THE UNSEELIE CROWN

MAZE OF SHADOWS: BOOK TWO

KATHRYN ANN KINGSLEY

Copyright © 2021 by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

ASIN: B09HQ1L7HV

ISBN: 9798760332370

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

For More by me…

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About the Author

FOREWORD

I would like to introduce you all to my new Director of Marketing, Lady Horatia Nelson. My Literary Agent Nutmeg is still struggling to adapt to the new working conditions, but Nelson seems to be cozying up quite nicely to the Head of Human Resources, Lilly the Doggo.

In fact, I think Nutmeg might be a bit concerned about possible nepotism going on between Nelson and Lilly.

But who do you complain to when HR is the problem?

Anyway.

Nelson enjoys sleeping, rampaging around the house, and attempting to joyfully murder every object she sees.

And being shoved off objects by Nutmeg.

CHAPTER ONE

A field of crimson flowers wilted and died.

Death from life.

And life from death.

“Surrender.”

What was she to do? The voice called her, and the voice bade her to return. It pulled her from the whole. Memories of a life that had ended rushed back to her.

SHE BURIED the body of Yorik, her cat. Yorik had not been her cat, in truth, but that had not stopped her heart from believing it to be so. He had been an old, mangy, feral tomcat that had wanted to murder everything that had come close to him. He had lived in Aunt Margery’s barn, and she had fallen in love with the persnickety, grumpy, scrawny thing. She always made sure he was fed—often sneaking him choice cuts of chicken if their table was bountiful—and though he never let her come close to pet him, oh, how she had wept when he died.

“Good morning, Prince Yorik,” she had greeted him every day as she had gone out to the barn to do her chores at the start of the day. He would rise from his spot of straw on the windowsill, yawn, stretch, and peer at her through sleepy eyes.

Perhaps he is a fae, she had once dreamed, when such encounters were exciting and filled with prospects of wonder and mystery. Yes. He is fair folk, and he has decided that I am his friend. Though she was never once allowed to pet him. He would tolerate her nearness when she fed him, but always kept a wary eye on her movements, and had a swipe of claws and a hiss ready if she overstepped her bounds.

She told him of her day when she returned each night. Sometimes he would have a fresh mouse, sometimes she brought him bits of dinner. And every evening, she asked him about his day in turn. She never once received a reply. That was likely for the best.

She was proud when he was no longer so scrawny, and some sheen had returned to his coat.

But life ended. That was what life did.

How she had wept as she buried him beneath a tree at the back of the barn. He had always liked to sit up there in the branches, yowling for any female cat within the area, even long after he had clearly passed his prime. It had been his favorite place to be, tucked up in the crook of the great limbs, glaring out at the world with all the contempt that only an old feral tomcat could muster.

She stroked her hand over his fur for the first time as she laid him into his shallow grave, wrapped in a blanket, gently feeling the notch in his ear that had made him so distinctive. I could have given you so much more than scraps of food. But she knew she gave him precisely all he wanted. Or, perhaps, all that he was able to accept.

“He lived a good life,” Margery had placed a hand on her back, “and he shall feed the roots and the Earth, and from him will grow new life. He is not gone, child.” She kissed the top of her head. “He has merely gone home.”

“I understand—but it hurts.”

“Of course. It hurts because you shall miss him. You will want for him each morning and each night, as was your pattern.” The old woman’s face creased in sympathy. “Would you curse him with those withered and achy bones for all time, so that you did not have to say goodbye?”

“No…”

“Good. Someday, all of us will return to the Earth. Some sooner than others, and some sooner than we would like.” She kissed the top of Abigail’s head once more and walked away, leaving her to her duty.

SHE HAD NOT KNOWN the power in those words then; she had not understood. But it had not been even a fortnight later when Margery passed in the night, leaving Abigail alone. At the time, Abigail had not thought herself able to mind a cottage and a barn by herself, and the prospect of living alone had been terrifying.

Marcus had arrived not long after.

And such had been her life.

And she had died.

And she, like Yorik, had returned to the dirt and the root.

Staring down at her hands, she once more did not understand. What was she looking at? The hands were both foreign and familiar. They were hers—but she did not own them anymore. She had given them away.

But now they were back again. Tendrils of green growth were gracefully wound about her wrists like jewelry, winding up through her fingers and along her arm.

She remembered the tendrils and vines, and how they had burrowed into her flesh. How they drank her blood, devoured her organs, and took her home. How they had granted her wish to be wanted.

But now the vine did not devour. It just…sat there curled about her, as if that was right where it belonged. As if that was where it had grown.

Before her eyes, a delicate red bloom—crimson in the bright sunlight—formed and opened its petals wide. She remembered them deep inside her. But she had felt no fear then, and she felt no fear now. It was beautiful. It was part of her. It had grown from her.

Her nails were the shade of yellow-green moss. Huh. How odd. They had not been like that before. I died. I died, and I returned to the dirt, and now…now I am—

Everything hit her at once like a brick lobbed at her head. And it hurt just about as much. Tir n’Aill. The Maze.

Valroy.

She shrieked and desperately began to flail her hand about, trying to knock the vine off her. Rushing up to her feet, she made it only a single step before she instantly tripped and fell. What had she tripped over? Looking down at her legs, she—

These are not my legs!

They were the hocks of a doe, spotted and furred in an unnatural, moss green pelt. They ended in hooves. Hooves! She screamed and thrashed, kicking the foreign things in a desperate attempt to escape them. “No, no, no!”

She ran into the forest on four legs. Four legs that were not hers. They were smaller. Then they were bigger. They were fur. Then they were not. A rock ended her attempt to flee—whatever it was she was fleeing from—as she fell over it, tumbling down a small embankment. She could smell damp leaves and dirt beneath her. That was where she belonged, with all the decaying matter of the world. Not…not like this.

Whatever this was.

What happened?

What was she?

Why?

Sitting up, she found herself at least once more owning arms that resembled those of a human, save now that her fingernails—while still mossy and green—were sharpened to points. Like his.

A small, choked sound left her throat.

Valroy.

Oh, no.

She had died to hide from him. She had died to avoid the terrible fate of becoming his queen and ending two worlds. She had sacrificed herself to protect others.

But now…?

Daring once more to look down at herself, she was confused and relieved in the same moment. Her legs appeared to be the ones she remembered. But not quite the same. From the knees down, her skin turned that same pale shade as her nails. Her freckles turned from reddish pink to a shade of yellowish green that they had no business being.

What was happening to her?

Shaking, she slowly stood. She was entirely naked. Looking up at the sun that filtered through the leaves and branches, she wondered if this was Earth or Tir n’Aill. Have I come home as a monster?

What kind of monster have I become?

Tears were streaming down her cheek as she hugged her arms around herself, far more for comfort than to cover her nudity. She had other issues to contend with. Taking a single step away from where she had landed, her bare foot touched a patch of grass.

A field.

She had been in a forest. And in the blink of an eye, she was on the edge of a field, right where the tree line gave way.

Screaming, she staggered backward. Something tangled between her legs, and she felt a sting of pain rocket up her spine as she crashed once more to the ground. It was though she owned a tail. Then she discovered she had a tail. Long, and thin, and tufted at the end.

Panic descended on her like bees.

Or perhaps she had become bees.

She was not quite certain which it was.

When she was once more aware of limbs, she was standing next to a great old oak, alone atop the center of a swaying field of beautiful, long grass. It would have been a beautiful, peaceful, amazing sight.

But she may or may not have just been bees.

With a wail of dismay, she leaned her back against the bark of the tree.

And was suddenly high up in the branches like Yorik.

Squeaking at the sudden height, she clung to the thick limb and buried her head against it, the bark and twigs digging into her. Maybe if she held perfectly still, maybe if she simply did not move, nothing would happen to her.

Squeezing her eyes shut, terrified beyond all measure, she wept.

ANFAR STARED at the man who sat upon the steps to the silvered throne and frowned. He barely recognized the creature. He bore the shape of the man he knew, but he wondered if some Seelie changeling had not taken his place.

The idea of it nearly made him laugh. What a task that would have been. He would be impressed, truth be told, and it would be a far better option than the reality of what sat before him.

Anfar sighed.

Crown Prince of the Unseelie. Master of the Maze. Champion of the Blood Ring. Valroy sat upon the steps to the throne he would someday inherit, a sword in his hand, its point resting on the ground beside his feet. His gaze was fixed firmly on the rock, as though something there had stolen his soul.

The prince had not been the same since “his little witch” had died.

The Gle’Golun had taken her well over a season ago. Autumn had turned to Winter, and now the blooms of Spring had just begun. She had been gone far longer than she had been in Tir n’Aill. Yet nothing in his oldest friend had changed since the moment he had watched her be devoured.

Valroy was always prone to moods, yes, but at least there had always been some joy in the mix. He was just as apt to over-drink with a crowd as he was to slaughter them all.

But not as of late.

As of late, the prince’s demeanor came in two varieties—furious or brooding. Both were equally likely to end in someone’s death.

Looking down at what he carried, Anfar ran his finger over the brittle thing, careful not to damage it. This will only pour salt into his still-open wound. A wound we are all still suffering for.

And they had indeed suffered.

Treachery. Mutiny. Sabotage. Valroy had always suffered the machinations of the Court to keep him from his throne with a relatively good humor and an understanding air. He did not agree, nor would he let the Court get in his way, but he had not sought the death of all those who did not obey him.

Now that had changed.

The High Lord’s wrath had pointed swiftly inward as he vowed to find the culprit who had been responsible for leading the mortal girl to the field of flowers. And when no criminal could be discovered?

“There is only one way to ensure the treason is ripped out at the root,” Valroy had said.

Anfar should have known. But what could he have done, in the end?

The Moonlit Court was decimated. Any who did not sign a contract of fealty—or whose loyalty was above reproach, such as he and a select few—were executed and left on display as a warning to others.

The High Lord would not be dissuaded. No matter how Anfar tried.

And he had tried.

And he had been tortured for his insubordination.

New lords and ladies rose to take the positions of their murdered and dismembered predecessors. Not surprisingly, they were far more supplicant and far meeker, knowing quite well what fate awaited them if they were not.

The witch had died. Her death had, however briefly, spared them all King Valroy. But it had left them with a new Prince Valroy instead. Anfar wondered which was worse. At least the prince cannot slaughter millions in his wrath. There is suffering, but it is limited only to us.

Anfar tried not to crush the delicate, desiccated thing in his hand. He needed it. Perhaps this would provide the prince with some measure of peace.

Though he highly doubted it.

“PRINCE.”

“Prince.”

“Valroy!”

He finally looked over to the source of the noise. Valroy would pretend he had been ignoring Anfar. Truth be told, he had not heard him at first. He had been deeply entrenched in his thoughts and was quite annoyed to be yanked from them. “What do you want?”

Anfar held something in his palm out to him. “The Gle’Golun. They are dead.”

“You lie.”

“Look.”

Valroy furrowed his brow and stood, staring down at the browned, wrinkled thing in Anfar’s hand. He picked it up carefully. It took a long moment to truly believe what he was seeing. “How? I have tried everything to destroy them.” And he had. He had wielded all manner of magic and violence against that field of flowers, and nothing had worked. Not blade, nor flame, nor dark power. They remained untarnished.

Anfar shook his head. “I do not know. A messenger came to tell me. I did not believe him, same as you, so I went to see for myself. The field is dead, Valroy. The flowers have all withered.”

It made no sense. The Gle’Golun were eternal. They fed on mortality. They always had, and always would. Even in the deepest Winter snows, their crimson blooms were always visible. Always waiting for their prey. No blossom from its thorned vines had ever been plucked, in all the history of the Tuatha de Danann.

But sitting in his palm now was, indeed, a bloom whose petals had browned and faded from its bright and bloody red.

He looked to Anfar and crushed the remains of the flower in his palm like ancient paper. “Show me.”

VINES SNAPPED, leaves crumpled, and blooms were rendered to dust beneath Valroy’s bare feet. He had commanded Anfar to leave him. He wished for a moment of privacy as he walked into what remained of the field of the Gle’Golun.

The flowers now joined the skeletons of the dead they had consumed. Remains of creatures of all shapes and sizes now stood proud without the growth to shroud them. Some were hundreds of years old. Some were fresh.

One was hers.

He had stood beside the field, unable to save her, and had been forced to watch as she died. He could not even fly to her, for the dread blossoms would have snatched him from the air the moment he grew close enough to her.

He had been helpless.

And he had been furious.

How dare she?

How dare whoever brought her here?

How dare the Gle’Golun take what was rightfully his?

The skull of a rabbit snapped and cracked beneath him as he made his way to the spot where he knew she had died. He had stayed there and watched until nothing was left of her but bone, picked clean, and stripped of all its worth.

And still, he could not reach her.

How many times had he come here, straining to see some flash of white beneath the vines that covered her? Beneath the swath of crimson that had grown from her foolish sacrifice? A dozen days? Two? Perhaps more. He did not know.

When he reached the center, he stared at the ground in confusion. There was no skeleton to be seen. Had the Gle’Golun dragged her below? No. That was not their way. They consumed, picked clean, and left the rest as morbid trophies to their collection.

Yet she was not there.

But something of hers was. Proof that she had existed, and not been a figment of his mind all along.

Crouching, he plucked from the dirt and soil a small wooden talisman on a thin leather cord.

It was carved crudely in the shape of an owl.

CHAPTER TWO

She stood at the edge of a white-faced cliff, overlooking the ocean. It was both familiar and not. The stars were not those of Earth. Nor did she remember any cliff that was so near the woods. The silvery-barked trees close to her back told her precisely where she was.

Although the figure before her would have given it away all on his own.

Perched on a column of stone left separate from the cliff by the whims of water, wind, sand, and time, was a man.

But he was not a man, was he?

Valroy.

He truly did make a good gargoyle.

A thunderstorm brewed on the horizon, the flashing of the lightning too far away to be heard. But it was enough to cast him in stark shadows and bright highlights. He crouched, elbows on his knees, wings draped behind his back, his blue hair whipping in the wind.

By all the gods, he was beautiful.

She took a step toward the edge of the cliff, wishing to get closer to him.

He turned his head slightly, as if to look back at her, but did not turn enough to see her. As if he knew she was there but did not wish to see.

She wanted to call out to him. To reach for him. To tell him that she was there.

She wanted to see his grin. To hear him laugh.

Before she could work up the nerve, he stood, the blue tattoos of his arm looking nearly black in the dim light of the moon. He spread his wings slowly, and she could see the flash of the lightning bolts through the translucent skin of them.

He did not jump from the column. He did not dive. He merely stepped off, plummeting into the darkness.

His silhouette was dark against the sky, save for the stars that she could see through his wings, as he soared, high overhead, like a great bird of prey.

And for a moment, she was not Abigail Moore.

She was a mouse.

Or perhaps a foal.

The great predator circled.

And then dove.

“WELL, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT…”

Murmured voices woke Abigail from a restless slumber. She hadn’t even known she had been sleeping until she suddenly wasn’t. Suddenly, the reminder that she was fully nude and stuck up a tree on a branch hit her.

With a squeak, she gripped the tree limb as tightly as she could. Sharp nails—sharp nails she should not have—dug into the bark.

One of the voices chuckled, a deep sound. She saw movement from beneath her as she worked up the nerve to lift her head.

“Hello, love. Are you stuck?”

Something about the voice struck her as familiar. For a moment, panic hit her again—terror that it might have been Valroy. But the voice was too gravelly, too rough. When she managed to lift her head to peer beneath her, she blinked in surprise.

It was Lord Bayodan.

The man with the sharp features, long, curling black horns, red eyes, and the legs of a goat. He was smiling up at her. It had grown dark, the moonlight now replacing the sun as it streamed through the leaves of the oak.

His long, black, tufted tail swished around behind him, curling and uncurling like that of a cat, brushing over the tops of the blades of grass that surrounded him.

Standing beside him was Cruinn, the glass shards that created them glinting in the moonlight. They smiled and lifted a hand in a small wave. “Are you stuck? We could come up there and help you.”

“I…” She sat up, straddling the oak branch, and fought the urge to cover herself. What was the point? What was the point in hiding? “I do not—I do not rightly know.”

If Cruinn climbed atop Bayodan and stood upon their friend’s shoulders, she still did not think they could reach her. She could jump, perhaps. But something made her hesitate. Chewing on her lip, she looked down at the height, and then to them, nervously.

If she even wished to climb down at all. Could she trust them?

Seeing her trepidation, Bayodan put a large hand over his bare chest, over where his heart would be. “We swore fealty to you and to you alone. We wish to help you.”

“How did you find me? Where am I? What has happened? Why am I—” Her voice cracked, and she choked off in a whimpering breath. She was shaking again, and her tears began anew.

“Oh, love,” Bayodan said through a long breath, “be not afraid. We heard your cry for help, and we came to help you.”

“I did not say anything.” She pressed her back against the trunk of the tree, feeling its strength, and trying to pull some comfort from it. It did not quite work. “I did not call for you.”

“Oh, but you did.” Cruinn stepped forward, their shape morphing and moving as they did. Where they were once an indistinct creature made of shards of glass, they were now a beautiful woman, smiling brightly with pink lips. “We are bound to you now. We heard your need for us. We could not come earlier—the sun was still high—but we are here now.”

That answered which world she was in. She was still trapped in Tir n’Aill. But if the sun had been out, she furrowed her brow. “Is this not the Maze?”

“No, love.” Bayodan reached his arms up to her, as if to catch her. “Can you come down?”

“I still am not quite sure as I want to.”

He chuckled, deep voice resonating again like rocks moving deep in the ground. The corners of his eyes creased at the edges as he smiled. “We made a vow to you upon our lives. To harm you would be to harm ourselves.”

“But you will take me to him. To Valroy.”

“Not if that is not where you wish to go. Our fealty is to you, our future queen, our Abigail Moore. Not to him. We are your servants. Your retinue. Not his.” Cruinn stepped closer to the tree, pressing their hand against the bark of the oak.

She pulled in a breath through her nose. As Cruinn touched the wood, she could feel it. It was as though they were touching her back! With a wail, she threw herself forward away from the trunk of the tree. Perhaps she did it a bit too quickly.

She fell.

With a shriek, she toppled from the limb. She waited for the crunch and the pain as she hit the ground, likely shattering bones. Strong arms caught her instead, and she felt Bayodan’s silent laugh.

She wanted to weep. She wanted to scream. Helplessly, she put her head in her hands and wished the world away.

“Poor thing…” Cruinn stroked her hair as Bayodan knelt, gently sitting her down on the cool grass. A moment later, something warm and thick draped over her.

Looking up, she blinked. One of them had summoned a thick wool cloak in the darkest shade of green and placed it over her. She clutched to herself desperately. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Cruinn sat beside her, facing the other way as her, their hand resting on her knee. They smiled, still wearing the guise of the young woman. With a finger crooked under Abigail’s chin, Cruinn lifted her face to theirs. “You are beautiful—look at you! We do not understand how this has come to pass, but we are so very happy it has. Isn’t she a marvel, my love?” Cruinn grinned up to Bayodan.

“Aye. That she is.” Bayodan sat down beside them with a huff, reaching his canted legs out in front of him, gathering his dark greatcoat around him on the ground. He smelled a bit of smoke and ash, and like a deep cave she once explored as a child. His crimson eyes were studying her as well, raking over her features. “That she is, indeed.”

“I—I died. I died. I know I did.” She hugged the cloak around herself, eager to hide within its warmth and shelter. “The Gle’Golun, the flowers, they consumed me.”

“We know. Believe me, we know.” Bayodan grunted. “The prince did not need an excuse to wreak death and vengeance upon the Moonlit Court, but you certainly gave him one.”

There were leaves stuck in her hair. She must have lodged them there when she fell. As she went to pluck them out, she blinked. No.

They were not stuck in her hair.

They were part of her hair!

Jerking in shock, the sudden welling of fear spurred her to run. But Cruinn grasped her shoulders, holding her still, and shushed her quietly. “No, no, our lady, it is all right. You are safe. There is nothing to fear. We have you.”

“I beg to differ! I—I am a tree, and then my legs are like Bayodan’s, and I…I think for a moment I was made of bees.”

They both laughed quietly. Bayodan wrapped a large arm around her, pulling her to his side, while Cruinn gently stroked their hand over her hair. Some of which was now made of oak leaves.

When another frightened whine left her, the goat man held her tighter, if still gently, and placed a kiss on top of her head. “Breathe, love.”

It was only when he said it that she realized how poor of a job she was doing at just that. Her heart was pounding—drowning out nearly all other sounds in her ears. And her chest was rising and falling in short bursts. It was making her head spin.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried her best to focus on that alone. To spend all her energy not on the oak leaves that were now part of her hair, or the fact that she could feel the grass around her as if it were part of her. She could feel where Cruinn and Bayodan were sitting, just as she could sense Cruinn’s hand brushing along her hair.

“I’m so afraid,” she whispered.

“It’s all right.” Cruinn lifted her fingers to their lips and kissed them, before clasping her hand between theirs. “You have every reason to be afraid. But we’re here now, and we won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Even the prince,” Bayodan added.

“I don’t understand what’s happened to me.” Opening her eyes, she was happy at least to see that the world was no longer fuzzy and tilting around her. She hadn’t realized how close she had been to passing out. Looking down at her hand, she saw that the points to her nails were gone. Her legs were no longer as green as they had been, though some of it still remained by her ankles.

But there were still oak leaves in her hair.

No, she corrected herself. My hair is still partially oak leaves.

“We aren’t quite sure ourselves.” Cruinn chuckled, still smiling sweetly to her. They shifted closer, their thigh resting against hers. “We heard the call, and so we came. But we certainly were not expecting this.”

“You…died,” Bayodan began gently. “Well over a season ago. Autumn and Winter have come and gone, and now the Spring has just begun. Everyone thought you were gone.”

“I was. But something brought me back.” She frowned and studied her palm again. Her wrists still had that same odd green coloration as before. The smallest tendril of a vine began to grow around her wrist, appearing as if from nowhere. But she knew it had come from her. “I—I think it was the Morrigan.”

Bayodan and Cruinn groaned in unison. They exchanged glances, and the goat man shrugged with weary kind of acceptance.

“It means she still schemes for her son. It means the Morrigan brought you back for him.” Bayodan grimaced. “And I cannot say I’m that surprised, given his behavior of late.”

“What do you mean?” She finally lifted her head to look at him. His long black hair had more than a few gray strands, now that she saw him closer. They were gathered more at his temples than anywhere else. Only a few stray tendrils were not long enough to be tied back. He was an odd-looking but handsome creature, inhuman but beautiful. It was easy to get lost studying the lines of his face.

He let out a thoughtful hum. “The Bloody Prince has lived up to his title in your absence. He wished to find who was responsible for your death—who led you away to the Gle’Golun. When torture could not find the culprit…he decided slaughter was the only solution.”

“Oh—oh, no.” She covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head. “No, please tell me you’re lying.”

“Seventeen members of the Moonlit Court were put to death,” Cruinn muttered quietly, still clutching her other hand. “Because one of them might have been guilty.”

“None of them were!” She pulled her knees up closer to her, glad for the shelter of the cloak. “None of them. It was—it was the black stag that took me there.”

“Black stag?” Bayodan arched a thick eyebrow.

“Twice in the Maze I was visited by him. The first time, he led me to a stream so that I might rest. The second time, he brought me to the Gle’Golun.” She shook her head.

“It could have been a member of the Court in disguise.” Cruinn sighed. “I would like to think that their deaths were not all pointless.”

“I was already dead—he wasn’t solving anything.” Disgust roiled in her stomach. Her very empty stomach. She suddenly realized how hungry she was. But it didn’t matter in the moment, and there was nothing she could do, regardless.

The knowledge that so many had died because of her…

Tears stung her eyes and once more broke free.

“What is it, love?” Bayodan reached up to gently brush her tears from her cheeks. “What is wrong?”

“I—I chose to die. I wasn’t attacked. The Gle’Golun didn’t devour me like they did the stag—they wanted me to surrender. And I did. I did it so others would be spared, so Valroy wouldn’t be able to wage his wars so soon.” She leaned into the goat man’s embrace. She needed the comfort so very desperately.

“And you did. He has not taken the throne.”

“But there was still death left in my wake. He still murdered innocent souls.” Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. Like a bolt of lightning, fear gripped her. She sat up. “He cannot find me! If he does, he’ll—he’ll put me back in the Maze, he’ll force me to marry him, and—”

“Stop, stop, stop.” Cruinn laughed, reaching out and rubbing Abigail’s shoulder. “Calm. One thing at a time.”

“But—”

“The prince still believes you to be dead.” Bayodan leaned down and kissed her temple. “And if you wish it, it will remain so, for as long as we can keep it that way.”

Her heart was racing. Her opinions of the Bloody Prince were…complicated. Complicated and conflicted. She pulled the cloak tightly around her, letting out a wavering breath. She was terrified of him. But…her sacrifice had not only been about sparing the lives of millions. It had been because his attempts to seduce her were working, and she was scared of what would happen if she let it continue.

His smile. His laugh. His fiendish sense of humor. And the way he touched her…she shivered.

“Besides,” Cruinn broke into her thoughts with a faintly sarcastic smile, “I am not sure if he can marry you now. Your…situation is complicated. Our predicament is strange and bizarre enough, without even considering what would happen if he tried to wed you.”

“What do you mean?” Abigail frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, love…you see…” Bayodan sighed, clearly unsure as to how to say it. “It has to do with what you are now.”

Abigail looked up at the goat man, and then to Cruinn, and then back to Bayodan. “What am I? What have I become?”

“Our northern kin call you a wood wife, and our eastern kin call you a nymph. You are of the forest, sweet Lady,” Cruinn explained, lifting Abigail’s hand to show her the thin green vine that had appeared around her wrist, slowly growing up toward her elbow in lazy, graceful curls. “You are of the Spring and Summer, of growth, and fruit, and trees, and grass—you are the deer, the sparrow, the rabbit, and vole.”

