I’ll still talk up that dress if anyone asks. It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever worn.”
She cocks her head, considering my foot caged in its brace. “The fae who kidnapped you did that to you. No one can heal it?”
“No. August looked at it and said the bones have been set like that for too long.” I shrug. “I’m used to it now, though. I can’t complain about having to limp when there were years when I couldn’t do anything at all. This brace Sylas made for me makes walking a lot easier, so it’s not too bad anyway.”
Harper taps her lips. “If you could… ask him if he’d make another one that I could examine? I have some ideas—I’d have to work with it to see if I could pull it off.”
“I don’t see why not.” Assuming Sylas makes it back. A shiver runs through my nerves, dampening the good mood the conversation sparked.
Maybe I droop a little, because Whitt stirs in the doorway, where he must have been keeping an eye on me this whole time. “I think this mighty human should get the rest Sylas ordered,” he says, ruffling my hair from behind, and yawns. “I certainly need mine.”
I can’t really argue. My eyelids are getting heavier, the mugginess around my thoughts thicker. Harper bobs her head and ambles off, and I let Whitt usher me into the keep.
Despite my worries, which no lord can order away, I’m so tired that I’m out moments after my head hits the pillow. I wake up to the dazzling sun of what I’d guess is early afternoon, my mind still a bit muddy but too much restlessness winding through my chest for me to think there’s any hope of getting more sleep now.
My stomach grumbles, unhappy that the only food it’s had so far today is a hasty sandwich August assembled for me in the wee hours of the morning between batches of tonic. I heave myself out of bed and grimace at the clothes I’ve been wearing since yesterday, now wrinkled from being slept-in too.
Opening the wardrobe, I’m about to reach for another of my usual jeans and short-sleeved shirts when my eyes snag on the simpler dress hanging next to Harper’s gown. The sky-blue one in the style many of the pack women wear that I put on for our dinner with Aerik and his cadre.
I wore it then to make it look as if I was integrated into the pack. Why shouldn’t I wear it now that I’ve proven how much that pack means to me, now that I no longer need to care whether Aerik or any other fae sees me as I really am? It’s not a disguise—it’s just me. I should leave the trappings of my old human life behind sometime.
This is my home now. I already know the people here better than anyone still alive back in the human world. The faerie realm comes with all kinds of dangers, but at least I’m not facing them alone.
I give myself a quick wash in the bathroom and pull the dress over my head. The soft fabric flows over my body, hugging what little curves I have now that my ribs no longer stand out like the rungs of a ladder up my torso. Looking down at myself, I fe
el like the lady of this keep more solidly than I ever have before.
The kitchen is still a bit of a mess, the pots August used for mixing the tonic stacked beside one of the sinks, shreds of dried reeds from the baskets scattered on the floor. I head to the pantry and emerge with a heel of seed-laced bread that I don’t think has been reserved for any upcoming meal.
As I stand there gnawing at it, Whitt saunters into the room, looking shockingly alert for someone who hasn’t gotten any more sleep than I have. He takes in my scavenged food and shoots me a broad grin. “I think we can do better than that for our mighty one. Let’s see what we can throw together.”
He pushes the cuffs of his loose sleeves past his elbows, revealing the true-name tattoos curving all across his muscular forearms, and grabs one of the more modestly sized pots that’s still clean. “Stew. Anyone can make a halfway decent stew. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. You must have absorbed some of August’s culinary wisdom. Between the two of us, we should be able to produce something absolutely fantastic.”
“Aiming high?” I say, unable to hold back a smile.
Whitt clucks his tongue at me. “No other way to live.” He adds water to the pot with a hiss from the faucet and thumps it onto the stove. “Let’s see what the whelp left us in the cold box.”
The cold box is practically a room in itself, a closet-like space full of shelves and air kept chilly through magic, about twice the size of any fridge I remember seeing in my former life. Whitt grabs a papery bundle that I think holds leftover sausage patties, a bowl full of the tiny blue quail eggs, and the few stray vegetables that didn’t end up getting used during August’s past cooking sessions.