“You are one with…half the world around you.” Bayodan’s hesitation worried her. “You are of life itself.”

It made no sense to her. None of it. Her head was spinning with their words. But in a way, somehow, she knew they were telling the truth. She could feel the grass as if it were only extensions of herself. She could hear the whispering of the great oak behind them that had given her shelter in her panic and terror.

And she could feel the birds in its branches that were sleeping during the moonlight hours.

Half the world around her.

She knew what the other half was.

Death.

Valroy.

The image of an outstretched hand came to her, reaching for her. As if even now, he was calling to her. She remembered how he had screamed her name and begged her to change her mind when she stood among the Gle’Golun. How he had promised her all the world.

And how close she had been to obeying him. The idea of his arms around her, holding her, had nearly changed her mind.

Nearly.

But now? Now, everything had changed.

“What does this mean?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She was trembling again. She suspected the answer that Cruinn and Bayodan were going to tell her, and she was both desperate to hear it and terrified of it at the same time. But it was inevitable.

“What it means is…” Cruinn hesitated, as if not wanting to say the words any more than she wished to hear them.

Bayodan finished the task in his baritone rumble. “It means, love—that you are Seelie.”

Shite.

CHAPTER THREE

Titania woke from her slumber with a start. Pressing her palm to her temple, she shut her eyes and tried to breathe through the visions that still lingered and made it so very hard to discern reality from fiction.

And fiction from future.

A hand stroked her back a moment before arms circled around her. She leaned into their embrace. Her husband shushed her gently, trying to still her trembling frame as he kissed her hair and whispered soft words of assurance.

This was not the first time she had woken up this way.

IMAGES OF SLAUGHTER raced through her mind. Of fields and woods painted crimson over the green with the callous brush of a warlord. The sun blazed high overhead, uncaring for the Seelie corpses that littered the ground.

And there was the man responsible. Valroy. And at his back was an army of grobles, goblins, bogarts, and trolls. The Unseelie King held a sword in one hand and an iron chain in the other. The chain ran around the neck of a woman who knelt as his feet. It was cinched painfully tight. Blood oozed from where the accursed metal touched her skin.

The long, wavy red hair that fell about her naked frame in waves was dotted with leaves and vines. Her head was lowered, but Titania could see the cuts and bruises that marked her. She was fae. And a Seelie.

Titania lifted her hands in the vision, helpless to change her own futile acts. She summoned a wall of nature itself to protect her people from the Bloody Prince. Thorns and thickets began to grow, trees reaching and sprouting to block his way.

With a swift kick to the head of the Seelie who knelt at his feet, Valroy knocked her to the mud, face-down. She pushed up onto her hands, and her shoulders shook, revealing that the fae was crying.

Titania watched as the woman dug her fingers into the mud beneath her.

Like a Winter frost, her brambles and briars withered and fell away. The trees parted.

And all of Titania’s magic crumbled and failed.

The fae looked up. It was then that Titania noticed the thin iron crown the other woman wore. And how it made blood drip down her temples, mixing with the tears that streaked down freckled cheeks.

Yellow-green eyes met hers.

And they begged for forgiveness.

Valroy laughed.

And all the Seelie died.

TITANIA WEPT as the vision faded, turning to bury her head into the crook of Oberon’s neck. He held her, stroking her hair, shushing her patiently. When the moment passed and she could breathe once more, she tipped her head up to kiss him.

She kissed him as though she never would have a chance to do so again.

For perhaps she was right. Perhaps she never would.

When she yanked him down atop her, he chuckled at her sudden eagerness. He did not understand, but he did not complain. A strong and sure hand roamed along her body, familiar and practiced. He had two thousand years to learn her, after all.

And she, him.

Desperate to chase the fear away, she reached between them. Wrapping her hand around him, she was treated to a moan against her lips. It did not take long before he was inside her with a thrust, and all her visions of war and death were chased away by that perfect fullness.

When all was finished, she on his chest, panting, her eyes shut as she basked in the fading light of pleasure.

“Might I ask what that was about?”

Pushing up onto her elbows, she studied him for a moment. He would always take her breath away, as he had on the very first day they met. His hair was of the richest green, pooling around him like a Summer field. She often joked that his cheekbones could be used to slice food. Eyes of gold watched her in patient curiosity.

He was accustomed to her visions.

And their aftermath.

She kissed him, wanting to feel the press of those thin, firm lips against hers. He broke away before the embrace once more grew heated, eying her with an expression that she was dodging the question. And she was. Oh, she was. She was tempted to straddled him to chase away the darkness a second time. He would always be irresistible to her, like an apple on a high branch. And he continued to be the only one who could ground her in her wilder moments.

“The gods have shown me the death of the Seelie.” She tucked her head against his chest again. “They have shown me the end of our people.”

He remained silent, expecting her to continue, and knowing she still needed to unwind the mystery of what she had been shown.

“I saw Valroy. He kept a tortured woman at his knees—a prisoner, a pet, and his queen. She was Seelie.”

He grunted at that. “Did you recognize her?”

“No. I did not. But her power, dear husband…it outmatched mine. Without trying, she undid my magic.”

“How is that possible?”

“I do not know.” She lifted her head to watch him. His features were creased in equal parts concern and confusion. No one could outmatch her gifts. No one. Not even him. And yet…in that dream, she had been beaten as if she were nothing but a child.

Oberon shut his eyes as he thought. “He does not have this woman yet. If he did, we would already be dead.”

“I agree. This was a warning of what is to come if we do not act.” She let out a breath. “He has not yet found her.”

Golden eyes reopened to fix upon hers. “Then our path is clear. We must find her first.”

“I AM A WHAT?”

Cruinn and Bayodan both jolted in surprise at her shout.

“No, no, no, no—” She scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over the cloak they had given her. Cruinn reached for her, but they were a moment too late. She felt the grass beneath her feet as if it were her own hair. Stumbling, desperate to get away from the sensation, she nearly fell, grabbing the great old oak to stop herself.

As her hand touched the bark, her eyes went wide. She watched in horrified fascination as her skin began to change to match it, the texture shifting and warping until her arm was made of wood up to her elbow!

Screaming, she ripped her hand away, expecting it to hurt. Or for her arm to be a wooden club. But her fingers could still move, her wrist could still roll about, and the bark that had replaced her flesh began to fade.

Crying, she collapsed to her knees, gripping her head in her hands. “Please, make it stop. I don’t want to be a monster! Please…”

She felt someone approach, their feet in the grass that still felt like part of her. They knelt in front of her. “Look.” It was Cruinn.

Lifting her head, she watched as the form of the beautiful woman they had taken melted away. All color and flesh drained from them, until they were that strange shifting creature of shards of glass. Some large, some miniscule, all delicate and swirling over each other in a constant state of change. They smiled. She could hear the sound of scraping glass as they did.

As they lifted a hand to her, palm facing the air, she couldn’t help but stare in fascination as the pieces they were made of slowly smoothed and flattened until they were of the purest crystal. Smooth, and translucent, and beautiful.

The glass shifted to bark, just like her skin had been. Then to skin, and to grass, to silk, to dirt…then back to glass. “Look at what we are. We were created from nothing—from remnants. From broken pieces of other things, we were formed. We have no shape. We have no name for what we are. We merely exist. Are we a monster?”

She looked up at them, and at those strange, shifting eyes. They smiled, a slight tilt to their head. With a sheepish smile, rather overwhelmed, she had to reply honestly. “Yes.”

Cruinn laughed loudly and threw their arms around her, hugging her into their chest. They were smooth, and surprisingly soft, as she had no choice but to hug them back. “Then let us be monsters together! What is wrong with being a monster, I ask? Nothing, as far as I can tell. Because look at you—” They gently pushed her back so they could cradle her cheek in their palm, smiling down at her with nothing but tender affection. “You are so beautiful.”

She was caught for a moment at how the moonlight glittered off Cruinn’s many shards like bits of stars pulled down from the heavens and made real. She reached up and ran her hand over what they had created for hair—long, and smooth, and the same color as the rest of them. That was to say, none at all. “As are you.”

They kissed her cheek and held the embrace for a moment. She remembered what it felt like to press her forehead to the windows of her childhood home to peer out at the snowstorms on a dark Winter night.

“Now,” Cruinn whispered as they broke the embrace, “we have established that we are both monstrous and yet beautiful.”

She sat back on her heels and looked down at herself, still shrouded—and rather poorly— only by the cape Bayodan had given her. “I wish I could create clothing.” She chuckled. “I suppose that’s rather trite and meaningless in a world where everyone wanders about without them.” She gestured at the goat man, who was leaning against the great old oak, his tail swishing about him.

“I have a coat.” He smirked.

“You also have no pants,” she retorted.

He grinned. “My manhood stays hidden until it is needed. Unlike others, who must let it dangle about. Pants are not required for me.”

She paused, thought it over, and then shrugged a shoulder. “It is still rude. But at least you have made an attempt with that coat of yours, even if it does not make much sense.”

That made him bark a laugh. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. It was like one of the oilskins with the cape about the shoulders that she had seen her father wear, or the few sailors she had seen when she had traveled to the ports. “My upper body has less fur. I tend to be cold.”

The idea of Lord Bayodan—a bizarre and powerful fae—growing chill made her nearly fall over laughing. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with the urge to knit him a wool shirt. It would be difficult to pull over those horns of his, I imagine. The image of that, of him tangled up in the fabric, made her laugh even harder.

It was not even that funny. But her body needed it, somehow finding catharsis in the moment, as all her confusion and agony found release. When her laughter died down, she found herself reaching for Cruinn’s hand, even if she were not sure why.

They took it without hesitation.

“I am a Seelie,” she said quietly, letting the words sink in. “I have been brought back from the dead as a Seelie.”

“No, not dead.” Bayodan shook his head. “You were alive. Your mortal form was gone, yes. Your body was devoured. But the Gle’Golun made you part of a whole. You lived within the world around you, and you still do. The change is only that you have once more become an individual.”

She looked down at her hand, at the green tone around her wrists, at the vines that spiraled through her fingers. She knew those vines. She knew the delicate red bloom that was forming on her forearm. “The Gle’Golun. They are still a part of me.”

“We thought they had died. The field is empty, filled only with corpses of old flowers and old beasts.” Cruinn let out a breath. “But now we see they are not gone. They are merely you. And you are them.”

“I can feel—I can feel all of it.” She placed her palm down in the grass by her knee. “Every blade. Every root. I can hear the oak, feel you where you lean upon it, Bayodan. But that’s not all. I…” She looked off toward the forest that surrounded the field, some hundreds of yards away. “If I shift my gaze—it—I can feel it all.”

“All?” Cruinn squeezed her hand, pulling her attention back to them. “What do you mean all?”

Shutting her eyes, she took in a wavering breath as she let herself listen. Let herself feel the entirety of the world around her.

Insects. Field mice. Birds. Bats. Grass. Weeds. Flowers. Trees. The moles that burrowed within the roots. It went on and on without end. It stretched in all directions, almost maddening in its expanse. She squeezed Cruinn’s hand tightly, tethering herself to where she was. Lest she disappear and reappear somewhere else again. There were no other words for it. “All of life.”

Bayodan let out a huff. “By the stars. By the stars, Cruinn, what has she become?”

“Something incredible.” Cruinn kissed her fingers, and the gesture brought her out of wherever it was she had gone. She watched them as they kissed her again and again, as if in awe. It was almost…reverent. “Something wonderful.” Meeting her gaze, they smiled brightly and clasped her hand between both of theirs. “My lady, I am honored to be your guardian.”

“But—but you are both Unseelie. Surely, this cannot be.”

“If you had asked me yesterday, I would have said it was an impossibility. It should not be. Yet here we be, love.” Bayodan sighed heavily. “And I loathe the chaos this will cause.”

Suddenly, she found herself worried for them. “Then, I release you both of your bonds. I will not have either of you coming to harm on my behalf.”

“Then who will protect you when the sun sets?” Cruinn chuckled.

None of this was adding up in her mind. She pulled her cloak around her body and settled into the grass once more. “Why did you swear yourselves to me in the Court that night?”

“Valroy asked us to do so. Insomuch as he asks anything, which is to say he demanded we do so.” Bayodan sniffed and shifted, scratching his back on the tree behind him. “He came to us and said that to prove our loyalty, he needed a favor from us. He knew the attempts on your life would continue.”

“We failed.” Cruinn sighed. “And we were punished for it.”

“No, that isn’t fair. I was with Valroy when the stag came to me. There was nothing you could have done.” She shook her head, frowning. “Did he not understand?”

“Oh, he did.” Bayodan chuckled. “That is why we are both still alive. We were merely exiled from the Maze. We can no longer set foot inside its walls.”

“For the better, I say.” Cruinn smiled. “I hate that place.”

“At least you were not beaten or tortured like poor Astasha.” Idly, she picked up one of the leaves that were part of her hair and studied it. How…odd. Experimentally, she plucked it. It felt just the same as tugging out a strand of hair. She began to twirl it between her fingers, watching it spin in idle fascination.

“Aye. I was never fond of her, but I hate to see what she has become.” The goat man finally stepped forward from the tree and moved to sit beside them in the grass, his weight settling heavily. He was big—matching Valroy from shoulder to shoulder and in muscle. But Valroy seemed light where Bayodan moved with a heaviness to him.

“Become?”

“She still lives,” Cruinn explained quietly. “If you can call it that.”

She winced. “All of this is my fault. All of this has come to pass because of me.” When she tried to curl in on herself, to form a ball and wish she might hide, Bayodan pulled her back against his chest.

“No.” He wrapped an arm around her and tugged, shifting her to rest against him. “This is because of the prince. Not you.”

“And what he has done to Astasha is hardly the worst he’s paid out. I would rather her fate than what he did to some of the members of the Court.” Cruinn lay down on the grass, nestling their head on her lap.

Over the cloak.

Thankfully.

She reached out and stroked their strange, glass hair. It felt like normal hair, if slightly too cold, perhaps. But it was not unpleasant. They smiled, hummed, and snuggled closer to her.

“We are your protectors.” Bayodan kissed the top of her head. “We failed you before, and we shall not fail you again. When the sun sets, we will be at your side.”

“Valroy will be livid with you.”

“Valroy will not know.” Cruinn snickered. “He is a prince, but he is not a god. We will help you hide. The forests are vast, and once you learn to control your power, there will be nothing he can do to root you out, even if he knew you have returned to us.”

“There is but one complication, however.” Bayodan rested his cheek atop her head, and she found her eyes slipping shut at the sound of his rumbling voice against her back. “We do not know Seelie magic. The powers of life and light are not our domain. If you are to learn your gifts…”

The shapeshifter in her lap sighed heavily and hugged her knees as if she were some manner of pillow. “But the Seelie could be dangerous for her, my love. If they learn who she is, then they might take her to the queen.”

“I know so little of your world.” She let out a breath and corrected herself. “Our world. There is a Seelie queen?”

“And king. Oberon and Titania.” Bayodan grunted in disgust.

“I know those names.” She looked up at Bayodan in astonishment. “I have seen that play!”

“That damnable skit.” Cruinn laughed and rolled onto their back, still lying in her lap, and smiled up at her. They reached up and began to play with a lock of her hair. “It was both terribly accurate and hysterically inaccurate all at once. Valroy had it performed at the Court two years back. We did love to see Titania brought low and forced to fuck a mortal wearing the head of an ass, however. I love that scene.” Cruinn smirked. “We likely added more detail to the moment than the production you saw.”

She tried not to picture that in her mind. “It did not seem so terrible an act when I saw the play performed. It did not trouble me.”

“Ah, but perhaps it should have.” Bayodan turned her attention up to him with the crook of a finger beneath her chin. She watched in awe as the five hidden eyes on his face opened, bright red from lid to lid, with only black pinpricks in the center, and all watching her.

He was frightening.

She could not look away.

“They could put you under a spell, Lady Abigail.” His voice was a low, earthy growl. She wanted to sink closer to it. “Just like this one. I could make you straddle me and whisper words of love. You would believe your devotion, through-and-through, without a shadow of a doubt in your heart, your mind, or your soul. I loathe the games that I can play with the minds of those around me, yet they delight in it. It is a crime amongst the Unseelie to tamper with the minds of other fae…while they see it as a sport. We kill—they lie.”

Those terrible eyes slid shut and vanished.

And just like that, the world once more snapped into clarity. Her hand was pressed to his chest over his heart and had been drifting lower. She squeaked and pulled her hand back as though she had touched a burning flame. “Oh!” Then came the anger. She growled and slapped her palm hard against his chest. “You cur!”

He laughed and hugged her again, as if he had not just invaded her mind. “Forgive me. I was merely proving my argument.”

“There are other ways to do so. Such as simple discourse.” She sighed heavily and shook her head, returning her back to his chest so she might look out at the field. “But you have made your point.” She suddenly felt so tired. “Titania was harmed in the play, despite it having been presented as a harmless prank. And the Seelie are not to be trusted. Yet…I now find myself ranking amongst them.”

“Bayodan paints them in too harsh a light, perhaps.” Cruinn was still toying with her hair, wrapping it around their fingers in coils, a slightly dreamy smile on their face. “They are not all terrible, and neither are we. They say the same rotten things about us, I’m sure. But you must be careful. Their queen and king will stop at nothing to prevent the destruction Valroy seeks to wage. They are even more desperate to prevent his ascension than we are.”

“I am to be pursued day and night, then? Hunted by both clans alike?” She let out a whine. “What manner of life is that?”

“We do not get to choose the paths before us, simply how we wish to walk along them.” Bayodan kissed the top of her head again. “You will be all right. This was done for a reason. You simply must discern what that reason is.”

“This is the Morrigan’s doing, I’m certain of it.” She shut her eyes and leaned back against the goat man. There was strength in his frame, and it made her feel safe. Though perhaps she had no reason to, she trusted them both. “She brought me here to punish me for my foolish attempt at escaping what she demands to be my fate.”

“It cannot be simply to marry the prince.” Cruinn hummed. “You would be Unseelie if that were the case.”

“Perhaps.” Bayodan combed a hand slowly through her hair. It was starting to make her even more tired than she was before. “Perhaps not. You must rest, Lady Abigail. You are frayed and exhausted. When the sun rises, we will not be able to keep watch. But until then, you should sleep.”

“Here?” They were sitting at the foot of a tree in a field, after all.

“I’m quite comfortable where I am.” Cruinn chuckled. “Come, lie beside me. Bayodan will take the first watch, won’t you, my love?”

The goat rolled his crimson eyes. “As always.”

Cruinn sat up to tug her to the ground, gently urging her down. She found herself lying with her head against Bayodan’s great, furry thigh. She thought it might be uncomfortable or scratchy, but his fur was shockingly soft and smooth. It reminded her more of a cat’s than a goat’s.

Nor did he smell like a farm animal.

That was a nice surprise.

Cruinn was there beside her, their head resting on her stomach, an arm draped lazily over her body. Bayodan resumed slowly stroking her hair, his sharp nails grazing against her scalp. Sleep was calling for her, and it was coming quickly.

She should be recoiling from their touch. This was inappropriate, how they were touching her. How Cruinn’s hand was against her naked skin, cool and comforting. But it did not feel sexual. Oh, she was certain that if she wished it to be, it would turn that way quite quickly.

There was too much burning in her mind, too much unease and fear.

Is that the only reason? And why would they put themselves in danger, only for me? I have done nothing to earn their loyalty or their friendship.

But they both did so much seem to enjoy touching her. It was almost distracting, if she were not so tired. Perhaps to them, it was not so strange at all. Every fae she had met to date seemed to be far too personal in their mannerisms.

No. Every other fae.

I am a fae, now.

I am Seelie.

I simply wish I knew why.

CHAPTER FOUR

Valroy stepped up to the altar in the center of the two dozen monolithic stone archways. The moon was high in the sky, and he glared at it.

Not for any particular reason.

But simply because he had an overwhelming need to murder something.

He knew the “conversation” he was about to have would not aid his mood in the slightest. The giant stone slab before him was worn with time and covered in moss. The limestone altar was old when he was created, two thousand years ago.

Upon it he placed two items.

A withered flower, rusty brown like dried blood where it had once been crimson.

And a small wooden talisman, crudely carved into the shape of an owl.

Placing his hands on the altar, he took a moment. It was meant to be to gather his thoughts. But instead, all it did was let loose a torrent of rage inside him.

Snapping his wings wide, he dug his nails into the stone, leaving bright white trenches in the surface. “What is the meaning of this, Mother Morrigan? Answer me!” His shout echoed across the archways, bouncing back at him as shadows of his voice, multiplying several times over as though one Valroy was not enough to contain his fury.

Perhaps that were true.

Silence.

Always silence.

But there were crows circling in the dark sky, silhouettes against the stars behind them, barely visible except for when they made the pinpricks of light flicker.

“Morrigan!”

Nothing.

Baring his teeth, he snarled and lowered his head. But then, to even his own surprise, he began to laugh. It, too, echoed off the stones. Relaxing his wings, he picked up the small wooden talisman from the stone and had to be careful not to crush it in his palm.

He would need it.

“You are to blame for this, aren’t you?” He lifted his head to stare up at the night sky and the swirling crows. “It was not some Unseelie traitor who took Abigail from me.” Grinning, he found himself almost impressed. “It was you.”

There was no sound. No denial, no confirmation. No reply came at all, though he did not expect one. Merely the swirling, silent crows that watched him in his fury. Mocking his futile anger.

“No one else could destroy the Gle’Golun. No one else would have left me this ‘gift.’” He grimaced. “I thought perhaps the flowers had died on their own—or that my attempts to destroy them had poisoned them. But her bones were not there. She was missing with only this necklace left for me to find. I could have raised her ghost and discerned her killer, had her bones been left behind. But no—even that had been taken from me. But I did not need them in the end, did I? Because that was when I knew.” He smirked. “Only you, dear mother, would take her bones and leave me this trinket. Only you would wish to remind me of how close I had come to having my crown merely to have it taken away.”

Nothing but the whisper of wind met him.

“You created me for this!” He spread his wings. “This is my purpose! You bred the demon, you bore me in the battlefield, you wanted me!” He slammed his fist against his chest. “Am I not what you expected? Am I not the weapon you wished to own? I am what you made me to be! This is your fault!”

He was shaking.

But he was also on the verge of tears.

What?

That confounded him. For a beat, his rage hesitated.

How dare you do this to me?

The pause was over. Balling his fist, he drove it down onto the giant stone altar and shattered it. With a deafening crack and thud, it fell to the grass and dirt as nothing more than rubble.

With a low chuckle, he grinned again, clenching the wooden talisman in his palm. “When I am done waging my war upon the Seelie and crushed them beneath my boot—when I am done destroying the humans and unraveling all that they have made—mark me, Mother Morrigan.” He spread his wings wide, to their fullest extent beside him.

“I will come…for you.”

SHE WATCHED as Valroy lifted a sword and clicked his tongue at his opponent. He stood across from a younger Unseelie fae, whose skin was a strange shade of bluish grey. She was not sure how she knew the other fae was younger. Perhaps it was the terrified way in which he gripped his sword with both hands.

“Your form is all wrong.” The prince shook his head. “Narrow your stance.”

He had said the same to her, once. When she had flailed at him pointlessly with a knife in an attempt to hurt him. Or in an attempt to do something. To have agency. To have power. Valroy circled his opponent and then lunged.

The young fae nearly fell to the ground, he staggered so quickly away from the attack.

Valroy laughed quietly, a cruel and superior twist to his grin. “Intimidation is half the fight. If your opponent fears you, you’re already halfway there…” He lunged again, and his trainee tripped over his own leg and fell to the ground. He shot forward, sword raised, ready to run it through the other fae’s chest. Valroy sighed and dug his sword into the dirt by the young man’s head. “You aren’t ready yet, Hir. We’ll train you again in another season. Go. Before I kill you instead.”

Hir scrambled to his feet and took off running into the darkness.

Valroy stretched, arching his back. She could hear it pop form where she stood, lurking by the edge of the trees.

“You can come out, you know.” Blue eyes, glowing faintly, turned to her. She froze. He smirked. “Little Seelie, you should not be here.” He stretched out a hand to her and curled his fingers, beckoning her close.

Does he not know me? Of course he doesn’t. This is a dream. She stepped carefully from the darkness, waiting for him to lunge at her as he did his Unseelie student.

Blue eyes watched her in a strange kind of eager fascination. His gaze raked over her, down then back up. She wondered for a moment what form she had taken—if she was naked—she supposed it did not matter in a dream. “You have come into my Maze, Seelie. Do you wish to die?”

“No.”

“Hm. We shall see.” He yanked his sword from the dirt and turned to face her. “Have you come to learn to fight, perhaps?” He grinned. “I am the Champion of the Blood Ring, after all.”

“I am useless with a sword.” In the safety of the dream, she felt…bolder. She took another step toward him.

“I did not ask if you wished to learn to wield a blade, Seelie. I asked if you wished to learn to fight.” He stayed where he was, gaze never leaving her. She felt as if she were slowly approaching a wild beast—a bear, perhaps—her hand outstretched holding a dead trout.

Only she was the morsel.

She did not know why she stepped closer. Fear rushed through her, but in equal measure was something else. Desire, perhaps? Or was it more complicated than that? When she put only an arm’s span between them, his wings snapped wide, challenging her resolve.

She froze once more but held her ground, watching him with wide eyes. What would he do? Would he strike her? Would he take her?

But this Valroy was only in her mind. It would be whatever she wished him to do…or wished he would not do.

“Brave little Seelie…” He reached out, carefully gathering up a long strand of her hair, curling it around his fingers. “You have more spine than that whelp Hir. I would love to teach you.” He tilted his head to the side slightly, blue eyes focusing downward again at her body. “I would love to teach you a great many things.”

Her stomach coiled and churned like a million snakes had taken residence there. “Oh?”

What a foolish thing to say.

She knew what he meant.

She knew what he wanted.

But she wanted to hear him say it.

Before she could blink, her wrist was caught in his hand. He tugged her to him, whirled her about, and had her pinned with her back to his chest. She went to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth and tilted her head back to press it to him.

One of his wings kept her pinned to him, the claws digging into her thigh.

He tutted and lowered his head close to her ear, his voice a dusky rumble. “Little Seelie. Coming into my Maze…strolling right up to me. And you do not even know why, do you? You cannot even recognize it in yourself. You want to know what it is like to be taken, don’t you? To be hunted.”

A moment later, and he had her up against a tree, her hands pressed hard against the craggy bark of the trunk. He was still behind her, though he was not restraining her. Hands stroked up her back. She was topless, at the very least.

Her cheeks went warm.

“Go on, wood wife. Run from me. Follow the roots and be gone. Disappear into the trees and spare yourself what I will do.” It was a threat and a promise. “For if you do not…”

For a moment, he did nothing. Her hands stroked up over her shoulders, but they did not grab her. Did not force her. She could run. She knew she could. She could do exactly as he said.

But she did not.

“Brave little Seelie. Foolish little Seelie.” He chuckled. “Good.”

His thigh pressed between hers, and she gasped as her feet left the ground. She had to balance her weight against the tree as he stepped into her, his hand slipping around her waist, fingers edging beneath the line of her trousers.

Oh. She still had trousers on.

That was nice.

For what good they would do.

The claw of a wing wrapped around her arm, and he nuzzled his head into her hair. “Do you even know why you have come?”

She could only gasp as he pressed himself into her, pulling her hips back against his, grinding her body against his thigh. Her gasp ended in a whimper. “Gods…”

“No. That’s not it.” He chuckled. His fingers, now against her abdomen, slid lower beneath her pants, letting her body slide forward down his thigh only to yank her back. The friction was maddening.

Her palms were still pressed to the bark. She could escape. She could feel the tree’s song quietly in the background. She could disappear and be free of him at any point.

But the song of the tree was drowned out by his touch—warm, and strong, and sure. When he ground her body against him again, she shut her eyes and let out a small cry.

He slid his fingers lower, cupping her, and she arched her back, pressing her shoulders against his chest. He growled low, the sound reverberating through her. “This is why you are here, little Seelie. This is the lesson you have come to learn. You have wandered into my lair…because you wish to be my prey.”

THE SENSATION of lips against hers woke her from a dream. What she was dreaming of, she could not say. The memory of arms around her, of dark wings. A voice whispering darkly in her ear, perhaps. But it faded too quickly for her to be sure.

The kiss that woke her was tender and sweet, and she blinked her eyes.

For a moment, she thought perhaps it had been Marcus who had woken her. But he never once kissed her like that.

Cruinn.

They smiled down at her and ran their cool, glass fingers down her cheek. “We must go, my lady. Dawn has come, and we must away before daylight reigns.”

Letting out a quiet hum, she sat up and rubbed at her eyes. Her mind was struggling to catch up with what was happening. All of what had happened to her in the past day came back to her like the tide. Slow, but inevitable. “What shall I do?”

Cruinn stood, and she looked up to see them and Bayodan standing beside her.

Bayodan reached down and gently stroked her hair. “Be careful, is what you shall do. Stay to the forests where you are safest. Talk with no one, seek out no one.”

“And if someone should happen across you, do not give them your name.” Cruinn smiled, the slowly brightening sky reflecting off them in ambers and pale yellows. “The Seelie will already know ‘The Tragedy of the Witch Abigail Moore,’ the future Unseelie queen who died by murder to save the world.”

“But it was not murder. I chose to die.” She pulled the green cloak tighter around her, having honestly forgotten that she was entirely naked for a moment.

“It makes a better story if it was.” Bayodan huffed. “And that is all the Seelie care about.”

Cruinn chuckled at Bayodan’s comment, before turning their attention back to her. “We will return to you the moment the sun has set.”

“I will try not to wander too far.” She stood, brushing a few pieces of loose grass off the wool cloak. I really must find clothes. I wonder if I can make them now, like Bayodan and Valroy?

“It matters not if you do. We will find you, no matter where you go.” Bayodan picked up her hand and kissed the back of her knuckles. “The sun shall set before you know it. The days are still short this time of year.”

That was a relief.

Well, partially.

With their safety comes the danger of Valroy.

She did not know what would happen if he found her, but she knew it would be terrible. She knew he would view her death as a betrayal—that she had rejected him. And in a way, she supposed that was precisely what she had done. She had chosen death over the inevitability of her surrender to him.

Because it had been inevitable. She knew the moment she saw him in that pool of water, looking terrible and beautiful in the same breath, that she was one moment away from joining him. And she knew the moment she tasted him—if she survived—she would give him all that he wanted.

And all the death that would follow.

Can he even marry me now that I am Seelie? Am I useless to him, as I am now? “If—if I am found out…”

“Shush. Do not speak that way.” Cruinn stepped into her and kissed her forehead. “We will talk more of this new life of yours when we return. Now go, grow yourself some apples to eat, and find somewhere to rest.”

“I simply hope the apples do not grow from me.” She wrinkled her nose.

They both laughed. Bayodan took Cruinn by the hand and led them away. He glanced back at her. “Good day, Lady Abigail. We will see you soon.” And with that, they shimmered and were gone, as though they never existed there at all.

And in that same moment, the sun rose. It swept over the world around her.

She gasped.

The great old oak was no longer silver-barked and bare-branched. It was a rich, lush brown, and green leaves appeared on branches as if their absence had only been an illusion. Where the sun swept over the grass, it was now filled with wildflowers in sprigs of yellow, white, blues, and lavenders.

She watched a little white butterfly bob through the air beside her. The air was no longer chill but kissed with the warmth of the sun.

The land of the Unseelie was beautiful but eerie. Strange, and ghastly, and dangerous.

This?

This felt a world away. And she supposed it quite literally was. It was hard to believe the two even existed in the same space, or that the tree behind her was even the same as had stood in its place a moment prior. She let out a breath.

Tir n’Aill was a strange place.

Glancing about herself, she sighed. “Now what do I do?” She did not expect an answer, and she received none. She was rather grateful for that. With a shake of her head, she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her hair and began to walk toward the line of the forest at the edge of the field.

Hide. That was what she could do.

She would do as Cruinn and Bayodan instructed her. She would find herself some quiet place by a stream and wait until darkness came once more. Perhaps she would try to work her new magic and grow some food to eat. That sounds rather nice, as I am starving.

It was halfway across the field that a thought occurred to her.

“Why am I walking?”

She stared down at the grass and flowers at her feet. Wiggling her toes, she was glad to see them. She enjoyed having proper feet. As nice as having hooves might be—she honestly hadn’t had them for very long. But Bayodan seemed to make do just fine. Shutting her eyes, she let her awareness shift. Just to the left of where she was, and down to the grass, and the roots, and the wild.

And she traveled.

Following the sound of a stream, she felt the doe who bowed her head to drink from the crystal waters. She saw the fish, darting amongst the rocks. The frogs that burrowed in the muck and waited for the opportunity to catch a mosquito from the air.

Opening her eyes, she laughed.

She honestly laughed.

Because there she was, standing beside the stream. The early morning sun was filtering through the leaves, and casting everything in a wonderful amber tone. Perhaps this would not be so bad. Perhaps—

She took a step back and tripped over the root of a tree. Falling, she caught herself on the evergreen.

And was instantly somewhere else.

Tumbling to the ground, she was now deep in the woods. She had no idea where she was, or how far she had gone, but she had a sense that it had been some distance.

She lay there in the pinecones and needles and stared up at the empty branches and the high canopy overhead.

And she laughed.

This time, mostly because of how ridiculous her situation was.

“Oh, Aunt Margery. What would you think of me now?” She sat up and brushed a few of the pine needles from her bare legs. “You would likely lecture me about running about the woods nude.”

She smiled at the thought of her aunt’s wizened, creased face. She could almost hear the words coming out of her mouth, as she waggled a crooked finger at her.

She mimed her aunt’s tone as she lectured herself. “Running ’bout the woods nude will only result in thorns getting in places where they ought not be!”

And so came that bittersweet sorrow of someone who was gone. Shutting her eyes, she sighed. “You would know what to do right now, wouldn’t you?” Brushing her fingers to her chest where her talisman was, she—

Wait.

She reached behind her neck. Perhaps in all the nonsense it merely—

No.

It was gone.

With a wavering breath, she shook her head. What did she expect? But a stark emptiness washed over her, now knowing it was gone forever. It was likely buried in the muck where a field of meat-hungry flowers had once grown.

Looking down at her hand, she opened her palm and watched as a little crimson flower bloomed there, as if by her command. “You wouldn’t happen to have it, would you?”

Perhaps it had been by her will that the flower had grown. Or perhaps it was sentient. She did not know. But it did not hurt to ask.

Sadly, the flower did nothing. With a breath, she looked up once more at blue sky that filtered through the canopy of trees overhead. “Forgive me, Aunt Margery. I tried so very hard.”

Standing, she brushed herself off. Being naked in the woods, cloak or no cloak, was…really rather inconvenient in unexpected ways. Aunt Margery would have been right. “No point stomping around as the gods made me, if I have a choice about it.” She looked down at her palms again. “Which is to say, do I have a choice about it?”

Could she work magic like she had seen the others perform? Valroy seemed to be able to summon anything he wished from thin air. Could she?

How, precisely, could she even try?

Shutting her eyes, she tried her best to focus, without even knowing what it was that she was trying to accomplish. But magic was will, and will could be expressed in different ways. Steadying her breath, she whispered her desire to the world around her. “I would like clothing, please.”

No harm in being polite.

When something touched her, she yelped and jumped back. With a squeak she—yet again, once more—tripped over something on the ground and landed on her arse, tangled in her cloak.

Looking down, she blinked.

And then began to laugh.

Lying on the ground on her back, she just stretched her arms out wide and howled in laughter. When she finished, she lifted her head and looked down at herself.

At clothing made entirely of thorned vines and red flowers.

Sitting up, she examined it in better detail. It was oddly comfortable, far more so than it had any business being. Her only complaint was that there simply was not much of it. Her breasts were secured, in a fashion, and her lower body was…well, it was not much better than the terrible undergarments that Valroy had given her to wear. But it was something. Turning her attention to one of the vines about her wrist, she smiled. “Thank you.”

There really was no point in being rude.

CHAPTER FIVE

Abigail sat and sang quietly to herself, her feet resting in the brook she had found. She had finally managed to find somewhere to sit, and she was enjoying having some peaceful time to herself for the first time in…she had no idea how long it had been.

Did the time she spent “dead” count as part of that span?

Or only the time she was an individual, as she was now?

She supposed it hardly mattered.

She sat and watched the sun as it slowly disappeared to the horizon. The bright blue sky turned to ruddy oranges and yellows, life itself blazing like Autumn leaves before the Wintery darkness came to chase them away.

And with the disappearing sun, the world around her once more changed. The browns of the bark on the trees became whites, silvers, and blacks. Some of the species even changed before her eyes—ash to birch, and so on. Branches, once full of leaves and life, grew barren. And those that did not, the color took on a pale, bluish hue.

It was magical to watch. And in truth, it took her breath away. Leaves of pale yellow that had drifted down beside her turned to silvery white. And when she caught one to examine it, she found the flesh of the leaf was translucent, revealing the webbing of veins like the wings of a dragonfly.

Day to night. Light to dark. Life to death.

Both were immeasurably and equally beautiful in their turns. Simply…different.

The world around her was still alive, however. She could feel the trees whisper, even as they did before. The creatures and critters that scurried about in the underbrush were no less alive than they had been moments before.

But now…they were pursued. She could feel them at the edges of her mind. The hunters had come, and it was time for the prey to hide.

I am still firmly on that list.

“There you are!”

She jolted and squeaked in surprise, whirling to see two figures come from the darkness of the woods. Her momentary fear faded as she saw the excited face of Cruinn and the far more mildly amused Bayodan. He carried a basket in his hands.

“You startled me.” She smiled. “Although I suppose that isn’t terribly difficult.”

“Not in the slightest.” Cruinn flopped down beside her and lay on their back, stretching out wide beside her. “What a wonderful spot for a picnic.”

“Oh, don’t tease me.” She put her hand to her stomach. It grumbled at even the mention of food. “I am starving.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Bayodan hummed and put the basket down to her other side, and with a grunt, sat in the grass. He lifted a cloth from the top of the pile of what he had brought, revealing bread, cheese, fruit, vegetables—and several bottles of wine. “I had thought you would have grown yourself some.”

“I…tried.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I fear it did no good.”

“You did manage to summon yourself some clothing, however.” Bayodan studied her for a moment. He reached over and brushed his fingers over one of the vines that ran up along the base of her throat to wind around behind her neck. “I see I needn’t have bothered to bring you any.”

“I think I would prefer—whoa!” Abigail nearly screamed as Cruinn suddenly pulled her up to her feet, going from where they had been lying in the grass to standing in an instant. Before she could react, they had already untied her cloak. It pooled at her feet.

She struggled with the urge to cover herself with her hands. She was covered—if barely—but she felt even more under scrutiny now than when she was nude.

“Abigail—look at you.” Cruinn tilted their head as they raked their gaze down her body and back up. They reached out to stroke her shoulder, then down, grazing over the side of her breast and to her side. She tried not to flinch away, and mostly succeeded. They smiled. “Still so very shy.”

“I am not…I know this is how you lot are.” Abigail took a step back and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I mean no offense.”

“We are tame for the fae.” Bayodan chuckled. “Believe me. And no offense is taken. Our kind is not shy about the offers of affection and take no offense when it is shunned.” He reached into the basket beside him and pulled out a folded pile of fabric. “Here, love. If it makes you feel better.”

“Awwwuh,” Cruinn whined. “But—but—it’s such a waste to cover her up!”

She took the pile of clothes and chuckled at Cruinn’s childishness. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed their cheek. “Thank you for flattering me.” She went to Bayodan and, bending low, paid him the same favor. “And thank you for bringing me clothes.”

The goat man chuckled, bowed his horned head in reply, and began to unpack the rest of what he had carried in his basket. Letting him set up their strange picnic, she walked behind a tree to change.

Not that it mattered.

They had both already seen her quite naked.

And even if she had taken that as a fluke…why did she care? I am not human anymore. I am fae. Whether I like it or not, this is what I have become. Looking down at herself, she let out a breath and willed the vines to recede.

And they did.

I am fae.

Still, she tugged on the black trousers and pulled the green cotton shirt over her head. It was flouncy, and clearly made for a man, with how low-cut it was in the front. Or perhaps that is also by their design. She smirked. She knew if she wished it, Cruinn and Bayodan would both lie with her.

And there was a part of her that was deeply curious.

But there was guilt associated with it. Why? For whom?

She blinked, freezing as the thought came to her.

It was for Valroy.

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of her foolishness.

When she walked back to them, they were sitting beside each other, with Bayodan’s arm wrapped around the waist of the shapeshifter. She smiled and sat across from where the food had been laid out. “I realize I know nothing about you two.”

“Hm.” Bayodan tilted his head thoughtfully. “Not much to know.”

“Pah. That’s a lie. He enjoys being mysterious.” Cruinn handed her a glass of wine and gestured to the food. “Eat and drink quickly, darling Abigail, before you faint.”

“Eat and drink slowly.” She laughed, reaching eagerly for the cheese and the bread before her. “Lest I become falling down drunk in a matter of minutes.”

“Would that be so bad?” Bayodan arched a thick eyebrow, and then grinned, a little bit of devilish mischief in his expression.

“Hm. That remains to be seen.” The taste of food on her tongue made her groan in relief. She hadn’t eaten in—again, she had no clue. “I wonder—do I need as much food to live now? Or do I sustain myself as plants do, relying on sunlight?” She made a face at the thought. “Am I a crop to be harvested?”

Her two companions howled in laughter, and Cruinn left Bayodan’s side to sit beside her instead, hugging her tight to their side. It was fascinating, watching the shifting glass pieces that made them up whirl and change positions to create a smooth, solid surface when it touched her.

“The world is filled with those who create and those who destroy.” Cruinn smiled down at her. “You are part of that cycle now. The Seelie are all that we are not. Surely you can sense this.”

“I can. I felt it when the sun went down.” Pausing to eat a piece of cheese, she thought over her words. “I…am still prey. I am still lesser.”

“Lesser!” Bayodan grunted. “Is the stag lesser than the wolf?”

“One eats the other,” she muttered into her glass of wine.

“And without one, both die,” he argued back. “Without the wolf, the deer would overpopulate and destroy the forests. Without the deer, the wolf starves.” He gestured idly, his long fingers ending in pointed nails. He reminded her somewhat of Valroy, but far older and more mature. It was refreshing. “Without the deer, the insects would not travel. Seeds would not travel to new dirt. The carcass of the wolf feeds the dirt. All of life and death is connected, and none is greater or lesser than the other.”

“I do not disagree. It is that cycle that I worshipped for so many years. But all things considered? I would still rather not be eaten.” She wrinkled her nose. “I have already been consumed once.” She shivered at the memory.

But not because it had been horrifying.

In retrospect, she could imagine the moment removed from its context. She could think about how the vines had slid beneath her skin, filling her body, and swallowed her flesh from her bones.

But in the moment, that was not how it had felt. She could pretend that it had not felt right—she could pretend that it had not felt like release. But she would be lying to herself. She frowned and looked down at her palm. “Why has this happened to me?”

“We do not know.” Cruinn kissed her temple, hugging her tighter, trying to comfort her. “The Morrigan is at work, and when she schemes, we are all in trouble.” They huffed. “But she has brought you back for a reason. We merely need to discern what it is, and what role you are meant to play in what is to come.”

“I do not wish to play any role in any schemes.” Taking a bunch of grapes from the collection of fruit before her, she fiddled with them for a moment as she thought. “But I do not have a choice, do I? In any of this. Even if I wished to hide myself away in some deep corner of the forest, where none could find me—that will not last forever. Valroy will find me in time, no matter how hard I try.”

Cruinn brushed a hand over her hair, stroking it, tucking a strand behind her ear as they did. “You sacrificed yourself to save us all the war he would bring. But do you hate him?”

“I—” She paused. She wanted to say yes. She did. But just like with the Gle’Golun, it would be lying to herself. “No. I do not. My opinions of him are…” She paused. “Complex.”

Cruinn chuckled, nodding in understanding. They did not press her for details.

“And that is also why I chose to die. Because…” She could not lie to herself, but she could also not bring herself to admit the truth.

“You wanted him.” Cruinn finished it for her. They hummed and kissed her temple. “Why wouldn’t you? He is beautiful. He is alluring.”

It was not just his beauty that drew me in. It was all of him. I should despise him for what he did to me, for all his impositions and his unkindness, but the sound of his laugh, the glint of his eyes…

“I see.” Bayodan reached over the food, and with a crook of a finger beneath her chin, tipped her head to look at him. In those red eyes of his, she knew that yes, he did see. Her morality had warred with the rest of her and had won the fight. She chose to die, because living would have meant war, and death, and destruction.

And if she had lived for one second longer, she would have chosen that path.

“I was weak.” She turned back to her wine and downed it in a single go. Her companions laughed again, and Cruinn refilled her glass, for better or worse. “I did not know how to resist him.”

“You are weak no longer.” Bayodan smirked. “Though you will need to learn to command your power.” He turned his attention to Cruinn. “We must find her a Seelie to aid her.”

“No. No, we must not.” The shapeshifter shook their head. “They will immediately turn and tell Titania.”

“Not if she lies about who she is. A new wood wife, born to the forests, innocent and lost.” Bayodan stroked his pointed beard. “It is risky. But necessary. And if we are careful…”

“No.” Cruinn pointed at their companion. “No, I know what you are scheming, and no.”

“Think of it. No one knows her face, save for a few of us Unseelie. No Seelie have ever seen her, nor would they recognize her. She could seek aid.”

“No.” Cruinn shifted to sit forward, glaring at Bayodan. “What you are planning is sure to get her captured.”

“Hiding in plain sight is the safest option.” Bayodan shook his head. “She speaks true. If we bring her to some tucked-away place, how long will it last? Weeks? Months? While she languishes, unable to protect herself, unsure of her own power?”

Cruinn growled but said nothing.

“She needs her own kind to show her, as much as I loathe to admit it.”

Glancing between the two, she felt utterly lost. Again. As usual. “May I be let in on this conversation, as it involves me? What are you planning?”

Cruinn kept their gaze locked on Bayodan as the goat man answered her with a deep, reluctant sigh. “We must take you to the City of Dawn.”

CHAPTER SIX

Valroy pressed down harder on the keys of his pipe organ than perhaps he should have. Or meant to. He did not particularly care. If they broke, he would simply steal replacements. Ivory. Who would have thought to fashion down the tusks of slaughtered beasts to decorate musical instruments? And the humans call us monstrous.

Baring his teeth, he barked an order at the swarm of puca that frantically worked the bellows of the machine. “Faster!”

He did not know how humans could operate the great machine on their own. He knew it was meant for one operator, but the rows of keys stacked atop each other, and all the knobs to pull and push, seemed impossible for someone with only two hands.

Luckily, he had four.

There was something about the sound the pipes made that had fascinated him from the first time he had heard it. The new-fangled invention that the humans had built had appeared not long ago, and it demanded attention more than any other instrument. The humans put them in their houses of “worship,” and he knew why.

It was meant to inspire awe. More importantly, it was meant to inspire fear.

Therefore, it had been the perfect addition to his Maze.

Shutting his eyes, he let his hands glide over the keys, playing them by memory.

When the music was finished, the forest echoed with it, and he had worked up a sweat. It was not quite as rewarding as fighting or fucking, perhaps, but it was fulfilling all the same.

When someone clapped slowly from behind him, he reeled, ready to tear them to bits. He was a little surprised to see who it was. “Anfar? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The sea creature was leaning against a tree at the far side of the clearing where Valroy had assembled his stolen pipe organ, his arms crossed. He looked especially dour, and that was saying something.

And, to that point, the soggier fae said nothing.

“You usually only check on me once a week. Twice in as many days? I truly must be coming unglued.” He sneered, trying to goad his friend and ally into a comment. Or at least an eyeroll. But still, Anfar said nothing and just stared at the tree next to him, darkness etched into his features.

It was then that Valroy realized the pale creature looked terrible. “Have you been sleeping, Anfar?”

“No.”

“Finally! I thought you had gone mute.” He stood from the wooden bench—he had stolen that, too—and swept one wing out at his side to knock several of the puca back into the shadows. They were irritating, annoying creatures. Barely better than their cousins the pixies or the pragglings.

He stepped from the stone platform that hosted the instrument and walked across the limestone floor to his friend. He furrowed his brow. “What is wrong, Anfar?”

“Let her die.”

It took him a second to realize what, exactly, he was speaking of. “Oh. Astasha?” With a sigh, he shook his head. “I am sorry, my friend. I may still be in need of her.”

Anfar clenched his fists and finally turned to glare daggers at him. “She has done nothing to deserve the pain you keep her in.”

“She is not in pain.”

“Then end the insult!” Sharp teeth bared for a moment before Anfar calmed himself. “You know how I feel for her. To see her as she is now…I cannot stand it.”

“I do know how you feel, and I am sorry. But your feelings are still foolish, by the by.” He tilted his head to watch the sea beast. “Has she even paid you a kind word but once?”

Silence.

“Perhaps a glance, to show that she might care for you?”

Nothing, save for a flinch.

“Come, Anfar. Drink with me.” He gestured for the sea beast to follow him. When Anfar didn’t budge, Valroy rolled his eyes and grabbed the man by the upper arm and pulled him along behind like a child.

He folded them both through space, ignoring the protests of the other fae, and brought them to the side of the River. It was well outside the reach of his Maze, but it was where the sea monster belonged. The great stretch of water ran in a circle around the City of Dusk, where the fae gathered, insomuch as they could be said to gather anywhere. It would be several more hours before it would become the City of Dawn.

Most days, the River was as wide as a lake, and flowed from no source and had no end. It merely flowed in a circle, incessantly about. Sometimes it was an ocean. Sometimes it was a stream. But today, it had decided to be as it should.

Releasing his friend, he sat down on a rock on the shore and waited. Anfar stood there for a long time before finally sitting beside him. He summoned two bottles of wine—one for each of them—and passed the dark glass container to the other fae.

Anfar accepted it, once more, after great hesitation. But he did not pause before he took a swig of the wine.

“Does she know? Did she?” Valroy cast a glance to his friend.

Anfar shook his head.

Valroy sighed. “Why did you never say anything to anyone? To her, or me?”

“What would be the point? Look at me.” The sea creature grimaced. “I know what manner of beauty she lies with. I am not that. In this shape, I am hideous compared to her.”

“In any shape, you’re—” He broke off at the vicious glare from his friend. “You’re right. Not the time.” He drank from his bottle and looked off across the River. “Continue.”

“And she made it very clear whose bed she wished to share, prince.” Anfar spat the last word with such venom that, for once, Valroy found himself somewhat worried that he had in truth injured his friend. “She wanted you. Not me.”

“She wanted power and a crown, you stupid, old lump of seaweed. She has—had—no more desire to share a bed with me than she did with a grobble. I was a means to an end for her, nothing more.” He huffed. “And she made it painfully obvious. Why do you think I never took her to bed? I did not wish to be someone else’s ladder to power.”

“But the fact remains.”

He nodded once. “Yes, I suppose. I…am sorry for your infatuation with her. I wish I had known earlier. But you hid it well, even from me. If you are lonely and in search of a companion, I’m sure there are—”

“I am not lonely.”

Valroy snorted, the sound turning into a laugh. He looked at his friend, expecting the beast to be smirking. But when he saw the serious expression on the creature’s face, his laughter faded. “Oh. You’re serious.”

Still, his friend insisted. “I am not lonely, Valroy.”

With a shake of his head, he looked back to the River and took a swig from his bottle of wine. “By the stars, you’re an idiot. But if you wish to lie to yourself, who am I to stop you?” He twisted the bottle about in his fingers for a moment, considering it. “What is the human phrase? Something about a pot and a kettle. I can’t remember. It matters not.”

Silence stretched between them for minutes as they drank beside each other. Finally, Anfar asked the question again. “Why keep Astasha as she is?”

He sighed. “Because I may need her.”

“What for?”

Mood darkening, he folded his wings at his back, curling his talons over his shoulders. “Anfar, why do you think I never took a queen from the Unseelie Court?”

“Because you despise them all, and it would be against our laws to murder them once you had your crown.”

“And you see precisely how much I care for the laws of the Court. It is hard for the lords and ladies to vote when their hands have been severed and their heads are on pikes.” He sneered. “It is easy to appoint sycophants. It would not have stopped me.”

“Then why?”

“Because you are half right. I despised them all. There was not a single one of those fools who I would wish to stand beside me as my queen, even if it were only briefly.” He paused. Shutting his eyes, he sighed. “We are friends, are we not, Anfar?”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“Anfar.”

“Yes.”

“I am lonely, old friend.”

Silence.

He kept his eyes shut, not wanting to see the judgement on his friend’s face. “I am lonely, and I am jealous. I have seen the love that Titania and Oberon share, and I wished to have that for myself. But I—” He paused. Shutting his eyes, he let the words come, even if he wished them to be lies. “I know it is impossible. You have said it yourself—no one in their right mind would love me. And I agree. But I wished to have a queen who, even briefly, might look at me in something other than disgust and greed. I chose a mortal whose eyes glittered in fascination and terror, instead. She would come to hate me in time, despise me like all the others, but at least…for a time, I thought perhaps I might win her.”

He drank from the bottle, gulping it down, wanting the bitter sting of the wine. Suddenly, he wished it were harder liquor. He opened his eyes to watch the moonlight shimmer off the surface of the water. “Perhaps I was winning her. She wanted me. I know that for certain. But despite her anger—how she claimed she hated me—it was not so. I took everything from her, and yet she still did not find me revolting. I needed her, Anfar. And she was taken from me.” He chuckled weakly.

They sat in silence for perhaps more than a minute before Anfar finally spoke. “But why not let Astasha go to her grave? Keeping her in this broken state is…it’s cruel. Beyond cruel.” Anfar’s hand tightened to a fist briefly before it relaxed.

“Then choose for me another you would put in her stead.” He looked to his friend, not hiding the regret. Not for what he had done to Astasha—but what he had done to the sea monster. “Find me another woman you would put in her place, to marry me, and I will let Astasha go to a peaceful death.”

Anfar’s jaw ticked. But he stayed silent.

“You see? The damage to Astasha has already been done. She feels no pain as she is now. She feels nothing at all.” Valroy huffed and looked back out at the river. “Believe it or not, my soggy companion, I am attempting to limit the casualties for once.”

It was Anfar’s turn to snort.

“You can imagine my frustration, then, when I tell you that I have learned it was no one in the Court to blame. Their deaths were for naught.”

“What?”

“It was Mother Morrigan.” His chuckle grew into a sarcastic, half-hearted laugh. “I murdered so many Courtiers, and it was my mother who was responsible for Abigail’s death. How utterly perfect, no?”

“But…why?”

“It seems not even my creator wishes me to take the throne, even though that is why she made me.” He emptied the bottle, and, waving his hand, it vanished. He summoned a second. He had it in his head to get well and truly drunk. He huffed a laugh. “I am nothing more than an unwanted child, left on the back steps of a home by its mother, hoping we will come and snatch it away. Do you think I do not know that?”

“Then why continue fighting for the throne?”

“Because it is what I was made to do!” He grimaced. “Tir n’Aill will be mine. Earth will fall beneath my sword. And now I will do it to spite Mother Morrigan, most of all. And I will marry Astasha, even as she is, to do it.”

“Then why are you waiting? Why not do it now?”

“Are you not listening to me?” He growled. “Because I do not want to! And because…I know you will never forgive me.”

Anfar shifted forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “There is plenty I have never forgiven you for. Yet I still sit here, like the lonely fool that I am, at your side.”

Valroy chuckled and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We are hopeless, aren’t we?”

“Very.”

“It is now just beginning to be Spring, yes? I will make you this promise. When Autumn begins, I will marry Astasha. And on our wedding night, I will end her suffering painlessly.”

“No.”

Valroy blinked. “Excuse me?”

Anfar stood and walked toward the water. When he was submerged up to his thighs, he turned to look back at him. “You will not end her. I will.”

It was not a second later that Valroy was alone. He sighed. Sipping his wine, he sat there in silence, staring out at the water, watching the moonlight. He should marry Astasha immediately. What was he waiting for?

Abigail was dead and gone.

Why did he not steal another mortal girl?

He could go back to Earth and find one easily enough. Earth seemed to be flush with freckled, wide-eyed, pretty little things for him to trick and torment.

There was the argument that the Unseelie Prince has no business being married in the Spring or Summer. The first day of Autumn would be appropriate. He should wait until the first day of Winter, but his patience only ran so far.

But what did he care for traditions and rules?

Nothing at all.

He pulled the little carved owl talisman from his pocket and turned it over in his fingers. He should hurl it into the River and be done with it. Let Anfar bury it deep in the ocean where he could never find it.

But he kept it.

Why?

Her death did not yet feel resolved. Something lingered in him. Something did not feel right. It could be that he was still sore over having been robbed by the creature who created him. That all his careful plans and schemes had been dashed, and his new plaything taken away.

I never even had the chance to fuck her! That was perhaps the biggest shame.

Was that why thoughts of her lingered?

Perhaps.

But there was something else, stirring in the darkness, that troubled him. And it was the question of the Gle’Golun. The eternal field of flowers had bloomed there, just outside the reach of his Maze, for as long as the legends could trace.

And now they were gone. Dead. Withered to dust at the Morrigan’s hand. But why? Just to give him this amulet? Just a reminder of the mortal girl who had been ripped from his hands? That seemed petty, when his rage had not even begun to fade.

The Morrigan was many things, but she was not childish.

If anything, reminding him of his stolen toy would only quicken his decision to wed Astasha and take his throne, so that he might begin his bloody war and destroy so many of the creatures created by the gods.

No. She did not give him the amulet out of spite.

Then what was it for?

With a long, dreary groan, he stood from the rock, downed the rest of the wine, tossed the bottle into the River, and tucked the amulet back in his pocket. He knew where he had to go to find the answer.

He just really, really didn’t like it.

He had to visit the hag.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Hello, Bernadette.”

Valroy wrinkled his nose. The odor of the small hut assaulted his senses. There was simply too much of everything all at once, and it turned into a muddy and revolting mess. Sweet mixed with bitter. Fresh with foul.

His thoughts were jarred as he smacked his forehead on a low beam. With a grunt, he ducked underneath it and rubbed the offending spot.

Bernadette chuckled. “Poor Prince Valroy, always a bit too big for where he’s going.”

He rolled his eyes. He hated visiting the hag. Mostly because everything out of her mouth was meant to mean something, but never came into focus until it was too late. That one, however, was a barb directed straight at him, and he grunted. “Well, we’re off to a great start.”

The woman was standing by the hearth, stabbing at the coals with a copper rod, blackened and charred at the end from where it had been heated up and cooled by the flames. It was a brittle metal for a fire poker, but iron would not do for obvious reasons.

She was beautiful. Full-figured, ample bust proudly on display, she was draped in dark cloth that had been cobbled together from scraps of whatever had caught her fancy. Around her neck was a sea of talismans, necklaces, and trinkets that were half-swallowed by her cleavage. More magical items dangled around her wrists. Her dark hair sat in tight ringlets around her pale face, decorated with a few beads and braids. Her eyes were two different tones, one sharp white and the other a deep black.

And he knew it was all a lie. “You have been working on your glamor, I see.” He sneered at her. “Last time I was here, you were blonde and slim.”

She shot him a glance over her shoulder, and it was her turn to roll her eyes. “You are one to judge.”

He huffed. “I did not come here to trade insults.”

“Of course not. You never come to visit old Bernadette. You always come when you need something.” She turned to face him, smirking. “I wonder—will you ever mature? Or will you spend your days as you are now, wild and mindless to the presence of others?”

He bit back obscenities. He was here for a favor, after all. “It is nice to see you, too, Bernadette.”

She barked a laugh and leaned her hands on the rickety wood table in the center of the small room. “What do you need, prince?”

He stepped to the other side of the table, careful to duck under another wood beam, before placing down on the craggy surface two items. A bouquet of dead Gle’Golun, and a small wooden talisman. “Summon her.”

Bernadette blinked. Full lips pursed together as she studied him, clearly surprised by his request. Her mismatched eyes flicked between his, as if trying to discern some deep truth from within his mind.

He hated it.

Because he knew she could.

She tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. “My goodness. You don’t know, do you?”

He grimaced. “Please do not pry farther than you are welcome.”

“Needn’t pry into that noggin of yours.” She picked up the bouquet of dead crimson flowers and smiled. “It’s obvious. But fine. We won’t speak of it.”

He did not even know what they were meant to not be speaking about, but that was fine by him. “Summon her from the grave. I wish to speak to her.”

“And do what? Yell at her soul about how she defied you?” She scooped up the bouquet of dead Gle’Golun and set it in a vase on her windowsill, as though it were a present from a lover. He cringed at the mental image that afforded him.

“Actually.” He straightened his shoulders and sniffed dismissively. “Yes.”

She laughed, shaking her head, a wry smile on her face. “You poor thing. Have you never been rejected by a woman before?”

It was his turn to tilt his head as he thought it through. “No. I don’t believe I have, now that you mention it.”

“Poor Prince Valroy. Slighted by a mortal who chose death over, well…death.” She waved at him dismissively. Scooping up the talisman from the table, she sniffed it, turned it over in her palm, and then hummed. “Interesting.”

“What?”

Bernadette licked the talisman.

He arched an eyebrow. Hags.

“It’ll do.” She placed it in a bowl on the table.

“I do want it back when you are finished with it.”

She shot him a look—the same look as before, as if he were missing some piece of critical information. He hated it vehemently but kept his fists at his sides and not buried into her fictional face.

With a shrug, Bernadette picked up the talisman, and, turning it over to the back, she lifted a finger. He watched as her nail grew long, wicked, and sharp, and she scratched a single curl of the weathered wood into the bowl. She passed the talisman back to him and went to her shelves of jars and bunches of dried things and began to fish through them, picking up little bits and pieces as she went.

He put the talisman back in his pocket. For a moment, he considered slinging it around his neck for safe keeping, but the hag was already toeing a line that he would very much prefer she not cross. He wished to keep her alive until the spell was finished.

“What do you hope to accomplish by speaking with her? Learn the true identity of her killer?”

“No. I know who led her to the Gle’Golun. I want to know why she sacrificed herself to them. Why she chose to die.”

“You know why.” Bernadette returned to the table, tossing bunches of dried leaves of this-and-that into the old, roughly carved bowl. “No one wishes for your war but you.”

“I do not care.”

“I also know this.” She returned to her jars and bowls, pushing them this way and that as she searched. “So why ask her to tell you what you already know, and choose to ignore?”

“My war is inevitable. She knew that if she died, I would merely find another. So—why? Why die, when she could have stayed at my side?” He grimaced, glad the hag’s back was to him. “She did not hate me. So why spurn me?”

“Perhaps it is precisely because she did not hate you, that she spurned you.” Bernadette pulled the top from a jar and sniffed the vile contents of whatever was inside. Sticking a finger into the viscous, brownish-black liquid inside, she tasted it.

Valroy tried not to retch. “What do you mean?”

“Bah. See past the reach of your own cock for a moment, will you?”

“I’m not sure I need to. It goes quite far.”

She laughed loudly, shoved the top back onto the jar, and returned it to the shelf. Whatever it was, it was not what she needed. “Silly boy.”

“I am not a child.”

“No, but you act like one.” Finally finding what she was looking for, she let out a small grunt of approval and returned to the bowl. What she poured from the jar was as black as pitch and smelled worse. It nearly made his eyes water. “If what you say is true, and she did not hate you—”

“She did not.”

The hag rolled her eyes, mumbled, and went back to what she was saying. “If she did not hate you, what would that mean for her?”

“I—then she would be my bride. She would become the Unseelie Queen, and all would be as it should.” He shook his head. “I do not understand.”

“Of course, you don’t.” She poked him in the chest hard enough that it made him jolt. “Because you only have enough blood in your body to think with one head at a time.”

That took him a moment. He snickered. “It does take quite a bit of—”

“You came here to listen, so listen.”

“I came here for your magic. Not a lecture.”

Bernadette cursed and rubbed her temples with both hands, her obscenities turning to mutterings in a language he did not understand. He knew it was unkind, whatever it was. He chose to ignore it. See? I can be benevolent.

The hag sighed and put her palms down on the table again, lowering her head. “She stood on the brink of being indirectly responsible for the deaths of millions of lives.”

“It is my war. Not hers.”

“But wedding you would give you the power to do so.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “The blood would not have been on her hands. No more than it will be on Astasha’s when I wed her.” When those two-tone eyes fixed on him with a withering glare, he sighed. “But I see your point. From her perspective, perhaps there was no distinction.”

“And if she did not hate you, as you say…”

He paused. His shoulders slumped. “Was she about to embrace me? Was the thought so vile that she chose to die instead?” Something wrenched deep inside his gut as though a knife had been placed there, twisted and poisoned. Once more, he grimaced and paced away from the table, unwilling to meet Bernadette’s stare.

His nails dug into his palm, sharp points piercing the flesh. He would bleed on her floor, but he did not care.

“Good. The final ingredient. Come here.”

With a long, deep sigh, he returned to the table and held his hand out, palm up, revealing the wounds. She took his wrist and turned it over the bowl, letting the crimson drip into the muck she had gathered.

“I do not know your answer. I can only guess. But I guess much, and I guess correctly more often than not. But you will ask her yourself, soon enough.” Plucking up a burning candle, she lit a small stick of wood and dropped it into the bowl.

Valroy took a quick step back as it burst into flame, the black substance igniting immediately. Smoke curled up from it, thick and nearly opaque. He had seen this kind of magic before. The smoke would soon form the shape of Abigail.

And he would have his last words with her.

Anger and anticipation welled in him as he waited expectantly to see her face form from the smoke. But then there was another emotion that joined the rest, jarring in its unexpected nature. Fear. Why was he afraid?

Grief joined its strange companion. Followed by pain.

“You were supposed to be simple,” he murmured to the smoke as it swirled up and covered the ceiling. “You were supposed to be mine.”

Bernadette swore loudly. Something was wrong. She began to chant, holding her hands out to either side of the plume of smoke. The smoke began to swirl, around and around, twisting and folding over itself.

Valroy furrowed his brow. He wished to ask what was happening but interrupting the hag at this point would be dangerous. He took a step back, however, just in case something went awry.

He watched in awe as the smoke became the shape of vines, growing thorns, twisting about again and again, writhing around each other like snakes. They grew along the ceiling, ghastly and strange. Flowers bloomed from them, colorless shades of the Gle’Golun. They propagated like weeds, curling around the beams of the hut, winding about each piece of furniture as if it meant to consume them. He jumped back as one of the apparitions reached for him.

Louder and louder, the hag chanted. Every muscle in her body was tense as she focused on the smoke before her. It was a battle between her and the magic, and her expression was one of focus and terror.

It was a war. And she was losing.

When one of the incense-like vines wrapped around his wrist, he hissed in pain. It burned like cinders, the air hot and stinging. He swiped at it, sending it back to the wisps from whence it came.

He stretched his wings wide, crowding the small space. But the sudden movement of air succeeded in fighting back the dangerous, deadly vines, who seemed to wish to consume flesh even in their deathly state. “Enough!”

For the hag dwelled within the Maze, and here, he was Master.

The vines shriveled and died before his eyes, curling and withering just as the living ones had done. They recoiled from him, crawling back to their origin, and soon there was nothing left of the terrible creeping things, save for a small pulsing light that lingered in the center of the bowl. It was shrouded by the smoke that swirled within its container but did not overflow the top.

Bernadette was gasping for air, her skin coated in a sheen of sweat. She wiped at her forehead with the back of her arm. Her look of confusion turned to one of amusement. She began to laugh.

“What has happened? What is so very funny?” Valroy fought the urge to hiss at her. “Where is she? Why did she not answer your summons? Has the Gle’Golun consumed her soul as well?”

“No.” She passed her hand over the bowl, studying the pulsing light inside. Carefully, tentatively, she scooped it up into her palm. What sat there, now free of the smoke, was a small glowing orb. Perfectly spherical, it could almost have been mistaken for the purest crystal, the way it shone. It looked ethereal, as if it did not exist save for the distortion of the light within it. “No, Prince Valroy…”

He stepped forward, unable to help himself. The thing she held was beautiful. But what was it? When she held it aloft to him, he did not hesitate to take it. It sat in his palm with the weight of…nothing.

The light pulsed, swirling in its container, giving the illusion of movement. He thought, if he stared hard enough, that he could see trees. An image of a forest with silvered bark, and three figures walking between them. Lifting it, he strained to see deeper. Yes, three figures. One smaller than the other two, and slighter of frame. A woman.

But then the image was gone. “What is this?”

“A mirror. A vision. A window. It lets you see. I summoned her, but she could not be brought.” The hag chuckled, a sad, strained expression on her face. “But my magic did the next best thing it could. It could not bring her. But it could show her. I fear you will not have your answers from Abigail Moore tonight.”

“I do not understand…” He touched the surface of the orb and found it smooth and solid to the touch. It looked so very fragile he was afraid to burst it like a soap bubble.

“I cannot summon her because you will have to find her to ask her yourself.” Bernadette sat down in a rocking chair by the wall, collapsing heavily into the wood frame.

As the words that she was speaking slowly sank into him, he finally tore his gaze away from the orb to stare at her, wide-eyed. “You lie. No.”

“I do not lie, Prince Valroy.” The hag shut her eyes, exhausted. “The truth sits in your palm.”

Clutching the orb close to him, he turned on his heel and stormed from the hut. Using his own magic to fold through space and return to his home, he felt a frantic kind of rage come over him. It was not possible—it was not. Yet the proof truly did sit in his palm.

Storming up to his desk, he swiped a hand to clear the surface, sending his collection of stolen human artifacts and weaponry crashing to the ground. Overturning a goblet, he placed the glowing orb upon the base and collapsed into his chair to stare at it.

He wished it to go away.

He willed it to vanish.

Let this be a lie. Let this be a lie!

But still it remained, swirling, and glowing, and showing him glimpses of figures that walked through a silvered forest. He knew not where they were. But he knew who they were.

Baring his teeth, he let out a roar of pure fury and grief. Stretching his wings wide, he vowed deep to his soul—to his very being—that someone would pay for this. Someone would pay dearly.

For Abigail Moore was alive.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Abigail hummed to herself as she walked through the forest with Bayodan and Cruinn. Her strange companions were becoming less and less bizarre as time went on. That was impressive, especially as Cruinn kept changing their shape to that of a wild beast. Sometimes they were a squirrel, or a fox, or a deer. And she would not have known them from the real animal, with all their flesh and fur and not a speck of glass to be seen.

She did not know where the City of Dawn was—or what she was meant to do when she was there—but she knew not what else to do.

At least her feet did not hurt this time. It was likely a product of her new inhuman state. “Small benefit.”

“Hm?” Bayodan glanced over his shoulder at her, a thick eyebrow arched.

“Oh. Before, when I was trapped in the Maze, I kept on winding up without shoes. Valroy kept teasing me over it. My feet, meanwhile, were always so sore. But now I find the walking does not trouble me.”

The fox that had been bouncing around beside her changed shape once more, now walking beside her as a beautiful man, slight of frame and perfect. “One thing you will not find in the City of Dawn or Dusk is a cobbler.” Cruinn laughed, grinning wide. “Perhaps that is your niche calling.”

“Hardly. I cannot stitch leather together to save my life. But I am still confused. You wear other human clothes. Yet you turn your noses up at shoes?” She gestured at Bayodan and his long, oilskin greatcoat. She paused and realized how foolish that was to say about a man who had hooves. “No offense.”

Bayodan howled in laugher, grinning, and shook his head. “You are right. Even those of us who have human feet tend not to wear shoes. I know of some elves and brownies who do, but they keep to the human world and spend too much time lurking in the corners of mortal houses.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps we do not wish to feel the separation from the ground beneath our feet.”

“Or we would be more likely to lose them than not.” Cruinn added with a smile.

“Or simply that your feet do not hurt.” She shook her head. “Now that I do not need them, I simply do not want them. And indeed, I am glad to not have them.”

“So, what we have concluded is quite simply that Valroy took no pity upon you and did not see your pain.” Cruinn huffed. “Unsurprising.”

“No, that—” She paused. Why was she defending him? With a sigh, she shook her head. “No, he took some pity on me. When I killed all those pragglings, he gifted me a pair of boots. I unfortunately misplaced them later, due to his yanking me about this way and that. He was not…he could have been far worse to me.”

“Simply because he did not beat or rape you, or torture you like poor Astasha, is not a mark of credit on his account.” Bayodan straightened his shoulders, and for a moment, she found herself caught by how tall and broad he was. He was easily equal to Valroy himself, if not more so. The greatcoat he wore swallowed much of his frame but made him all the more imposing. “The prince does not know how to woo a lady.”

“First,” she began through a laugh, “I am not a lady. And two, he was not attempting to woo me. He was attempting to seduce me. The two are very different.”

“They should be. But to him, he sees no difference. The prince keeps a warm bed. He need not try for companions, though brutal sex is the extent of what romantic gestures he is capable, or willing, to perform.” Bayodan wrinkled his nose. “He is barbaric.”

Abigail frowned and pulled her green cloak closer to herself. It was strange. Her conversations with Valroy had always been adversarial—always between a spider and a fly—but she did not see him as barbaric. Not precisely. She remembered him perched on top of the column of his home, staring off into the dark woods, cast in silhouette against the moon.

And the way he had been so very dour at how she had cried out in her sleep, begging the phantom Valroy of her mind to stop hurting her. How much that had seemed to bother him.

“He did not wish to hurt me.” She let out a breath. “And for that, I am thankful. I am well aware of the delight he takes in suffering. And the thought of mine brought him no joy.”

“You were mortal. Fragile and weak.” Bayodan glared at the woods in front of him.

“Perhaps that is why. Or perhaps there is more to it.” Cruinn stroked their chin thoughtfully. The male human form they had chosen had long, blond hair that fell about their face in waves. They wore no shirt, and their pants were black, leather, and three sizes too small. She couldn’t help but study them.

When they caught her, they winked. “Enjoy the sight?”

“Hum? Oh—” She looked away, her cheeks turning warm. Oh, good. It had been a solid twelve hours since she had blushed like a fool. She was worried she had lost the ability. “I…”

“You can say yes.” Cruinn wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her to their side. “It is not an admission of guilt or shame. It is also not telling me you wish to strip naked and make wild, unfettered love until the dawn breaks.” They paused. “Unless it is. Is it?”

She laughed and shoved him playfully. “Dogs, all of you! Even Perin could not keep his hands to himself.”

“The selkie boy?” Bayodan turned to glance at her, slowing his steps to fall back from the lead. “What do you know of him?”

“I asked the Maze for help, for guidance. They brought me to the shoreline where I met Talla the siren, her ilk, and Perin. Perin was kind to me, if”—she slapped at Cruinn’s hand as they tried to slip it underneath her cloak to touch her—“debauched.”

Cruinn snickered.

“He brought me to the ‘center of the Maze,’ as I had asked. I did not know at the time that the center of the Maze is, and shall ever be, wherever Valroy is currently standing.” She sighed. “Perin was kind to me. A friend.”

“Hm.” Bayodan tilted his horned head, clearly growing lost in thought. A minute could have passed while they waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. Merely twisted the end of his pointed goatee between his fingers.

“He does this,” the shapeshifter murmured to her before raising their voice. “What is it, my love?” Cruinn reached over her to nudge the big man’s shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“Who else have you met, Abigail? Who else would know your face?” Red eyes flicked to her, studying her. There was such age in them that she found herself wondering how old Bayodan was. He felt ancient to her—some dark and earthy power that had dwelled in the shadows since time immemorial. She knew the legends of witches who prayed to the devil, and of a great horned god with hooves who came to answer their whispers.

Perhaps it was Satan who came to them.

Or perhaps it was Bayodan.

Her money was on the latter.

“I—ah. The sirens. The goblins who were there at the cauldron…” She paused as he grunted and flinched. She was making his task more complicated, whatever his task was. “Those in the market where Na’len took me, though there was such chaos there that I doubt anyone would recognize me.”

“They are all dead, regardless,” Cruinn offered helpfully. “Valroy slaughtered everyone who was in the market that day.”

“Everyone?” Her eyes went wide as she stared at the shapeshifter in horror. “But—”

“There is no ‘but’ with the Bloody Prince. When he wants death, and he is in a rage, death is what he deals.” Bayodan pulled upon the collar of his coat, tugging it about him. “The goblins will be a larger problem. You must stay hidden from them at all times. They serve their Master mindlessly, and above all else. Should you be seen by one, you will be seen by all. You must avoid sirens, as I do not know who saw you that day. And you must not speak to Perin, should you chance upon him.”

“I would ask about the Moonlit Court, but I know they are all dead too…” Abigail sighed heavily. “I did not know the slaughter at my behest reached so far.” Sadness tore at her, mourning the loss of life, and tears pricked her eyes. “And it is all pointless.”

“Not to him.” Cruinn stroked her hair gently, pulling her to them once more. “To the prince, those who died had wronged him. That is what he does to those he sees as mutineers.”

“Save for the two of you, perhaps. You were merely exiled from the Maze.”

“We are old friends of his.” Bayodan shook his head. “And he knew we were not to blame.”

“The way you speak of him, I would think you hated him.”

“That is how everyone speaks of the prince.” Cruinn snickered.

Why did part of her feel sorrow about that? Valroy deserved the scorn, certainly. She forced her thoughts somewhere else. “Tell me of the City of Dawn.”

“It is where we fae might nightly gather to talk, and gossip, and trade goods and services. It is where business is conducted, where hopeful lovers might find companions, and where many make their secret homes where they might disappear as the day changes to night, and back again.” Cruinn shrugged. “It is what you might think of for any village.”

Bayodan picked up where Cruinn left off. “You have already been there once, by a different name. You visited the City of Dusk, of which the market is a sizable portion. It is one place, changed by the light like everything else. It can appear anywhere and is never in the same spot twice.” He gestured at the path in front of them. “Sometimes, it can be hard to find.”

“Does nothing in this world stay still?”

“Nothing,” Bayodan and Cruinn answered in unison.

She groaned.

They both laughed.

ANFAR FOUND Valroy after hours of searching. The prince was not in any of his usual haunts, which was always cause for concern. It meant that he was up to something. And when the prince schemed, everyone lost.

And when he found him standing on a boulder, addressing his horde of goblins and boggarts, gremlins and brogs, Anfar found nervousness twisting in his stomach with newfound vigor. He was coming in at the end of what had been a rallying speech.

Valroy was standing on top of the stone, his wings wide, shouting at his army. “Find them. Find her,” he snarled, fists clenched. “Bring them to me alive. Bring her unharmed…do with the others as you like. Now—go!”

The crowd before him howled in bloodlust and excitement. They wasted no time in disappearing into the trees, hulking or twisted shapes immediately vanishing into the darkness. One bogun lingered nearby, its wraith-like and dark form nearly indistinguishable from the darkness around it. Valroy jumped down from the rock and motioned the creature near. When the shadowy being moved closer, Anfar recognized it, and if it were possible, more dread built in his chest.

He could not hear their words but knew whatever was passing between them meant trouble. Valroy nodded once, shrugged a shoulder, and then dismissed the bogun with a wave of his hand. In the blink of an eye, the shade disappeared into wisps of black smoke and was gone.

“What is going on, Valroy?” Anfar stepped from the edge of the forest. “Tell me you are not waging war by yourself. Again.”

“If it comes to it. But no. Tonight, I strike against my own kind.” Valroy turned to greet him.

For a moment, Anfar did not recognize the look on his friend’s face. It was not one he had ever seen him wear before. It was…the expression of the betrayed. His expression was twisted up in anger, fear, and pain. It was a manic sort of thing, one that begged for violence.

Anfar took a step back. “What has happened, prince?”

Valroy laughed, an unfriendly sound, and lifted his hand. In his palm appeared a crystal orb, glowing and swirling in the center with light and images, so shifting and strange that it was hard for him to discern at first. “See for yourself.”

It was not until he dared to take a step closer that he could see anything meaningful in the twisting colors. Three figures appeared from the light, silhouetted and strange, but recognizable.

A broad man with horns and hooves. A smaller creature who seemed translucent. And a young woman, slight of frame, with wild garnet hair mostly hidden beneath the hood of a cloak.

Anfar straightened in shock. But he shook his head quickly. “No. You are mistaken. They have merely found a new partner to join them for a while.”

Valroy gestured his hand, and the orb vanished. “She lives.”

“That is not possible.”

Valroy shook his head and paced away from him, his muscles tightening and loosening in waves, as if he were fighting the urge to explode. “I went to see Bernadette, Anfar.”

“But—” He swallowed his words. Valroy despised the hag and would not have gone to see her unless his concerns were dire. “She sees too much and knows not how to keep her trap shut about it,” was his constant complaint.

He had visited the hag…

And the hag was never wrong.

“How?”

“I do not know. More meddling from the gods. It is the only explanation. Mother Morrigan finds new ways to torture me!” Valroy finally could not keep back his anger and pounded his fist into the boulder with a loud, animalistic growl.

It cracked beneath his fury, a chasm that went straight through from one side to the other. He stood there, back to Anfar, shoulders heaving in rage. “I went to the hag to summon her soul from the beyond, so that I might hear from her mouth why she spurned me so. Only to find that she could not be called, for she was not dead at all.”

Valroy let out a long, shuddering breath, and his shoulders lowered from where they had been tight by his ears. His tone dropped. “She is with Cruinn and Bayodan. They hide her from me. Keep her from me.”

“You exiled them from the Maze.”

“Bah! A meaningless, superficial punishment. One I would gladly lift if they did their duty and brought her to me.”

“Their vow is to her now. You saw to that.” Anfar knew he was treading dangerous waters. He did not wish to find himself in a fight with Valroy, especially not in this mood. He would be ripped to shreds.

“I know that!” Valroy hollered, wings spreading wide, only to cave again. He was struggling to keep his anger, he realized. It was being eaten away by something else. Pain. “She—she—”

Has rejected you a second time. He silently finished the words he knew Valroy could not bring himself to say. “She must be terrified. Think of what she has endured. We do not even know what she has become, or why.”

“It does not matter.” Valroy turned to face him again. “I can help her. Protect her. She should have called for me the moment she awoke. But instead, she hides, and they keep her from me. Bayodan is using his magic to cloak them all. I cannot find them.”

“Hence the goblins and the boggarts?”

“Hence the goblins and the boggarts.” Valroy shook his head and began to pace. “If I cannot find them myself, then they will search every loch and grove. Every thicket and field. The bogeys and the broog will search every shadow, every nook, every cranny in Tir n’Aill. She will be found.”

“And their leader? What did you whisper to them?” The prince’s arrangement with the broog was a simple one, unflinching loyalty in exchange for what they truly hungered for—Seelie captives.

For it was from the broken Seelie that the dark and shadowy monsters were made.

“To creep into the dark places of the sunlight hours. To search where I cannot.”

Anfar swore. “You idiot, that is an act of war! If Oberon and Titania learn you have sent the boggarts to—”

“I know what it means!” Valroy rounded on him, sending Anfar staggering back. “Bayodan is no fool. He knows the safest place to hide her is where I cannot reach. He will send her to the City of Dawn. He will hide her amongst the Seelie.”

Anfar went to argue but found he could not. It was the smartest play, if Abigail were still human or some other creature. “But perhaps she has become Unseelie.”

“Then they would rather her be Titania’s prisoner than in my hands. That is how deep their treachery lies.” Valroy snarled, baring his teeth, and paced away from him once more. “They will pay for this.”

“They are loyal only to her. They are not to blame for this. They…” are only doing what she wishes. Anfar flinched. He should not have opened his mouth. This is why I stay on the bottoms of lakes.

“Yes. Precisely.” The prince laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Then that is far worse. Then they are only following her orders, and her orders are to spurn me.” He shut his eyes and let out a sigh. Grief flashed over him for a moment, briefly winning over the rest of the tangled emotions playing out over his face. “I will get her back.”

The subtext was clear.

And it could mean war.

I will get her back.

No matter the cost.

CHAPTER NINE

Abigail fidgeted, twisting the hem of her cloak between her fingers. There before her was the City of Dusk.

Soon to become the City of Dawn.

But for now, it was still night. The trees were tall and straight, pale and looking once more as though their bark had been peeled away, leaving the raw wood beneath. Each one was streaked in shades of purple, blue, and silver, the grain winding up into blue-black leaves that whispered high overhead. It, like all of Tir n’Aill at night, left her feeling both awe and trepidation.

She could hear voices and see figures that passed between the dark trees in the distance. Somewhere nearby there was music playing quietly. But in the few minutes they had been standing there, she could tell the activity was dying down. The day was approaching fast, and she would soon witness its transformation.

It also meant she would soon be alone.

She shook her head and turned to Bayodan. “No, I cannot do this. I cannot simply march into the Seelie city and ask for help.”

Cruinn kissed her shoulder over the wool fabric from where they stood behind her. “You will be safer there, love. You will be all right. You are Seelie now, and you must learn from them. They will not hurt you.”

“When the sun sets, though, you will return?” She smiled hopefully at them, an expression that quickly changed to its inverse when she saw it was not met with the same. “You will, won’t you?”

Bayodan let out a long, deep sigh. “No. Not for some time. At least not until you are stronger. Or things…simmer.”

“Why?” She gripped Cruinn’s hand tightly. “But you were meant to teach me to control my form.” She turned to the shapeshifter, frowning. “Please, tell me we can wait another night.”

Cruinn laughed, the handsome male face they wore at the moment creasing in amusement. “How we would delight to spend another night with you, but we cannot.”

“But why?” Her insistence was met with silence. She glowered at Bayodan. “I am not a child. Tell me what is going on.”

Bayodan looked off into the woods, his eyes narrowed, as if focusing on something far away. She remembered what she had seen of him at Court—the five red eyes that he kept hidden. She wondered what he could see. “We are…pursued.”

First came shock. “What?” Then came confusion. “How?” Then denial. “No.” And it finished with fear. “Oh, gods.” It ran up her spine, sending a chill coursing along with it. “Valroy? But—but how?”

“I do not know.” Bayodan grunted quietly. “And it does not matter. He sends his army, and it is only a matter of time until they do. They have been told to find us—and you. He knows you are alive.”

She went rigid, every muscle in her body screaming to run. That something terrible would happen if she were found. And she knew precisely what it would be. Either I die, or he finishes what he started, and then he kills me once he has what he wants. “He cannot find me. He cannot.”

What manner of grudge did he have against her for what she did? She could not fathom the pain he would levy on her if he caught her. Especially now that I am fae. The awful realizations stacked up on each other, one after the other. Especially now that I am Seelie! “He will—he will torture me, kill me, or worse. Or—”

“Shush, love.” Bayodan reached out to place a hand atop her head. “He shall not find you.”

“This is why you must go to the Seelie. We did not agree at first, but now things have changed.” Cruinn wrapped their arms around her and held her to their chest in a gentle embrace. The touch was far too familiar for friendship, but she found it did not trouble her as much as it likely should have. She leaned back against them, relying on their strength to chase away her anxiety. “He cannot reach you in the daylight without risking his own life. You will be safer amongst the Seelie than you are with us.”

“But you are both strong, aren’t you?” She glanced between the two. “You can protect me.”

“Yes. We are. And we could for a time. We can defend against many a goblin, praxie, and boggart.” Bayodan wrinkled his nose as he spoke. “But not when the prince himself comes to fetch you at their calling. It will only be a matter of time before we are overrun and he steals you for himself once more.”

“And now that you are Seelie…” Cruinn sighed heavily. “The day-folk will see it as an act of war if he takes you prisoner. They look for any excuse to march against us.” The shapeshifter hugged her tighter for a moment, as if that action alone would protect her. “We will have to teach you another night how to be a shapeshifter. In the future, when it is safer.” They chuckled. “Or perhaps you will have something to teach us by then.”

“But—” Horror overwhelmed her for a moment as she realized the full scope of what was happening. She whirled around in Cruinn’s arms. “No! That night will never come. I will never be safe from him!”

Bayodan’s heavy hand fell on her shoulder as he stepped into her. He pulled the hood from her hair and tipped her head up to look at him, crimson eyes meeting hers. “This is only goodbye for now, love. We will see you again.”

“No. No, no, no.” She grasped Bayodan’s hand, not wanting to let him go. How quickly she had come to rely on them—not only their safety, but their companionship. She had nothing else. “Please, I—”

Her words were silenced as Cruinn tilted her head to theirs and kissed her. Her eyes went wide in surprise. The gesture was tender and gentle, and when they parted from her, they smiled. “You taste like honey and wildflowers. Like sunlight and green grass. You belong in the daylight. You belong with them.” Their words were soft, whispered to her like a lover. Her gaze flicked between their blue eyes, knowing they were an illusion like the rest of what they wore—just the same as she wore her clothes, so too did Cruinn don a male form.

When Cruinn inched forward to kiss her again, she pressed her fingers to their lips. Cruinn flinched and went to murmur an apology, but she cut them off with a whisper.

“As yourself.”

Their shoulders sagged from their ears, and the smile that graced their face was one of pure gratitude. Beneath her fingers their shape changed, shedding the guise of the handsome man she figured they probably assumed she would enjoy most. It was such a curious sensation, like sand shifting beneath her fingertips. The sound of glass on glass was quiet but distinct as they once more became as they truly were.

Shattered shards of glass, smooth and cool. And in their own wonderful and strange way, perfect.

She lifted her fingers from their lips and gently traced their cheek with her fingers. “This is not goodbye.”

“This is not goodbye,” they repeated as they closed the distance between them, kissing her tenderly once more. They were softer than she would have imagined, being made of glass, but the embrace held no body heat that she would have expected from a normal person. She found she did not mind it at all. Their kiss was not passionate, but it was…she did not know how to describe it.

It was not love.

But perhaps this was how the fae expressed friendship.

She would not be surprised.

When a pair of strong fingers grasped her chin to turn her head away from Cruinn, she let out a small, surprised noise as Bayodan stole her kiss for himself. Where Cruinn was soft, Bayodan was sharp, firm, and unyielding. The scratch of his beard against her was more than a little pleasant. When they parted, she found herself just the barest bit breathless.

He smirked. “This is not goodbye.”

The sun was rising. She could see the colors of the sky begin to turn to oranges and yellows, glowing brighter by the second. They would have to abandon her soon, lest they risk becoming prisoners themselves.

“Remember,” Bayodan murmured, “tell no one your name. Tell no one who you truly are, or where you came from. You are here to learn to control your power. When you are no longer frightened of the trees you now call your kin, then it will be safe to risk the dusk to see us.”

“I am not afraid of the—” She sighed. She was. She had been careful not to touch anything as they walked, for fear she might either turn into one or disappear off into the distance again. She nodded. “Very well.”

He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “You are a quick study. Open-hearted, and open-minded. It will not be long before you will be sending the goblins and boggarts running for their lives and we might chance to meet again.”

“I am quite cross that you tricked me and did not tell me this was your plan all along.” She narrowed her eyes up at the goat man.

Cruinn snickered. “That is his way. Ever the tactician. Cursed be the souls who have found themselves at the wrath of our mate when he joins forces with the prince. Thankfully, it has not happened often.”

Bayodan shook his head. “I have no appetite for total war. Now, go, love. We shall see you soon. Time for creatures like us passes quickly, and it will be like the blink of an eye before we can return to you.”

“But—” Suddenly, the second shoe dropped in her mind. “What if Valroy finds you? If he knows I am alive—then—”

Cruinn shushed her gently. “We can take care of ourselves, darling. Do not worry for us.”

The idea of them coming to harm twisted in her stomach like snakes. “Please, be safe. Please. I could not stand it if something ill befell you two. Please.”

“Then I vow that nothing of the like shall.” Bayodan cupped her cheek in his palm and ran a coarse pad of a thumb over her cheekbone. “Be at peace. You will have yourself to fret over.” The sun began to peek through the trees, and he glanced up at it with a grunt. “We have tarried too long. Go, little one. Come back to us when you are a true and fearsome Seelie.”

Something told her it would not be so simple. And something told her she would never be fearsome. She hugged them both tightly again. Stepping away, she pulled the hood of her cloak back up over her hair. “I will see you both soon.” One way or another, please, gods, let that be true.

They smiled to her, Bayodan bowing like a gentleman, before they stepped into what remained of the nighttime forest and disappeared.

She was alone.

Just like that.

She whined.

The sunlight was touching her now, the shadows chased away into the darkness.

Turning back to see the City of Dawn, she gasped. The trees were no longer the silvery, bark-less things as before, but with the touch of the sun, everything changed. They were instead turned to a mix of aspens and elms, dotted through with enormous willows that wept their bows low over the rich, green grass. Flowers dotted the bases of the trees in every color.

Pulling her cloak tighter about herself, she resigned herself to what she must do. There was no choice. She was helpless as she was, and if she truly was Seelie, and a fae, she had to learn to put her feet beneath herself.

With a breath, she stepped into the City of Dawn.

There were no structures that she could see, no buildings or huts that might tell her that this was, indeed, a city. But it bustled all the same. From the branches above she saw long, lithe figures stretching and yawning, greeting their neighbors. She watched in fascination as a young man stepped out from within one of the great willows, his body emerging from it as though it were simply part of the wood all along.

He smiled at her and bowed his head in greeting. “Morn’, stranger.”

For a moment, she stammered, then smiled back, shaking off her surprise. “Good morning.” She hurried away before she could be asked any more questions. It wasn’t until she wound between several more of the huge trees that she began to see structures here and there. Mud huts, crude things that looked made from truly ancient methods, their doors misshapen and irregular. Some were her height, but many were not. Many were far too small for her to even fit through the front of the entryways. Some seemed to be built into the faces of the trees themselves. She stopped to study one of them, curious as to where the half-human-height door led, when it opened.

She jumped back, startled briefly. On the other side of the door, behind the figure who emerged, she could see an entire home. A hearth burned bright with cozy-looking furniture scattered about in front of it—the room was larger than could possibly fit inside the trunk of the tree.

The woman who existed was short, plump, and had a round, happy face. “New, eh?” The woman dumped a bucket of water onto the ground before her. “I know that look.”

“I—ah—yes.” She smiled sheepishly and wrapped her arms around herself. “I fear I fell asleep in a field, and now I find myself here. I do not think I am human anymore.”

The woman laughed hard and put the bucket down before walking over to her, rubbing her hands on her stained apron. As she drew close, Abigail realized the woman barely reached her elbows in height. She had pointed ears, and her eyes were a brilliant shade of vermillion. Despite that, she would have mistaken the woman for being human at first blush.

“No, no, you certainly are not.” The woman took Abigail’s wrists in her hands and gently pried them away from her body. “Let’s take a look at you.” Before Abigail could do a single thing, the woman had reached up, unclasped her green cloak, and taken it from her, rolling it up and placing it on a rock nearby.

There was little more that she could do, save to stand there in stunned silence as the little woman spun her about as though she were a seamstress, examining her. She plucked at one of the leaves in her hair.

“Ow!” Abigail winced. When she turned to look at the little woman, she blinked and watched as the woman licked the leaf once, then…ate it.

The woman hummed, chewed, and swallowed. Her eyes went wide. “Oh, goodness me.”

“What?” She wrapped her arms around herself again, taking half a step away from her. “What is it?” Have I been revealed so soon?

“You must go see Beatrice. The hag will want to see you.” The woman smiled, her face beaming in excitement that made Abigail extremely nervous and confused in equal measure. “It has been so long since we’ve had one like you join us!”

“Like me?” She shook her head. “I’m—I’m no one.”

“You might have been, farmer girl.” The woman was almost bouncing in excitement. “But no longer! Come, come. Beatrice is this way.” She waved her hand and began to walk, entirely forgetting that her front door was wide open. A man’s voice bellowed from inside, shouting at her to shut the door. “Get off your fat ass and shut it yourself, Laggan!”

Abigail couldn’t help but chuckle as she scooped up her cloak and followed the stout woman, not sure if she should, but not sure if she shouldn’t. “Why did you call me a farmer girl?”

“Because that’s what you were, isn’t it?” The woman slowed to walk beside her. “You taste of the earth. You taste like growth. That’s why the trees and grass and living things took you for themselves.”

No, that was because I was a witch, and taken by the Gle’Golun. “Y—yes. I’m sorry. I am just still so confused.” That part was not a lie.

“I am Uri.” She extended a hand to her. “Elf. Pleasure to meet you.”

Abigail smiled and put her hand in hers. Scrambling for a name, she came up with the first one that popped into her head. Her aunt’s. “Margery.” I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I borrow it for a time. “And it is a pleasure to meet you, too. I fear I do not know exactly what I am.”

“Margery! Lovely name. And as to what you are, dear girl—you are something special, I can tell you that much.” Uri clapped her hands in excitement. “It’s been so long since someone with a true connection to the woods came to us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, you will. Beatrice is much more skilled at explaining all this than I am. She is wise and has been here for thousands of years. Longer even than the Queen. Some say she knew the gods when they walked among us.”

“You mean like the Morrigan, Bres, and Nuada?” Abigail blinked. “They were once Seelie and Unseelie, and became gods?”

“Of course! Save for that bastard Bres.” The elf spat on the ground. “May he rot in his grave, that Unseelie half-demon bastard.”

Sounds familiar.

“Our human myths are all very mixed up, I fear.” Abigail sighed. “You may have to tell me the truth of things as though I am a child. That is precisely what I feel like.”

Uni smiled, a full, lopsided, perfectly charming expression. “Of course! Of course. No harm. The Kings and Queens of Tir n’Aill rule for a time, thousands and thousands of years, and then—when they tire of their long lives, or when they become too powerful to exist in the same ways we do—they ascend. Nuada was once the Seelie king and gave his crown to Titania as he passed into the next plane.”

Titania? Not Oberon? Huh. “And Bres?”

“That Unseelie bastard was too much of a coward, too much of a vain little rat turd to give up his prize. He died without an heir. The Unseelie throne sits vacant.” She grumbled and added woefully, “For now.”

“Oh?” She feigned ignorance. It was easy enough, with how utterly lost she felt.

“There is a monster of a prince who waits to take his crown. A violent, cruel, terrible beast by the name of Valroy. A half-bastard demon like the one who came before him. He would have us all dead or his slaves. You needn’t ponder for long to figure which is the worse fate. He seeks a queen, and he nearly had one. Now rumor is it that he’ll likely have another before the first leaves of Autumn fall.” She spat on the ground again. “Gods help us all.”

Abigail chewed her lower lip. “He is to be married in Autumn?” She looked up at the trees, some still budding and many not yet fully in leafy bloom. It was the beginning of Spring. That meant there was some time, but…not much. “To whom?”

“They call her Lady Astasha, although she fell afoul of the prince, and I do not think much of the woman still remains. Enough to be propped up and wed, though.” Uri sighed. “I fear you may have come to us just in time to suffer through a terrible war. The Winter we are about to have will be like no other.”

Did I sacrifice myself for nothing? No. I knew this was to happen. He would find another to wed and murder after the crown was his. She had laid down her life to give all those in Tir n’Aill and Earth whatever time she could to enjoy their lives. And she hoped she had done at least that.

“Oh, now, now. Here I’ve gone, scaring you with gossip and rumor.” Uri reached up and held on to the crook of Abigail’s elbow, smiling up at her. “You needn’t look so terrified. Perhaps you will join the forces of the Seelie and become a fearsome warrior!”

She laughed quietly. “I have never held a blade in my life. Well, that’s not precisely true,” she amended quickly, remembering Anfar’s rusted gift. “I would die very quickly in a sword fight, I promise you.”

Uri cackled. “You think all Seelie fight with sword and shield? No, no, dear girl. You will fight with weapons far more powerful than those.” Uri hugged her arm, and then, looking ahead, exclaimed, “Ah! Here we are.”

Dread welled in her as she looked ahead at the structure nestled between two enormous weeping willows, their long green boughs swaying in the wind. At first blush, it looked like a picturesque cottage, the glass windows in diamond patterns still revealing the glow of a burning fire within, its light not yet beaten out by the sun. Smoke curled from its chimney, and she could smell baking bread.

It did not look like any house for any hag that she could imagine—nothing was twisted, or warped, or darkened. There were no skulls or bones strung on strings dangling from the soffit. But something about it scared her all the same. Uri sensed it as Abigail went rigid and slowed. Tutting, she took one of Abigail’s hands and tugged her along. “It’s all right, Margery. You are safe. She won’t hurt you.”

As they approached, the door opened, and out stepped a tall, beautiful woman. Her frame was lithe and lean, and clothed in a long swath of white silk. Her hair flowed in waves the color of honey. Sharp features that were both exotic and familiar warmed to a stunning smile.

“Hello, Uri. Who have you brought me today?” The woman—who looked like no hag Abigail could have ever expected—addressed the elf, although her gaze was fixed firmly on her. The woman’s eyes did not match. One was the purest white of fresh snow, and the other was black.

Abigail froze, like a proverbial deer, and found herself caught in the hunter’s gaze.

“A newcomer! And quite an exciting one.” As the so-called hag smiled, her dread turned to fear. There was recognition in those eyes. This woman…she knew.

Cruinn and Bayodan had told her not to be caught. Not to let anyone know who she was.

The hag stepped aside from her door and swept one long arm toward the interior of her cottage. “Come in, Abigail Moore.”

She had made it less than an hour.

Shite.

CHAPTER TEN

Uri looked up at her in wide-eyed astonishment. The elf gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

Abigail tried not to panic. And was failing quickly. “I—no—there’s some—there’s some mistake—” She stepped back, the urge to run crawling through her like the spread of fire. Oh, yes, there definitely had been a mistake. Her mistake. She should not have come here! She should not have—

“Shush, shush.” The hag chuckled and waved her closer. “You are safe. I knew you were coming. Uri, inside with you as well, before more prying eyes learn the truth.” The woman hummed. “Though it is plain to see. Come inside, dear witch. We have much to discuss.”

What else could she do?

What choice did she have?

Someday, perhaps, she would not be subject to the whims of others. With a long, defeated sigh, she stepped forward and walked into the cottage of the hag. Uri followed quickly and grabbed Abigail’s hand, tugging on it. “Is it true? Is it? Are you her? Are you really—” She lowered her voice to a loud and perfectly pointless whisper. “The mortal witch?”

Tears stung her eyes unexpectedly, and she bowed her head, wishing to hide. “I was.”

Uri began to pace around the cottage, fanning herself with her hand. “Oh, gods. Oh, by the gods.”

The hag was chuckling to herself as she shut the door, her long white dress trailing behind her on the smooth wood planks of her home. The house was small, but tidy. It was hardly what Abigail had been expecting. The plaster on the walls was white and crisp, and from the beams of the hearth and several posts hung bunches of drying herbs. The mantel was decorated with rocks and crystals, bunches of sticks and feathers tied together to form charms. The hag was also a witch, though Abigail did not recognize the exact magic at work.

“My name is Beatrice.” The beautiful pale woman extended a thin and delicate hand to Abigail. “It is my honor to meet you.”

“I…do not understand why it is an honor. Um…but you as well.” She put her hand in the other woman’s and shook it. “Abigail Moore. Though you already knew that.”

“Ooooh.” Uri collapsed onto a stool by the wall. “I think I may faint!”

Beatrice chuckled. “Do not mind her. Elves can be dramatic.” She moved to a table by one wall and poured two wooden goblets of water from a clay pitcher. She handed one to the elf and then brought one to Abigail. “Please. Sit.” She gestured to a seat by the fire.

She took the goblet tentatively, and just as tentatively moved to sit in one of the two chairs. A small bowl of fruit sat beside the chair on a table.

She knew I was coming.

Slumping back into the wood frame, she sighed. “This is hopeless, isn’t it?”

Beatrice laughed. “Oh, you poor thing. I don’t blame you for thinking that.” She sat in the chair across from her, looking far more graceful in the motion than Abigail could ever hope for in her life. “No, dear. There is still hope. But I fear that all of it—the future of the Seelie and the humans alike—rests with you.”

She replied with the first, and only, thing that came to mind. It had come to mind a lot lately. And it fit the situation perfectly, every single time.

“Shite.”

VALROY STOOD in the great hall of his Maze. It was not a place he used often, for he rarely had a need to meet with others during the daylight hours. Otherwise, he would use what would soon be his throne room.

No one liked to come here, besides. The former members of the Court, whose corpses still decorated pikes and dangled from trees, hated to set foot inside his home. Like all fae homes, the rooms were not connected. His bedroom was far from here, as was his bath, his collection, his dining room…why place them next to each other when he could pass through space?

He glanced up at the bare trees that arched overhead, forming a tangled web of branches and limbs that wound together to form a roof, the faded sunlight barely filtering through them. The light cast a sharp pattern of shadows on the marble floor. He had placed a human carpet in the center, like their kings did, the fibers a deep and beautiful blue.

The dead trees ran along the marble floor in tight rows, forming a rectangle, arranged like so many soldiers. Between them, the shadows were impenetrably dark. He had lit a few of the copper cauldrons, casting flickering shapes in ambers and reds that contrasted sharply with the hazy daylight.

He sat in the carved wooden chair at the head of the hall, feeling the weight of his bones. It was rare for him to be tired. But here he was. Tired. And angry.

Perhaps the latter was responsible for the former. He doubted it, to be honest. For there was a third emotion, a usurper of his thoughts and energy, that was far more likely to blame.

Pain.

When he was shouting at his gremlins, goblins, and gnolls, or busying himself with the whispered rumors of the boggarts, he kept it at bay. When he was bickering with Anfar, he could ignore it.

But in these silent times, when there was no one around?

It came for him.

And he loathed it.

Anger rushed forward, indignant and hot. How dare she do this to me? How dare she poison me in such a way? But it faded, cracked, flickered, and died. And soon his anger was gone. He ran his fingertips over the carved wooden arm of the throne he had stolen from some foolish human king or another. He had forgotten to whom it had belonged—their names were silly, and there were too many of them to keep track.

The chair’s arms were carved into the shape of lions, mouths open in a silent roar, wooden teeth sharp. It made him smile, though he did not know precisely why. Curling his other fingers beneath his chin, he rested his head on his hand and found himself once more sinking into the mire of his own thoughts.

Abigail was alive. She had been raised from the dead by his mother, for reasons unknown to him. He had spent hours attempting to puzzle out whatever schemes the Morrigan had in the works. But instead, he found himself circling around the pain that burned in his gut, as if a knife had been placed there by her hand.

Abigail was alive, and she was not with him.

Standing at the side of the Gle’Golun, watching as she was devoured, he had felt such betrayal. Such hurt. She would rather die than desire me. I am that loathsome to her. I am that revolting. And now that she had returned to life, it was clear her opinions had not changed.

She should have run into his arms, weeping, begging for forgiveness. He would have punished her, made her beg him in a different way, before soothing it all away. That is what she should have done. But instead? She ran. She hid.

Because he was just as undesirable to her as he was to everyone else.

No.

Grimacing, he bared his fangs in a snarl and fought the urge to dig his sharp nails into the wood and rip the chair to pieces. It was one of his favorite stolen items, after all, and the carved wood lions had done nothing to wrong him. Instead, he clenched his hand into a fist and felt the strange relief of the searing sting as his nails dug deep into his flesh.

I did nothing to deserve this. I was kind to her! I was gentle. I played with her, yes—but she delighted in it, though she could not admit it. It was a game, nothing more.

He would have given her the world. Two worlds! He would have taken her by his side and treated her like the queen that she would have become until her mortal years ran low. Did she honestly believe he would kill her, the moment he wore his crown?

Was that it?

No.

If the girl had a fear of death, she would not have given herself to the dread flowers that had taken her life. He ran his fingers over his forehead, back and forth, soothing the ache he felt forming there. He wished to crawl inside a bottle of hard alcohol and sleep for a week.

Unfortunately, there was business to attend.

“Master.” The whisper of a boggart came from nearby.

Opening his eyes, he looked up to see the shadowy, shapeless thing slip across the floor, twisting in the darkness of the flickering light, avoiding the bright amber and pale sunlight as best it could. Detestable things, boggarts—the broken remnants of Seelie prisoners. But they were very useful. “Do you come with news?”

“Yes…”

He sat forward. “Where is she? Where are they now?”

“The betrayers are hiding. They have gone to their dark places for the daylight hours. But they went without her.”

He tilted his head to the side, brow furrowed. “They abandoned Abigail? She is alone?” He snorted. “Fools.”

“No. Not alone.”

Valroy stood slowly from the chair, unfurling his wings from his shoulders. “You cannot be serious.”

“She is with the Seelie…she has gone to the City of Dawn.”

“What?” Fury gripped him at once, and he stretched his wings wide. The boggart shrank back, eyes nothing more than a lack of darkness against the floor. With that fury…was fear. Fear. Real fear. Not for him, or his plans—but for her.

What have you done to me, Abigail? What have I become?

The Seelie would consume her. One look at a human wandering into their midst, and she would be charmed by some spirit or another in an instant. They would take from her all that they wanted, and she would become a hollow husk. Again.

He gripped the necklace he wore. No longer the blue crystal on the chain, but a wooden owl, crudely carved, on a piece of leather twine. “Then she is as good as dead a second time.”

“No, Master…we have more to tell.”

“Then, out with it and stop wasting my time!”

The boggart flinched at his anger. He did not care. The creature seemed to shift and writhe, hesitating, as if it were nervous to tell him the words. Growling, he checked his fury and relaxed his wings. Carefully, more measured, he tried again. “Tell me what you know, wraith. You are not to blame for what has transpired.”

“She…has become a fae.”

He burst out in a single laugh and grinned wide. Oh, finally, what wonderful news! What manner of beautiful Unseelie creature had she become? Was she twisted over with the vines of the Gle’Golun, hungry for mortality, feeding on the flesh of those who came to close to her?

What a joy it would be to tame her…to make her his in the way she ought to have been already.

He paced back and forth in front of his stolen throne. He was so distracted from the thoughts of what manner of sensual being of pure murder she must have become, that he nearly overlooked the best part. He paused, unable to grin any wider than he already was. “The Seelie hold her prisoner, then. I have already announced her as my intended. Therefore, this is an act of war! I needn’t wear the crown to march upon them.” He laughed. “How wonderful! Thank you, Mother Morrigan, for I had almost lost my faith in you. What a gift this is! I—”

“You are mistaken.”

He froze, turning to glare at the shadow upon the floor that was already cowering closer to the inky safety of the darkness beyond the trees. “Excuse me?”

“She is not their prisoner.”

Shaking his head, he could not fathom what other options there were. “The Seelie would not have given her shelter. They do not know her, she would be—” His thoughts hitched. His heart hitched. Clarity rang in him like a bell, as the realization of what had transpired cut through him. It sliced his hopes in half, and his dreams of what Abigail had become fell to the ground like tattered scraps of brittle paper.

He shut his eyes for a moment. “Just say it.”

The boggart remained silent, vacant, empty holes for eyes watching him.

“Say. It.” He had to keep from flying at the wraith, plucking it from its shadowy veil, and shredding the withered corpse he knew lingered at its center. The creature was merely the messenger, he reminded himself.

Merely the messenger.

“She…is Seelie.”

The creature vanished the following second, surely expecting his wrath to overflow. And if it had stayed, it might have been right. But in the absence—in the solitude—Valroy was left with no one to tear to pieces.

Instead, he…began to laugh.

Sitting in his throne, he simply laughed.

At what? At many things.

At the absurdity of it.

At the insult.

At the betrayal at the hands of his so-called mother once more.

At the fact that Abigail had once more danced out of his grasp. Or perhaps because she had never been there at all.

He laughed. Leaning back in the chair, he rested his head against the carved and upholstered back and shut his eyes. “If you believe this will stop me, Mother Morrigan, you are deeply mistaken. I will have her. She will be mine.” He grinned to himself, looking up at the twisting branches overhead and the veiled sun beyond. He could almost think he heard the distant cawing of crows. “But now she will not simply wear my crown.”

He pushed himself up from his chair. He needed to speak with Anfar. There was business to attend. Business that would require much care on his part.

The dreams of Abigail as some wanton, murderous Unseelie may lay tattered and torn at his feet, gone before they could be given life. But a new dream appeared in its place, and it was just as savory as the first. “Now…she will also wear my chains.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“No. No. You’re wrong.” Abigail paced about Beatrice’s cottage. “You are wrong! I am an abomination. I should not be here. I should be dead, and—”

“Yet you are not.” There was a smile on the hag’s face—she still did not understand how that word could be used in reference to the beautiful woman, but that was a discussion for another time—that was knowing and piteous. Sympathetic. It was not cruel by any stretch. “You are here, you are alive, and the Morrigan has put you here for a reason.”

“And what reason is that? Please, tell me that you know.”

Uri, meanwhile, was still fanning herself by the wall, muttering about prophecies and saviors. Abigail was no savior; she was barely herself.

Beatrice sighed. “I see much. I see many things—of the day, and of the night, and of the briefest moments in between—and I can see the pieces on the board just before they move. But as to the inner workings of the gods? That, I cannot see. But I can guess. Come, sit. Please. Your pacing will do you no good.”

After a pause, she nodded and headed back to the chair. Sinking into it, she tried to relax, and wished there was something more in her goblet besides water. She tried to steady herself and deepen her breathing. It was dangerously shallow. “Why did she bring me back?”

“Long ago, in her anger of losing the Isles and being sent beneath the hills, the Morrigan birthed Valroy into a field of battle, wishing him to reign supreme and destroy the human race. But he stood alone, with no army at his back, and was easily driven to the darkness by the Seelie. There, he lurked, hungering for the power to rally the full force of the Unseelie behind him. But as he inspires no loyalty from his kind, he needed to take the throne to do so.” The hag leaned forward and stirred a pot by the fireside. Tea, perhaps? It smelled lovely.

“I heard this tale from poor Lady Astasha. She took me to see the field of blood itself.” She winced at the memory of what transpired there.

“But what you do not know is that the Morrigan changed her mind. Seeing the wealth of destruction that Valroy would wreak, and all the dishonorable death that would flow in his wake…she sought a way to stop him.” Beatrice shut her mismatched eyes as she spoke, as if she were seeing something else instead. “I believe she made him for a purpose that she no longer wishes him to fulfill.”

“That is why she passed down the law about his needing to wed.” Abigail furrowed her brow. To be made for a singular purpose, only to have it taken away, and to be so reviled for it…

No. She should have no sympathy for that monster, who now likely wanted her diced to shreds for a laugh.

“Yes. And why she has spent so much care and time with you, dear one.”

“Time and care? I beg to differ. I—” Abigail paused, her question dying on her lips as the answer came to her a moment later. “The stag.”

Beatrice smiled, almost sleepily, as if in a dream. “Yes. The stag.”

“And she…” The visions! She had nearly forgotten about them. “You will become his prey. That is what she said to me in my dream.” She stared down at her palm, a slow sense of fear creeping over her once more. “Is that what I am now? Merely prey?”

“Merely prey?” Uri huffed an indignant laugh. “Is that what the wild things are to you? Are we only meat on your table?”

“I—I mean no offense.” She glanced over at the elf, who was glaring at her, arms crossed over her ample chest. “I meant to say that…” She trailed off. She did not know what she meant to say. “If I were to choose to be a wolf or a rabbit, I know which one would mean longer survival.”

“Or so you think. Life feeds death, and death feeds life. We simply focus on the former, as it is the half that is seen to us.” Beatrice opened her eyes again, and Abigail blinked in confusion as she saw that her mismatched eyes had switched. Or perhaps she thought they had. The left was no longer black, but white, and vice versa. Or had she just imagined it?

The hag continued to speak, oblivious to her confusion, or more likely, choosing to ignore it. “The Morrigan raised you as you are now…a Seelie more powerful than perhaps even the queen herself.”

That made Abigail laugh. “You are joking with me. You must be. Look at me—if I touch a tree, I become part of it! I woke up with the legs of a deer. I do not know who I am, or what I am—”

“Then listen, girl.” Beatrice’s face contorted in anger for a moment. “I did not come all this way to have you tell me what you think you are.”

That was not the kind, wispy, empathetic woman she had spoken to a moment before. That was someone else entirely. She went stiff, straightening her back, watching the hag warily. “Who are you?”

The woman chuckled. “Not so stupid after all. I am Bernadette. Beatrice is my sister. We are…one and the same. I came to speak to you, for the prince came to speak to me.”

One and the same, but separate. Of one mind and two. “You are Unseelie. Your sister is Seelie. You are one, in that all fae are,” her words were a murmur, more to herself than the hag across from her.

But the other woman grinned, a feral kind of thing that looked out of place on the woman’s smooth features. “Good, good. Very good. The Morrigan’s workings are a mystery to us all, girl. What you hear from us are only the guesses of a woman who guesses correctly every time. Do you understand?”

Abigail nodded numbly. “Yes, ma’am. Ma’ams.”

Bernadette snickered. “The Morrigan made a creature of pure death—pure wrath—pure hunger. He threatens to upend the balance and kill us all. So, what must be made to counteract him, hm? What must be done to even the scales? What must be made to offset the perfect pinnacle of a predator who chomps his teeth at the end of his leash?”

“Prey.” She cringed. She gripped the wooden goblet in her hands and stared down into the watery reflection within it. “Something for the wolf to hunt.”

When a palm cracked across her face, she reeled from the blow. Placing her hand against her cheek, she looked at the hag wide-eyed. She had been struck dumb.

“You think of yourself as so very little. If you wish to be nothing more than a fieldmouse, so be it!” The woman huffed and leaned back in her chair and gestured a hand dismissively at her. “Perhaps you should be his slave. His pet. Perhaps that is all you are capable of becoming.”

“I am not strong enough to be anything else.”

“Not yet.” The woman leaned forward. “But what I ask from you now, girl, is this—do you wish to be anything more? Or would you rather kneel in the dirt and let him rut you as a boar like he threatened to do?”

For some reason, that made her laugh. She glanced away. “I had forgotten about that.” It had seemed like such a horrifying proposition at the time—and in truth, it still was. But now, there was a strange kind of morbid humor about it. The idea was honestly funny to her now, where before it had inspired only terror. Her problems had become so much larger now. “I wish to learn to defend myself. I am tired of running scared, afraid of every shadow, of every face that greets me. I wish to stand on my own legs—whatever they might be at the moment. I cannot promise anything more, for that is all as I can see in my future.”

The woman chuckled. “You are honest. Wonderful. I had hoped you would say that. Then, that is what you shall do. Be amongst your kind. Learn from them. Tell no one else of who you are, ‘Margery.’ No one. Uri will be your guide.”

“I—” Uri went to protest, but one glare from Bernadette had her choking back her objections. “Yes, m’lady.”

“When you are ready, you will come back to see me. Or her. Or the third. Or any of us.” Bernadette snorted and shut her eyes, leaning her head back against her chair. “It matters not which.” Her head bobbed as if she had fallen asleep, and with a snuff, she opened her eyes—once more switched—and smiled at her gently. “I am sorry if that troubled you.”

“N—no, it is fine.” Abigail smiled faintly. “It is the least troubling thing I’ve seen since coming to Tir n’Aill, I must admit.”

Beatrice smiled, clearly exhausted from what had transpired. “You are a sweet one. The Morrigan chose well.”

“I believe it was Valroy who got me into this mess, not her.”

“Hm. Perhaps. Or perhaps she guided him there. Who is to know?” Her eyes were heavy and half-lidded. “You must forgive me. I must rest.”

“Of course. I appreciate your help.” Abigail stood, actually quite glad to be done with the mysterious hag and her prophecies. Uri seemed more than happy to leave, as she was already out the door and waiting in the sunlight that spilled onto the long grass outside.

She hesitated before following the elf outside. She looked back at Beatrice. “Must…must he and I be enemies? Is that what we are to become?”

Beatrice smirked. “That is entirely for you to decide, my child.” A second later, the woman was asleep, her head rolling on her shoulder.

Shaking her head, Abigail went to the hearth and moved the pot of tea farther away so it did not scald and fill the air with an acrid scent. She fetched a thin blanket from the bed—it was still quite chilly in the room, despite the burning fire—and carefully draped it over the sleeping woman before walking out after Uri, closing the door gently behind herself.

Either we are at war, or I shall be his pet? Are those my only choices?

Either I am to live forever as his prey…or as his enemy.

She was not certain she was capable of the latter.

And for the briefest second, for the barest flicker of doubt, she was not so certain she did not desire the former.

ANFAR KNEW that whatever he was being summoned for, it was not good. It was a rare time that Valroy called anyone to his so-called “Great Hall,” and it was never for pleasant reasons. And Anfar could not think of a time when he himself had been called to attend.

And it was still daytime, which complicated matters. Who else could he be summoning? The new sycophants who populated Valroy’s court did not sleep within the Maze. Only he made the dubious distinction of doing so—especially now that Bayodan and Cruinn had been exiled and named traitors to the throne.

Fools.

But I understand.

Would he have not done the same for a lady he had been sworn to protect? Was that not the proper thing to do, in the name of honor? If Lady Astasha had…he pushed the thoughts of her out of his mind. She was no longer even a shadow of her former self. A corpse who walked and murmured nonsensical words.

Stepping into the Great Hall, he was shocked to find it empty. Empty, save for Valroy, who sat on his throne, toying with a necklace he wore. It was not one Anfar recognized—not at first. Not until he cautiously drew closer and saw it was Abigail’s talisman.

There was a look of dark grief upon his face, and he was staring off into the trees, his mind a million miles away. Valroy had not noticed him enter. His glowing blue eyes were narrowed as he glared off into the middle distance, angry at whatever he saw.

Angry and pained.

Then…then Anfar understood.

And suddenly, it became so brutally clear that he nearly cussed at himself for being a fool. How had he not seen it before? Now that he knew, what was he supposed to even do about it?

Because sitting there, on the throne, mulling over his grief, lost in his tragedy?

Was a man deeply in love.

Damn my luck! Why do I associate with this cretin? Why do I choose to be here? I could go off into the deep, dark sea, where no one would ever find me again…

But no. He was here. With Valroy. Answering a summons he could have ignored, but did not. “Valroy.”

That time it at least only took one issuance of his name to get the other man’s attention, although for a beat, Anfar was not so certain. Not until he spoke.

“She is in the City of Dawn.”

Anfar swore under his breath.

“She is Seelie.”

He swore louder.

Much louder.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Abigail felt no better than when she had set foot inside Beatrice—Bernadette—the hag’s home. She felt no better and, in fact, felt quite worse.

This is insanity. Perhaps all of this is the product of someone’s mad dream. Perhaps I am dying of some terrible fever, and all of this is my imagination.

Somehow, I feel I am not that lucky.

Uri was walking around beside her, wringing her hands together, mumbling. Abigail hugged herself, as she always did when she felt alone and lost, and looked down at the poor nervous elf. “You should go home.”

“Hum?” Uri looked up at her, startled, as if the elf had forgotten she was there. “Oh, no, no. No, absolutely not. When the hag tells you to do something, you do it. And this was an order. So—so I will help you, even if you’re—” The woman broke off in a whine, wagging her hands in front of her as if they were covered in hot liquid.

Abigail had to laugh, even if it was at her expense. “You have been put in a terrible position because of me. You meant well. You meant to help me, and now you are associated with someone who means you nothing but trouble. I apologize. I wish to free you of this burden in any way I can.”

Uri blinked and looked up at her, stunned. “You…do?”

“I do.” Abigail sighed. “I am sure the queen would want very much to have me for her prisoner. Valroy would trade much to for the pleasure to rend my flesh from my bones.” She wrinkled her nose then tucked the mental image away for another time. “I am sure I would be of much political worth to her.”

“But—but—” Uri sighed, her shoulders sagging in defeat. “No, that feels wrong. The hag says you’re meant to save us from this terrible fate—of death at that damnable prince’s claws.” She spat on the ground, missing a step, and hurrying to catch up with Abigail. Not that Abigail had any clue where they were meant to be going. “If that’s true, and you’re our”—she dropped her voice to a whisper, though it was so loud it did little good—“savior, then…”

“Stop with that. No. I am not your savior. I cannot even save myself, let alone save an entire race—and the human world—from certain destruction.” Abigail pulled in a deep breath until she felt her ribs ache, held it, and let it out in slow rush. “I do not even know what I am. And if I touch a tree for too long, I might find myself standing somewhere else entirely. Or owning someone else’s legs.”

“Pah!” Uri waved a hand dismissively. She did talk with her hands overmuch. But it made Abigail smile, all the same. The elf cinched her apron tighter around herself, redoing the bow at her hip. “Shapeshifting and root travel. Parlor tricks. I can find you any fae who could teach you to control those gifts.”

“Great.” She chuckled, a smile never quite leaving her face, even if she was in a precarious position. “Then perhaps that is precisely where we should start.”

“No. First we have lunch. We missed breakfast, and lunch is what this situation calls for.” Uri reached over and, without hesitation, grabbed Abigail’s hand. She took a sharp left turn and began dragging her between the trees of the City of Dawn, muttering once more to herself in nervous frustration.

Abigail left her to it, choosing instead to think over her own situation. Was she hungry? Yes. Sure. She hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and the sun was now nearly square overhead above them. But was it her first concern? No.

Her first concern sat squarely with the thoughts of a shadowy figure with two very large wings.

Valroy.

She frowned. Must he and I be enemies? Why had she asked Beatrice that?

And there, burning in the middle of her heart, as sure as the amber sun overhead, she had her answer. It was simple, it was obvious, and it was staring at her in the face.

Because she did not want them to be enemies.

Deep down inside, buried beneath the rock it had squirmed out from underneath like the slimy nightcrawler it was, was the honest truth.

If he did not wish to take so many lives, I would have surrendered to him within a fortnight. Terrible as it might be, that was the simple fact of it. She had wanted Valroy from the moment she had seen him—once he had shed his hermit guise, at any rate. The wicked smirk, the devilish superiority, the power he held. If he had simply been after, oh, her soul, she might have given it to him after the barest attempt at a fight.

But for her surrender to result in so much death?

That, she could not abide.

Yet the board had once more changed before her. She had been raised from the dead—or perhaps, to say she had been removed from life itself would be more accurate—for what? To be Valroy’s undoing? An ancient, powerful Unseelie prince, birthed by the Morrigan into a field of blood?

Yet when she thought of his playful smile, and those few moments when he laughed—truly laughed—for the sake of joy and humor and not for cruelty and sin, she could see the beauty in him.

Oh, who was she kidding?

She could see the beauty in him no matter how he smiled. She delighted in his kindness, even as she was revolted by his cruelty.

Her fingers brushed over the side of her neck. That was where he had bitten her, to draw Na’len’s poison from her veins. She could feel his teeth sink deep into her throat, drinking her, even as his hands toyed with her with the skilled dexterity of a man who had lived for thousands of years.

A man who had lived, and been desired, for thousands of years.

Her thoughts circled him, endlessly trailing about like a moth to a flame. And that was precisely what she felt she was. A poor insect, drawn to an unstoppably destructive force. Gods help her, if Valroy appeared before her in this instant and said, “Be my queen, and I will end my designs upon the worlds,” she knew she would say yes. But such a trade would never be offered by him. And if she proposed it, she knew it would insult him, and for good reason. Who was she to ask a man to change his nature?

Death was why he was made.

Death was who he was.

And lo, she walked hand-in-hand with an elf through the city of the Seelie, seeking someone who could train her to be powerful enough to stop him.

If there was such a person.

Well, to be accurate, currently they were in search of lunch.

“Here we are!” Uri exclaimed as she walked up to a huge ash tree that stretched tall above the others around it. It was so wide around that she thought it would take ten or twelve people to touch arms around its base. Abigail let out a breath and looked up at its stretch, caught in its beauty.

This tree was ancient. Truly ancient. She gently broke away from Uri, who was shouting something at someone else, though Abigail could not be bothered to listen to learn the specifics. Walking up to the towering tree, she stood at its base and reached out to touch it.

She hesitated, her hand hovering above the surface.

“I do not wish to find myself somewhere unexpected,” she whispered to it gently. “Though I am sure you would mean well by doing so.”

She could almost hear it laugh—truly feel it, up through her legs. It was then that she realized how foolish she was being. I am touching them all the time. This place is a network of roots, dizzying in their multitude. I am no less touching them now than I am with the palm of my hand.

I am an idiot.

Placing her palm to the tree, she slowly let her eyes slip shut. Beneath her hand, beneath her feet, was a roar not unlike the sound of the waves crashing upon the shore. It was immense, it was ancient, and it was alive.

It spoke without words. It did not need any. It was loving and calm, and it called to her. Pressing her forehead to the bark of the tree, she hummed a tune, feeling the tree sing along with her. She didn’t know what she was singing, and truthfully it didn’t matter. Was it their song? Or hers?

Both.

All her strife, all her turmoil, seemed so small in the light of the tree’s presence. It had weathered so much. It had been here for thousands upon thousands of years. Unseelie princes and kings had come and gone, and the blood they had spilled had merely fed the grass and trees.

Someone tugged on her sleeve.

With a startled noise, she broke away from the tree and rubbed at her eyes to clear them. Glancing down at whoever had touched her, she smiled. “Oh. Uri, forgive me. Was I ‘gone’ for long?” At least this time I do not mean it literally, as I seem to be standing where I last left off.

“No, no…maybe an hour.” Uri smiled. “I didn’t want to leave you hungry, is all!” She held up a basket.

An hour.

She blinked in astonishment. “Oh.” An hour was a very long time when in her head it was only a matter of seconds.

Seeing her frown, Uri patted her arm then gently took her by the wrist to pull her away from the trunk of the ash tree to find a comfortable spot to sit in the shade. There were other groups of people sitting about, smiling and laughing, eating from their own baskets of food. They hadn’t been there when she had touched the tree.

To make matters worse, Uri’s hand upon her arm felt strange. When she looked down, she pulled in a startled hiss and jumped back. Uri was not the problem. Her arm was made of bark. Covered in a layer of it, like the Ash tree itself. She bit back a scream and managed to turn it into a frightened whine.

“You poor thing.” The elf smiled, took her bark-covered hand without hesitation, and tugged her down to sit in the grass. “So much to learn.”

She laid her arm in her lap, staring down at the bark. Slowly bending her fingers, she shook her head in numb confusion. Everything moved normally, felt as it should, save for the layer of skin that was decidedly not hers. “Why won’t it go away?”

“Because you don’t want it to.” Uri was unpacking the basket of food, laying out items that Abigail was honestly not paying any attention to.

“I do.” She huffed a laugh. “I really do.”

“You’re afraid of it. There’s a difference.” Uri reached out and patted her knee. “You’re a wood kin. You can change your shape at will, to anything you like. You just have to focus on it.”

I am a shapeshifter now. Taking in a breath, she held it and slowly let it out. I am not human. I died, and I became a fae. And the fate of two worlds—apparently—rests with me. That last bit was sizably more frightening than the rest. It was funny how in the light of larger, far more dire problems, her previous ones seemed to fall away and become considerably less impressive.

Randomly finding herself being covered in bark was not as troublesome as being tasked with saving Tir n’Aill and Earth from the wrath of a dangerous Unseelie prince. One with whom she had…a complicated relationship.

She looked down at her hand and, taking a breath, slowly let it out. The bark began to recede, leaving her skin unmarred and just as she remembered it. Holding up her other hand, she tried something else. She willed it to return.

Sure enough, her skin slowly shifted to the bark of an ash tree. With a small, confused laugh, she willed it away once more. When she finally turned her attention to the elf, Uri was smiling at her like a proud parent.

“I still don’t know if I appreciate the deer legs I woke up with.” Abigail chuckled. She reached for the food that was sitting on a small tablecloth in front of her. Bread, cheese, fruit, and vegetables.

Her stomach rumbled. By the gods, she was starving. “Thank you for the food. I wish I had some way to repay you.”

“Pay me?” Uri laughed. “We do not charge each other for food.”

“You don’t? I saw a marketplace when I was—” She broke off what she was saying, just in case she could be overheard. “I saw a marketplace.”

“We trade and barter and gamble for things we don’t need. Fancy cloth. Trinkets. The like. But things we need? Those we give to each other for free. Food. Shelter. Kindness.”

“Oh.” She supposed that made perfect sense. Biting into an apple, she let out a small grunt of appreciation.

“Why are you so hungry, dear? Can you not simply grow yourself what you need?” Uri must have watched Abigail’s expression turn to one of embarrassment. She chuckled. “You do not know how.”

“I tried. I grew weeds.” She shook her head. “Pretty weeds, but nothing edible.”

“One thing at a time, I suppose. We’ll try later when we don’t have so much company.” Uri poured a goblet of wine and passed it to her. The sun was halfway down to the horizon already. She supposed there was no harm in it. Maybe it would help steady her nerves.

She glanced around the clearing beneath the boughs of the giant ash tree. The Seelie were no less strange than the Unseelie in appearance, but they were decidedly less…monstrous, perhaps, was the word? Less frightening, for certain.

She studied them for a moment. Tiny humanoid creatures that would have come up to her knee were sitting about, giggling and laughing with each other. Their skin were shades of pastel flowers, each one a different tone. An enormous man, twice as wide as Valroy and perhaps with another foot of height on him, had the head and legs of a bull. He was walking across the clearing, chatting with a woman whose arms were the wings of a bird, feathers colored like jewels.

Some of those she saw gathered about reminded her of Astasha—human, except for the astonishing beauty that would have set them apart. Although these faces seemed far less cold, like they were the representation of the stars. She frowned at the memory of the poor and tortured former lady of the Din’Glai and tried to push it away.

Each of the Seelie around her was unique from the rest. Some had portions of their skin that was miscolored or textured as if someone had dipped moss into pigment and pressed it to them. Green was by far the most common color, but not always. She looked down at herself, finding the same tinge that remained on her, even when she willed the bark and vines away.

It would probably not be a good idea to sprout Gle’Golun flowers when surrounded by the Seelie. They would likely recognize the blooms on sight.

But everyone was laughing and smiling. Some were chasing each other around in a game of tag. By the edge of the clearing, she saw a young couple of female fae kissing passionately, lost in each other’s embrace.

It made her smile. There was happiness here—happiness and love and life.

“I was told terrible things about the Seelie,” she murmured to Uri. “I was told that while the Unseelie kill, the Seelie manipulate and lie.”

Uri snorted loudly then turned her head to spit on the ground. “Unseelie scum. Of course they’d tell you that.”

“Is it not true?”

“We’re fae. We play our games. We do as all our kind does—same as those shadowy bastards. We take our prizes from the human world, we amuse ourselves…we aren’t benign to humans, not always. But we certainly don’t torture and maim like they do.”

The memory of Astasha, iron nails driven deep into her skull, and Valroy’s sneer when he told her, “This is how we treat all our prisoners,” flashed in her mind.

The poor boy who had been skinned alive.

She shivered and drew her legs in. She downed the goblet of wine and reached for the bottle. “I have seen plenty…”

“I am sure you have, you poor thing.” Uri shuffled closer to her so that they could talk in whispers. “I have—I have never met the Bloody Prince. What is he like?”

She shut her eyes and couldn’t answer for a moment. There was too much there to contend with. He embraced her like a lover. He laughed with her like a friend. He hunted her like a wolf. And he delighted in her fear like a tyrant.

But there had been moments—many moments—when she had laughed or made him laugh. Where she had wanted more than anything to surrender to his touch and take all the pleasure he desperately wished to give her.

The memory of him kneeling at the edge of the Gle’Golun, terrified, desperate, afraid, and weeping because she was about to die. How he had begged her to return to him. Why? If he were any normal man—or perhaps, even any normal fae—she would have assumed she had broken his heart.

But this was Valroy.

He must be furious with me.

If he finds me again—she cringed—when he finds me again…he will skin me alive instead. She wondered, idly, if she healed on her own. Or if she could heal others. It would be a very useful skill for her to learn, especially seeing as she had nearly died twice by accident during her time with the Unseelie.

She wondered if that was normal odds, or if she was particularly unlucky.

She voted the later.

“He is overwhelming,” was her answer when she opened her eyes again to fetch more cheese and bread. “He is a force of nature.”

“But—” Uri shuffled closer, leaning in, and whispered, “Is he handsome?”

She laughed. Hard. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was the pink in Uri’s cheeks. There must be a strange fascination the Seelie had with their stories of the Bloody Prince. She couldn’t blame them. She had met the man, and she could not lie and say that his fiendish darkness wasn’t deeply alluring, even if it very much should not be. “Yes. He’s beautiful.” She let out a breath.

“How is he as a lover? I’ve heard some don’t survive the night with him…”

That made her laugh again. She stretched her legs in front of her, enjoying the warmth of the sun that filtered in through the leaves overhead. “I rightly wouldn’t know.”

“You—what? Really?” Uri huffed. “You’re lying to me.”

“I am not.” She leaned back on her elbow and pretended she were on a picnic with a friend. That this was simply gossip between two girls. “He and I never made—I highly doubt ‘love’ is the word for anything of the sort when he’s involved.”

“But there is no chance that a dozen Unseelie haven’t had their way with y—” Uri paused. She tilted her head to the side and looked at her in awe. “No one’s touched you since you arrived.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She winced at the memory of Na’len and the female fae who had no problem touching her. Or Valroy when she was poisoned, bringing her release as she suffered through the effects of the venom. Or even Cruinn and Bayodan with their tender kisses. “Fae are…affectionate creatures.”

Uri snorted. “That’s a word for it.”

“Do you disapprove?”

“Hardly! I’m simply shocked you haven’t…I mean, you are gorgeous, and…”

“Not compared to the rest of you.” She gestured at the beautiful couple by the edge of the trees who were now naked and pleasuring each other.

“You have not seen yourself lately, have you?” She tksed and shook her head. “Eat up, child. Once you’ve had your fill, we’ll fix that straightaway.”

“Child? How old are you?” No one has called me that since Aunt Margery. It was both comforting and painful at the same time.

“Six hundred and forty-seven cycles have passed since I was born.” Uri smiled and began packing up the food into the basket. Abigail downed the remainder of her goblet and tucked it away in the basket. She took an apple and climbed to her feet.

When Uri lifted the basket with a huff, Abigail took it from her. “Let me. You’re half my size. Seems only fair.”

The elf laughed. “I won’t argue that. Come along!” And with that, she led Abigail away from the ash tree. As they passed the couple making love, Uri greeted them cheerfully. “Hello, Eni. Hello, Vasha!”

The two women replied breathily in greeting. Correction, one did. The other one was…occupied.

Abigail tried to keep from blushing, but her cheeks went warm all the same. Not out of embarrassment—she knew the two ladies were doing nothing wrong. But it was still strange to see it displayed out in the open.

“You’ll get used to it.” Uri chuckled as she looked up to see her confused expression. “It’s quite all right.”

She smiled back to the elf mildly. “If I live that long.”

“Oh, dear. I don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.” Uri led their way through the woods, jumping over roots and winding between trees.

Her feet, remarkably, didn’t hurt.

There really are benefits to being fae, I suppose.

After several minutes of them walking along, they came to a pond. The waters were as still as glass. It took her a second to realize why they were there. Then, she remembered. I do not know what has become of me. Not really.

Uri stepped to the shore and gestured for her to step up to the edge of the pond. “Come, dear. Look.”

Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, she took in a wavering breath, held it, and let it out. There was no point in avoiding it. Stepping to the edge of the pond, the mud wet and cold beneath her feet, she looked down.

And saw her reflection.

And promptly fainted.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Anfar turned his head and spat out a glob of blood. It was thicker than it should have been, which meant he was beginning to heal.

That was both good and bad.

Groaning in pain, he tried to lift his head from wherever it was. Which was easier said than done. He expected it to be gravel, or the packed dirt of a shoreline. But whatever his head on was soft and squished beneath him.

“Hey, now. Don’t move.” A hand touched his matted hair. “You’re all right, but you’re in rough shape.”

Who was talking to him…?

Why were they talking to him?

He grunted. The pain in his head was making it very difficult to think. In fact, it would be better if he fell unconscious again. But the waking world was nothing if not persistent. He stopped moving, however, as the owner of the voice wiped at the ground next to him. Likely cleaning up the blood he had just cleared from his throat.

Everything was rather hazy. But he could remember the image of a fist the second before it impacted his head. That wasn’t why his throat was bloody—no, that had been a claw shoved into his chest. But the fist had been what had finally ended the fight.

Oh.

Right.

He had been brawling with Valroy again.

Someone dabbed a cloth to his forehead. A sweet gesture. Probably attempting to clean the blood off him. It was sweet but rather silly, when the moment he could see straight enough to walk, he’d just disappear into his lake and change his shape. He would much rather lick his wounds in his true form, not this tiny humanoid one.

When he could finally open his eyes, he blinked up at the fuzzy shape of a man who was sitting beside him. Anfar was on a cot. Indoors. How odd. The room was ramshackle, but it was still a shelter, nonetheless. The hazy sunlight drifting through the window revealed that he was still within the Maze.

At least Valroy hadn’t dumped his unconscious body out where the Seelie could find him. That meant he wasn’t that angry, on the scale of things.

He focused back on the man over him. His thoughts were wild and unfettered, jumping from one spot to the other. It was hard to keep a leash on them.

He was punch drunk. He hated being punch drunk. It made everything swim around in his vision. He grunted again and shut his eyes for a moment, trying to give his head time to sort things out. He was healing, and he was healing quickly, but it was still annoying at best.

“These’re deep. Taking a while to mend.” The man over him sighed, wiping at his collarbone with the cloth. He dabbed at a wound on his chest. Valroy had skewered him a few times with his claws but had pointedly missed his heart. “What happened to you?”

“S’what we do,” he slurred quietly. “S’fine.”

He really hated being punch drunk. He would have to focus harder on his words.

“What do you mean?”

Anfar grunted. “Valroy.”

The man made a disapproving noise. When Anfar could blink his eyes open again, he could see just a little bit better than before. The figure over him wasn’t so out of focus. He squinted up at him.

A selkie. An ex-sailor. A young man with a square jaw and a lopsided smile. He knew him. He had met him before. He was part of his—oh. He remembered now. “Perin?”

“Yes, sir.” He smiled just a little wider. “Found you on the shore, bleeding. Tide hadn’t taken you yet. I figured…I figured it would be bad manners to leave you there.”

He went to sit up and immediately thought better of it. The wounds in his chest were very deep, and apparently still very fresh. Pain shot through him. He hissed air through his nose and lay back down.

Perin’s hands were on his shoulders, his eyes wide. “No, no, no—bad idea.”

“Noted. Thank you.” He grimaced and then sighed, shutting his eyes. He preferred it when the room was not spinning.

“Why did Valroy do this?”

“We were fighting.” It wasn’t a full answer. He felt no need to give one.

“And he just…dumped you in the sand?”

“Mm-hm.”

Silence.

Anfar hated conversations. He never got them right. Clearly, his reply was insufficient. “We fight. When I inevitably lose, he drops me off on the shore. This is what we do.” He wanted to sit up. He hated being prone in someone else’s cot. It rubbed him very much the wrong way.

Even if it was comfortable.

And the hut smelled like cooking fish, which made his mouth water just a little.

“He nearly kills you and leaves you for dead on the regular?” Perin’s tone was both horrified and incredulous. “And you call each other friends?”

“He’ll be along with a bottle of wine in an hour. You also did not see the state I left him in.” Anfar smirked. “This is what we do.” He repeated the insistence that this was not out of the ordinary. Was it painful and cruel to fight in the way that they did?

Perhaps.

But it was also one of the few ways he could be honest with his friend and prince.

And Anfar had deserved this. Well—no. Perhaps deserved was the wrong word. He had expected this. Because he had started the conversation with Valroy knowing exactly how it was going to end.

With him bleeding on the shoreline, slowly healing.

How else were two fae lords—both half-demons, the sons of fallen archangels, and creatures of immense power and violence—supposed to fight? With lengthy discourse? Anfar hated talking, and Valroy’s temper would not allow it.

No, this was simply how two monsters, who might well enough be brothers at this point, were bound to settle their disagreements.

Perin clearly did not feel the same, as he was muttering quietly about the Bloody Prince and Anfar’s injuries. Anfar chuckled. “I am alive. I have my limbs. I will heal, like I always do. Your concern is not needed.” He opened his eyes again, looking up at the selkie. “You have ruined your sheets for no reason.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t leave you there. Felt wrong.”

Waking up on a cot, in a warm hut, to the smell of cooking fish, and a friendly face…it was better than waking up on the gravel and sand. It was an odd realization, and he furrowed his brow.

He very much despised being punch drunk.

“What…what were you two arguing about?” Perin asked tentatively. “If you don’t want to say, that’s fine, but—”

Anfar’s long, disgruntled growl shut him up. The sound was far deeper than a human was capable of creating, and it reverberated in the ground. Some items on a shelf rattled quietly. The selkie retreated a little, freezing, as if suddenly afraid. That made Anfar sigh, and he shook his head. “I will not hurt you.”

Perin’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. He was Unseelie, but he was also selkie. A rare thing—a dark one being a prey animal. Most selkies were Seelie, and yet, here the man sat. Anfar had never pondered him overmuch. Sirens, salamanders, sylphs, and the like, could belong to either the Moonlit or Sunlit courts. Perin was not impossible, simply uncommon.

He took a deep breath, testing the wounds in his chest. They were mending, but it would likely be at least an hour or two before he could walk. That meant an hour or two trapped in his current situation.

Having to talk.

Anfar grimaced. Perin frowned, likely mistaking his expression for one of physical pain. No—well, yes, but it wasn’t that terrible. His issue was that he did not do well around people. Ever. Under any circumstances.

Perhaps he could just sleep until he was well enough to move.

No, that was unlikely as well.

He was trapped.

Curse you, Valroy. Curse you for not leaving me somewhere I would not be found. But the deed was done, and here he was. Then a memory came to him. He looked up at Perin with furrowed brow. “Wait. You are the one who aided the mortal witch, yes?”

“Huh? Oh. Abigail.” Sadness quickly came over Perin, and he glanced to the wooden door of the hut, letting out a long breath. “Yeah. I was. Briefly, at any rate. Poor thing. She didn’t deserve her fate.”

“You know not the half of it.”

Perin shook his head. “I watched a kelpie be devoured by the Gle’Golun once. It’s a terrible way to die, and—”

“She lives.”

“What?”

Anfar chuckled at the selkie’s sudden exclamation and look of pure shock. He was an expressive young man.

“She is—she lives? How? How is that possible?”

“The gods saw fit to bring her back to life. As a fae.”

Perin groaned and put his hand over his eyes. “The prince must have her in chains already, the poor thing. That makes her condition worse, not better. He can do what he likes now.”

“She is Seelie.”

Anfar had to laugh as Perin launched into a loud series of obscenities. He swore like only a sailor could. In fact, the news sent the man to his feet and pacing back and forth in front of his small stove. The cast iron thing was rusted beyond belief, but the pot that sat on it, likely cooking fish chowder, seemed in much better shape.

Perin ran his hands over his hair, ruffling the brown and shaggy strands. “Oh. Oh, gods, why? Why do this? Is—Is Valroy going to go after her?”

“He will try.” Anfar winced and shifted, struggling to sit up. Perin ceased his pacing to rush to his side and help him. That was a blow to his ego, yes, but it was also sadly necessary. He would not have made it on his own. When his back was against the wall, he felt much better about his current situation. “He schemes even now.”

Perin shook his head. “But if she is Seelie, and he’s claimed her as his princess, then…has this ever happened before?”

“No.”

“What will he do?”

Anfar shot him a look.

Perin’s shoulders sank. “He will use it to declare war…”

“Precisely.” Anfar counted his wounds. Six stabs into his chest, each put there by dangerously sharp claws. But each one missing a vital area. Meant to hurt, not to kill. Not anything he would count as remarkable, considering their brawls in the past. “Such was the topic of our fight.”

Not entirely.

That wasn’t what had sent Valroy into a rage.

But it was the same source of the issue.

No, the reason Valroy had flown at him, ready to beat him senseless, was far more personal than that. And far more dangerous.

Anfar had informed the Bloody Prince that he was in love with Abigail, and simply could not recognize it in himself, for he had never felt the emotion before.

Perhaps also accusing him of having the emotional maturity of a child had not been the best course of action.

Oh, well.

Perin was swearing again. He got up from the cot to go stir the pot of chowder—gods, it smelled amazing—and put the lid back on. “Does he gather his forces?”

“No. When last we left off, I believe he wishes to try to steal her—to make the Seelie declare war. If they invade us, it puts them at the disadvantage.” Speaking of simple things like war and logistics was at least an easier topic to discuss.

“Maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll let him keep her.” There was both dismay and hope in the selkie’s voice. He sat down in a chair next to the wall, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I hate the idea of her being Valroy’s prisoner, but it’s better than war.”

“I agree. And such we can only hope for. That Titania and Oberon will excuse Valroy’s incursion—or that they will take some paltry trade in return.” Anfar shrugged. “But who is to say?”

“You were attempting to dissuade Valroy, I take it?”

“More or less.”

Perin raised an eyebrow at that, but smartly didn’t press the issue. With a shake of his head, he got up, moved to a small table, and began cutting up a loaf of bread that sat on a small wooden plate.

The conversation lapsed between them, silence stretching on for minutes. It was a comfortable kind of thing, however, and Anfar was both surprised and happy for it. People seemed to feel the need to fill the air with words at all times. He was not one of them. And it seemed neither was Perin. When he returned to the stove, he pulled the pot of chowder from the burner and stirred it once more. Steam rose from the surface, and Anfar’s stomach audibly growled.

That made the selkie smile. But he said nothing.

It gave Anfar time to study the young man. He was a sailor, through-and-through. He still wore the trappings of one, though his days aboard a ship were long gone. His selkie pelt was draped over a hook on the wall by the door.

Shockingly, Anfar found it was he who broke the silence. “What did you make of Abigail?”

“She was…is? Is. Kindhearted. And terrified.” He huffed. “I doubt that’s changed now.”

“Likely not.”

“She stole my pelt for all of four seconds, making me promise to tell her the truth and nothing else. She could have demanded my service for life—asked me to be her bodyguard. Or send me to try to murder Valroy, resulting in my death. She did none of those things. She simply wanted someone to speak the whole story to her for a change.” Perin began to ladle the chowder into bowls.

Anfar frowned, remembering his moment of weakness with the witch. How he had cried, and she had simply held him, asking for nothing in return. “She belongs with the Seelie.”

Perin nodded weakly. Placing a spoon in the bowl and a slice of bread along the edge, he walked to Anfar and handed it to him. “Strong enough to eat?”

“I will not be having you spoon-feed me.”

He chuckled. “Not an answer.”

“I am strong enough to eat.” He took the bowl from the man and glowered. At least he was not lying. What an embarrassment if he was. But while his hand trembled a little as he picked up the spoon, it did not fall from his grasp.

Small favors.

They ate in companionable silence. Something about it made him smile.

The chowder was good. Very good. He muttered something to that effect, and Perin grinned. “I used to cook on the ship twice a week. Everyone preferred it over cook’s muck, and I think the fat bastard took offense to that. Oh, well.” The selkie took a bite of the bread, speaking through chewing. “Doesn’t matter. They’re dead now.”

Sailors.

Anfar went to reply but was cut off as the door to the hut was abruptly thrown open.

“There you are.”

Perin jumped to his feet, nearly dropping his bowl. In wild-eyed panic, he drew back from the opening, and the large figure that had to duck under the jamb to get inside.

Valroy looked at the selkie with a raised eyebrow. They stared at each other for a moment, before the prince had his own moment of recognition. He pointed at Perin with a hand that grasped a bottle of wine. “You. The selkie friend.”

“I—ah—um—well—” Perin coughed. “I don’t—we weren’t friends, just—”

“Sit down, shut up.” Valroy cracked his neck and winced. “I’m not here for you.”

The prince was still in a mood. Fantastic.

But in each of his hands dangled a bottle of wine. That did bode better for Anfar’s continued state of healing than not. Valroy walked up to him, looked down at where he sat on the cot, and huffed. “You look like shit.”

“As do you.”

And it was true. The prince was in shabby shape as well. One of his wings was broken, both folded at his back to keep them from moving as much as possible. There were deep gashes on his side that were hastily bandaged and slowly seeping dark red blood. He had a bruise along the corner of his jaw, and Anfar had not missed the limp in his left leg.

He had shattered the prince’s kneecap. It had healed enough for him to walk, but clearly still hurt.

Valroy smirked and handed Anfar a bottle of wine. It was already uncorked, and Anfar sniffed it. It was expensive. He shot the prince an incredulous look.

The other man merely shrugged and walked over to the table by the wall. He pulled a chair out from it and sat, chugging from his own bottle of wine, not waiting for any kind of invitation from the very-much-still-terrified selkie.

Anfar looked at the sailor in pity. “Get yourself a mug, Perin.”

That jarred the selkie to action, who, after putting down his bowl of chowder, hesitantly fetched a mug from a shelf. Anfar held out the bottle of wine to him, offering him some. There were only two bottles, but Perin looked more in need of the alcohol than he did at the moment.

“Did you tell him?” Valroy reached over and helped himself to a slice of bread from the tray.

“Abigail is alive and a Seelie.” I did not say the rest. “As they were friends, it seemed appropriate.”

Valroy hummed.

“Again, we weren’t—I barely knew her. I still owe her a vow of truth, but…that’s it.” Perin cautiously poured himself a mug of wine then handed the bottle back to Anfar. It was clear he was attempting to skirt any kind of responsibility for Abigail or her current predicament. Wise.

“What else did you tell him, sea beast?” Valroy eyed him narrowly, the faint glow of them arguing with the hazy sunlight, but still winning in the shadows of the hut.

“Nothing. The rest was my conjecture, not fact.” Anfar took a swig from the bottle, glad for the tang of the wine. The alcohol would help dull the pain, but that was not the point. If it was, it would be liquor instead. This was simply their ritual. Although the expensive vintage of the wine confused him.

Valroy let out a hum, looked at the selkie again, and then shrugged. “No. You are right.”

Anfar stared at the prince in confusion. “Excuse me?” He could not possibly have heard him right. Or if that were the case, the topics were clearly confused, as he could not have possibly just—

Valroy sneered and took a deep swig from his bottle of wine. “You are right, and I came to say I’m sorry.”

“About what, precisely?” Anfar said slowly.

The Bloody Prince let out a long, deep sigh. “I am in love with Abigail Moore.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Anfar stared at the prince.

Perin downed his mug of wine and reached for the bottle. Anfar let the selkie pour himself another mug before he took the bottle back and downed the remainder of its contents.

And promptly threw the bottle at Valroy’s head.

The prince ducked, snickering. He shrugged and sipped from his own bottle. “What?”

“You—” Anfar snarled, trying to sit up, and was promptly reminded as to why that was a terrible idea. He fell back against the wall with a grunt. “You insufferable piece of shit.”

Valroy rolled his eyes. “Oh, come, now. Here you are, angry at me. I figured you might actually be proud that I have come here to apologize for once.”

“You stabbed me six times.”

“And you broke my wing and shattered my kneecap. What of it, cousin?” Valroy laughed.

“Wait.” Perin blinked. “You two are related?”

“Vaguely.” The reply came in unison from both Valroy and Anfar.

Valroy took a swig from his bottle and decided to be the one to explain. Anfar was too busy attempting to kill him by the power of his mind alone. “His father is Leviathan. Mine, Asmodeus. Insomuch as you can say creatures such as they are brothers, we are therefore cousins.” The prince sniffed and gestured a hand aimlessly. “Hence, vaguely.”

“Oh.” Perin clearly did not know what else to say. He was staring at Valroy with an odd, wide-eyed expression. The words came out of him like he knew he was stepping on uneven stones over hot lava. “You…love…her?”

“That’s what he says.” Valroy pointed at Anfar. “I rightly wouldn’t know, or so he claims, because I am a ‘pitiful child’ with ‘the emotional sense of a brick.’”

Perin glanced to Anfar, then to Valroy, then back to Anfar. And then chugged his wine. He muttered something about going to the shed to fetch some whiskey. In truth, he probably needed some fresh air as well.

Anfar did not honestly blame him. If he could stand, he would have done the same.

Once the selkie was gone, Valroy cackled. “Poor bastard. He’s easy to ruffle, isn’t he?”

“You tend to be intimidating.”

The prince grinned, flashing his sharp eyeteeth. “I know.”

Anfar rolled his eyes and let out a dreary sigh. “Do you mean it?”

“The apology?”

With a groan, he shot the other man a glare. “Valroy.”

The prince laughed, and then pondered his wine bottle, staring down the neck of it with one eye closed. He took a swig. “Yes. I mean it. It…makes sense. All the pieces fit together. It took me some time to process what you had said, and let’s be honest, you didn’t exactly phrase it well.”

That was true.

Words were not Anfar’s gift.

He shrugged.

Valroy snorted.

The prince shook his head and leaned back in the small wooden chair. It creaked under the strain of his weight. Although it looked as though it might strain under the use of a house cat. “My obsession with her before she died could be explained by my usual…eh…nature. But after? No. You were right. She never left my mind. And now that I know that she is right there?” He reached out a hand in front of him, grasping at the air. “And yet I cannot have her? Cannot speak to her? Cannot touch her?”

The prince shook his head. “I want to scream at her in fury, shake her by the shoulders and demand to know what I have done to deserve her scorn, and…then…kiss it all away.” His shoulders slumped, a strange kind of raw agony playing over his features. “I think it may drive me mad, old friend. I think it may already be sending me up a wall.”

That very well may be true. For once, he did not believe the prince was being pedantic or melodramatic. To be denied the source of one’s love in such a manner…he sighed. He looked away.

He felt no such grief for Astasha.

Troubles for another day.

“What do you plan to do about it?” He turned his attention back to Valroy, who was now sullenly glaring at his wine bottle. He did have a great deal of unfinished business with the witch-turned-Seelie; that was at the very least true.

Valroy took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a long rush. “Find a way to kidnap her, make her my prisoner, and torment her until she loves me back, of course.”

Anfar groaned.

ABIGAIL WOKE up to someone petting her hair. She jerked awake and sat up, knocking over whoever it was.

“Hey!”

Uri. Right. The elf. Abigail put her hand over her eyes. What had happened? Everything was a bit of a blur. She had come to the side of a pond to—oh.

Right.

“Sorry,” she murmured down to the elf who was straightening herself out, tugging her long skirts back to where they should have been before she had been suddenly upended.

“Quite all right, quite all right.” Uri smiled up at her. “You’ve had a rough go of it, haven’t you?”

“I have.” She frowned. She was also exhausted. At least she had food in her stomach, however. With a sigh, she stood and brushed the dirt from her trousers. She wasn’t sure why she bothered.

Taking a cautious step to the edge of the pond, she peered down at herself again, bracing herself for what she saw. Truth be told, it wasn’t that…that horrifying, all things considered. It had just been a shock.

She did not have wings or hooves or a tail. Currently, as that could clearly come and go if she wished it. If she knew how. But what stared back up at her was not the girl she recognized. Not precisely. Her face was still her own; she recognized her freckles.

But her eyes were no longer amber. They were a shade of mossy green.

A shade that matched her lips.

She touched her fingertips to them, expecting it to come away like the pigments that more expensive ladies could spread on their lips to color them red. But they came back clean. No, her lips were simply…green.

Tangled in her hair were leaves—some of them oak, some of them from the Gle’Golun. She would have to keep the blooms hidden from the Seelie—she knew they would give her away. Her skin was also mottled with shades of green in the same fashion as she had seen with the other fae in the clearing.

Other fae.

Her mind hitched on those words for a moment, but she shook her head. It was fact. She was fae. And proof of it was staring at her in the face, if she hadn’t accepted it before.

Green tinted the skin by her ears and down the sides of her neck. She knew she would likely see it around her ankles, and…probably elsewhere, too, if she were nude. Her hair was still long and fell around her in garnet waves, but it had grown several inches since last she checked. Yet it did not seem uncared for or unkempt. It looked better than it had on her best days, to be truthful.

“See? Beautiful.” Uri took her hand and patted it.

Abigail looked down at her with a faint smile. Her fingernails were the same shade of mossy green—she had noticed that before, but now she supposed it made more sense. “I suppose.”

“Trust me. You can have anyone and everyone you want with those hips of yours.” Uri poked her in the thigh. “No wonder the prince tripped over himself trying to make you his queen.”

She laughed and looked back down at herself. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she turned her head to examine it. Her ears were pointed now, and a bit longer than they should have been. She wondered if she could wear jewelry in them now.

What an odd thought.

She had always been jealous of richer women, not for their fine clothes and fine houses, but because she wished to own earrings. It was a stupid thing to get caught up on, but it was what it was.

“What do we do now?” She looked down to the elf.

“Well…” The shorter woman peered up at the sky. The sun was starting to approach the horizon. “I believe it’s high time we teach you how to make yourself a home. It’ll be dark soon, and you don’t want those boggarts and grabbles coming to find you…”

She shivered. “No. I would rather not.”

“Let’s find you a nice big tree, then.” Uri tugged on her hand as she began to walk away. “I would invite you to stay with me and Laggan, but I don’t think you’d fit through the door.”

Chuckling, Abigail scooped up the basket of food as she passed it, not wanting to give up the treats inside. Gods knew when she’d have the chance to eat bread and cheese again. “That’s quite all right. You’ve been kind enough to me as it is.”

“Hard not to be. First, you’re a lost lamb. Two, Beatrice rather told me I had to, didn’t she?”

“I do not want to be an inconvenience to you.”

“You aren’t!” Uri chuckled. “Trust me, you aren’t. My life has been a right bit boring as of late, and helping the woman who is destined to save us from the Bloody Prince certainly livens it right up. Perhaps, when you are some lauded hero, I will feature in the songs they’ll sing of you.”

“I can only hope.” She smiled faintly as the elf led her into the woods, winding between the trees. She had to release Uri’s hand to keep from toppling over, but she stayed close. The sun was setting quicker now, the sky just beginning to turn shades of yellow. “How does one hide during the night?”

“Simple. You make a nest, or a home, or a hut, whatever you like. Your magic will keep you hidden from the Unseelie. And their magic works the same from us. They could be all around us right now, and we wouldn’t know it.” Uri waved a hand idly in the air as she talked.

“Huh.” Her magic had always been small—effective and useful—but small. Never anything that could hide whole buildings or homes. “How do I…make myself a home?”

Uri chuckled. “Same way you make anything a home. You will it to be that way.”

She nodded. That made sense. Magic was about intention and imparting a piece of her intention onto whatever she was doing. And a home meant more than a roof and some walls. “How do I build it, though?”

The elf looked back at her, a lopsided grin on her round features. “That’s the easy part, silly! You’re a wood wife. You just grow it.”

Grow it.

A house.

“Huh.”

Uri pointed off to the left. “That’s perfect! Come along.” She took a hard turn and stomped off into the trees. With a shrug, Abigail had nothing left to do but follow. The woods gave way to a clearing. In the center was a huge, beautiful oak tree, reaching high above its fellows. She smiled at it, like seeing an old friend.

“Now.” Uri walked up to the base of the big tree and patted the trunk. “Just go on up there and make yourself a home.”

“Father built me a tree house when I was very young. Before…well, before my Aunt Margery took me in.” She looked up into the branches of the tree. “I loved it. I was so very sad when I outgrew it.” I was so very sad when my parents gave me to my aunt when my magic began to manifest. But it was all for the best, I suppose.

Old wounds. Sometimes they never did heal.

“Now you get to have a new one.” Uri planted her hands on her hips, peering up at the tree thoughtfully. “Although it’ll be mighty barren if you don’t learn to summon yourself what you’ll need.”

“Oh?”

“Fancy sleeping on a floor, do you?”

“Not terribly.”

“Then, here’s your lesson from a hearth elf like m’self.” Uri rolled up her sleeves and, reaching out into the air in front of her, plucked a wood bowl from the air as if it were simply sitting there on some invisible shelf.

Abigail had seen Valroy and Bayodan do the same manner of magic—summoning things from thin air—but she thought it was very much out of her ability to do so. “I can do that?”

“Of course! Basic things. You’re no leprechaun. I doubt you’ll be able to pluck gold from the horde.” She chuckled. “But simple things, things you once owned, or things you think you can own? Easy enough.”

“Things I think I can own…”

“If I told you that you could sprout wings and fly away right now, it’s true. But you don’t think you can, so you can’t.” Uri tsked. “Damn shame, too.”

Wings.

She blinked in astonishment. She could have wings…?

She could fly? She had to laugh at the notion. “You’re right. I don’t think I can do anything of the sort.”

“You can change yourself into a house shrew and clamber between the floorboards of Titania’s bedroom if you wanted to.” Uri shrugged. “You’re a wood wife.”

“You keep saying that as if I truly have any understanding of what that means.” She sighed. “But I suppose I’m learning. Slowly.”

“Learning right fast, I’d say. Now. Shut your eyes.” When Abigail shot her a raised eyebrow, it earned her a playful swat on the leg from the elf. “Just do it, silly girl.”

With a sigh, she did as she was told.

“Now. Picture your favorite old kitchen knife. Something you used a million times. The one you’d pick, passing over all the others. See it in your mind, where you last left it. Good?”

She nodded.

“Reach out and take it.”

Keeping the image clear in her mind, she reached out and plucked it from the top of the hearth. She always kept her favorite knife there, right by all her charms and bundled herbs.

She felt its weight in her palm. Blinking her eyes open, she stared down at her hand. Sure enough, there it was.

Laughing in disbelief, she smiled. “I—I did it?”

“Now you just have to be able to picture everything you want in that same detail, and it’s yours. That would be why people can’t go rushing off plucking up jeweled goblets.” Uri huffed. “Not that I don’t wish I could.”

“Thank you, Uri.”

“Stop that. No more thanking me. It’s rude, y’know.”

“What is?”

“Thanking the fae.” Uri huffed. “Bad manners. But you were just a mortal girl, so I suppose it makes sense.”

“I think I spent my entire time in the Maze thanking things that didn’t try to kill me.”

“Well, there’s your problem!” Uri grinned and playfully swatted at her again. “No wonder you were such a disaster.”

“I was not a disaster!” She felt her shoulders slump. She gave in. What was the point of denying it? “All right, fine. I was.”

Uri howled in laughter. “You poor thing. Now, go on up to those branches, and make yourself some lovely home. I will see you in the morning. After breakfast, sadly. Laggan gets a right bit whiny if I don’t feed him. But I’ll be along to collect you.”

Reaching down, she hugged the elf. She wasn’t allowed to thank her—apparently—but that would have to suffice. She expected the smaller woman to squawk and complain, but instead Uri threw her arms around her neck and hugged her back. “Have a good night, Uri.”

“You too, dear girl. Don’t get yourself eaten by a boggart!”

Straightening, she smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

Uri waved as she walked away, humming to herself. The moment her foot touched the edge of the forest, she vanished. She wondered if all fae could fold through space in the way that Valroy and Astasha could. She knew she could travel through the system of roots if she tried—and honestly when she wasn’t trying—but it didn’t feel the same.

Placing her hand on the tree, she shut her eyes. She let herself cease to be standing where she had been, and instead willed herself to be in its great boughs and branches. She looked down at the ground now some twenty-odd feet away and chuckled a little in disbelief again.

She shut her eyes, leaning her back against the trunk of the tree, and tried to picture the home she wanted. Cozy. A tree house, with a roof of leaves, and walls made from branches and vines wound together. Something living, but something…familiar.

The tree rumbled, and she held on for dear life. But the texture of the trunk at her back changed, warped, and became just as she imagined in her mind. When it stilled, she opened her eyes and began to laugh.

Two holes in the walls for windows were accented by thin branches that created lattice work like diamond mullions. It was a home—it was a tree house—but made by nature itself. And it was…it was hers.

It even had a little hearth, though she doubted lighting a fire in it would be all that safe. Walking over to it, nervous about stepping onto the floor, she was shocked at how sturdy it all was. She placed the knife in her hand on the wood hearth—though this was not planed down to be a rectangle but instead was made of a living tree.

“This is so very strange.”

She said it to no one in particular. But she was always prone to talking to the empty air—or to James, her goat, when he was nearby. Perhaps that is why she felt Marcus’ absence so very keenly.

She was simply lonely.

The sun was setting, and with that would come the darkness. But waiting in those shadows were two of her friends. She wished she could speak to Bayodan and Cruinn. She did not want to spend her night alone.

And she also wished she could tell them that she was all right. They must be worried about her—why they cared, she did not know. Or perhaps she was simply amazed that they did care. She was not accustomed to being wanted by anyone in any way. The concept of it was so very foreign to her.

With a sigh, she willed herself back down the tree to the grass. Walking from the oak, she went to the edge of the clearing. Kneeling, she put her hand down into the grass. She would make a gift for Bayodan and Cruinn. Or…not a gift, perhaps. But a symbol. Something they would know was from her. A sign that she was all right.

And that she missed them.

Taking a deep breath, she willed a tree to grow. She felt it shift and blossom before her, felt the dirt move as new roots dug deep into the earth, joining with the song of its peers. She sang quietly to it under her breath, helping it take shape. And it answered her, like an instrument—or like the resonance of a bell. She sang a song of Bayodan and Cruinn, her unlikely guardians. Her friends. She kept them in her mind as she created the tree that would tell them that she was frightened, she was uncertain, but for now, she was all right.

When she finished, she looked up at what she had done.

And she laughed.

Hard.

Looming over her was an apple tree. Its bark was as black as pitch. Its leaves were silvery-white, so thin as to be nearly translucent. Like glass.

And from its gnarled and twisted branches were apples of a deep and unnatural crimson. She smiled. It was not a subtle message, but it would hopefully be an effective one. Standing, she placed her hand against the dark trunk. A Seelie gift to two Unseelie courtiers. An evil apple tree.

She laughed again and shook her head. “What has become of my life?”

It was twilight now, and it was dangerous for her to be outside. Walking back to the oak, she let herself move through the tree into her home.

Home.

What an odd word.

It was what she had thought she had wanted, not so very long ago. By the gods, how long had it been since she fretted over her impending homelessness? It felt like a century, but it may have been less than a year.

She was so far away from those problems. From Roderick evicting her, and Marcus’ unfaithful ways. But Marcus was dead now, and Roderick…had a burned husk of a home to show for the exchange. Although Roderick was likely quite happy to have had it cleared, as he was more after the farmland than anything else.

Shutting her eyes, she tried her best to remember her cot in her little home, which was now reduced to ash. Blankets. She wanted her fur blankets, and her cotton quilt. Reaching out, she gathered them one at a time, feeling them appear in her hands.

Then, her pillows.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at the small pile and could not help but laugh again. Such impossible things—such power at her fingertips. She had grown an apple tree, made herself a treehouse and a nest, and then filled it with things that she knew had burned.

Spreading it all out, she lay down on the blankets and rested her head on the pillows. It even smelled like home.

She watched the light fade and hoped her desire to not be found by Valroy was clearly imparted upon the structure. She hoped she had made it very clear without so many words that she, like the rest of the Seelie, wished to hide.

When the stars began to appear through her view out of her windows, and yet no shadowy hands snatched her and dragged her away, she assumed she had been successful. She could hear the chirping of the insects, and the occasional cry of some nocturnal creature. When she shut her eyes, she could imagine this was, in fact, home.

And it was.

For now.

How long will this be mine?

It was all she had asked Valroy for, the day he had taken her to Tir n’Aill. A home. Somewhere that was hers. And this was entirely that. Hers. But…for how long?

How long until the prince found her? Before his shadowy monsters and snickering goblins took her away? How long until Queen Titania discovered her? What would become of her, and this silly little hut she had made for herself?

She did not know.

Fate had more in store for her, it seemed.

The Morrigan had pulled her back from the song of life, and gave her this body…for what reason? To stop Valroy?

Or to be his?

Sleep came for her, but it was not restful.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Valroy knelt in the middle of the circle he had drawn in the sand. A small, smoldering bowl of leaves and herbs sat in front of him, sending a thin plume of black smoke drifting up into the air.

He held the crystal orb that he had been given by Bernadette in the air, perched on the tips of his fingers, and watched the reflection within.

There, within the glass, he could see her. Without Bayodan’s magic cloaking her, the image was clearer and much sharper than before. She was lying on her side, asleep, cuddled into blankets and pillows.

He could see the point of her ears. The long waves of her red hair. But he could see no other details. He could not make out whether her freckles still dotted her cheeks or her bare shoulder.

With everything he had in him, he wished he could reach through the orb, snatch her up, and yank her back to him. He would chain her to the floor of his Maze and never, ever let her go.

He grimaced.

I am in love, aren’t I?

Well…shit.

With a sigh, he shook his head. There was nothing to be done about it. He loved Abigail, and he would do anything to bring her back to him. It would take time. Abducting a Seelie would be…challenging at best. In the short term, he would have to make do. There were other ways to reach her, even if he could not yet hold her. Shake her. Demand from her everything he needed to hear.

Why did you run from me?

Why did you choose death over me?

Why do you hide from me now?

Do you understand what you have done to me?

Vanishing the orb, for he did not need it to do what he planned, he focused instead on the small jet of black smoke in front of him. Reaching down, he lifted a wineglass from beside him. It was not filled with alcohol, sadly, but tea. Of a kind, at any rate.

Chugging the liquid, leaves and all, he coughed and fought the urge to retch. The substance was bitter, foul, and disgusting. But it was necessary. The same plants smoldered in the bowl, burning away slowly into the air like incense.

Grasping the talisman of the owl around his neck, he shut his eyes and let the magic do their work.

He would have his answers from her, one way or another.

Because he needed to hear her voice.

Or else he might go mad.

Stretching out a hand in front of him, he silently begged her to take pity upon him. For this would only work…if she met him halfway.

“Abigail.”

SOMETHING BRUSHED AGAINST HER CHEEK, soft and warm. Abigail shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her back, humming quietly at the disturbance.

She could sense something. It was though she could see it in her imagination, yet it felt so very real. A hand, reaching out to her. Fingers ending in black, pointed nails. It was not just reaching for her, it was calling for her, pleading with her without words.

The scent of the night air was all around her. Crisp and rich, like the wind that rustled the treetops. Like the breeze that drifted through her windows now. The memory of strong arms—impossibly strong—holding her. Of the way he shifted at her back as his hands drifted over her body.

The memory of his laughter.

She stretched a hand above her, slowly, nervously, inching closer to that feeling of him. She hesitated. She could feel the darkness whispering to her.

In her mind’s eye, their fingers touched.

“Abigail.”

That voice.

That voice ran straight through her like a knife, cutting her down to her soul. The feeling like a thousand pinpricks crashed over her as, all at once, she was awake. She opened her eyes and looked up.

And pulled in a hiss in shock.

Over her was…nothing. Nothing but the thinnest tendrils of black smoke. It curled in the air, twisting and brushing over a shape that was otherwise invisible to her. But when the smoke touched against it, she could just barely make it out.

Wings. Large, terrible, frightening wings. Tipped in talons that flexed and curled, as if waiting to strike.

“Valroy,” she whispered.

But how? How had he found her? She went to sit up. A hand—hard and firm, far more real than the rest of him, pressed against her shoulder, pinning her down. Instantly, her heart was pounding in her ears like a drum.

“Shut your eyes.”

Without pause, she obeyed. She was not quite sure why. But her eyes were shut before she could second-guess herself. She gasped as he shifted, his weight moving over her. She reached out for him, but her hand passed through empty air.

She could feel him touching her.

But she could not touch him back.

“I am not here. You are ‘safe.’” He nearly spat the word. “I cannot steal you back to me…I cannot even see you.”

“I—”

Lips pressed against hers. Rough, devouring, and furious. She gasped at the sensation, both there and not, as if she were half awake, and he were a dream that refused to leave her. She could feel the prick of his sharp eyeteeth against her lower lip as he tilted his head, growling deep in his chest.

What could she do, save surrender to the sensation of him? The noise that left her was not one of annoyance, or fear, or dismay. Not in the slightest. The terror she had felt at the sound of his voice turned from pricks of pins to a roar of fire that was instant and all-consuming.

When he broke away, he chuckled at her. “I knew you liked it that way. You truly would have enjoyed the boar, I believe.”

She went to snap at him, to tell him not to tease her, but fingers pressed to her lips. Or the sensation of them did, at any rate. It was still enough to choke off her words.

“No. I will speak first…eventually.”

His hand slid down her body, wandering over her. She shivered and squirmed beneath his ghostly presence. Fingers trailed her skin, taking their time, as he traced her collarbone and then slowly moved farther down. Painfully slowly. When he chose to take the path down her side and avoid her breast, she was…disappointed.

What is wrong with me? What spell has he cast on me?

But she stayed silent, her lips parted, breathing short and shallow. And all she could feel was his hand as it ran along her body, down to her hip, and down the outside of her thigh.

When his hand touched the back of her knee, she bent it to place her foot against the floor. Had he done that? Or had she? Or did I do it for him?

The thought was fleeting, and she could not get purchase upon it, for his weight was over her then. He settled down between her legs. She bent the other one to make room for him—this time, she knew she was to blame.

But his lips were against hers again, bruising and harsh, commanding and conquering. But slow. Patient. He was the warlord, and he knew he had won. That bestial growl came from him again, and she let out a sound as he pressed his body to hers, his hips grinding against her, pressing his need against her own.

And it was a need.

And the sound she had made was a moan.

Gods…help me. Please.

His presence was only half there. Only a vision of a memory of a dream. But he was so total, so overwhelming. There was only him, and his need as he pressed his hips to hers, slow and unstoppable. Inevitable. He was a force of nature.

She writhed beneath him, arching her back. She went to touch him, only to find nothing there. Yet a hand grabbed her wrist and pressed it to the blankets beside her head. She knew she could fight it. She could stand and run from him if she wished to. This was only because she allowed it.

And she allowed it.

When he broke away, she felt his cheek press to hers, felt the pressure of his body relent only to return, miming the dance that she knew he would be performing in full if they were together.

“What have you done to me?” Her voice was a breathy whisper, and she hated how…wanton she sounded. How wanton she felt.

He chuckled, dark and husky. “Nothing.”

She was to blame for this.

She was to blame for how she lifted her hips to his, echoing his desire, wanting to feel more of that pressure. Wishing it were more—wishing it were harder. Needing it to not be a ghost of a sensation anymore.

“Come to me, Abigail. Step outside your home this instant. Come to me, and this can be real.”

“No. I—I can’t.”

His growl was angrier then, and his hand grasped her breast and squeezed. She gasped, arching into his touch. His pattern never relented, pressure and then not, the hard presence of his desire unmistakable. “Why? Why do you hide from me?”

There was fury in his voice. He did not give her the chance to respond. “You did this!” He snarled into her ear, even as he groped her body and rutted against her. “You chose to die. You refused me. Refused this. Refused all I could give you. Why? Why, Abigail?”

“It—it meant war.” That was the partial truth. It was only the first half of the sentiment. The second was that she knew it meant war, but she…was beginning to not care. She wanted him anyway. And she could not allow that to happen.

“War is inevitable. I am unstoppable. I will have my crown the day the Autumn comes, and I will destroy it all.”

“I—ah!” She broke off in a cry as he pressed harder to her body. His snarl was one of both primal need and anger when it answered her. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. “I—I know…” Poor Lady Astasha. Or whatever had become of her.

A hand pressed to her throat, not tightening—not yet. He could not cut off her air if he wished to. He was not really there.

“Then why?” His voice was gravelly and thick with rage and lust in equal measure. That was what he was, wasn’t it? Anger and need. And in this moment, she had the full attention of both. “Why die, when you knew my war will happen?”

“My death—” She moaned quietly, biting back the sound. Gods above, take pity on her. But she knew they wouldn’t. She was in this mess in the first place because of them. “It—it bought them time.” Oh, she wished she could get a word out without breaking off from the sensation of him over her. “My life is not worth more than a day of millions.”

He laughed. Cruel, and quiet. Seething with far more emotions than she could name. “Foolish little witch. How wonderfully naïve you are. You sacrificed yourself to give them whatever days you could…”

And because the alternative was becoming far, far too tempting.

But she kept that portion to herself.

“But you are mine, little witch. That was not your decision to make.” The sensation of his lips ghosting over her cheek, his hot breath pooling against her skin, made her shiver. “I am very cross with you.”

“I—nnh—I know.”

“You have a price to pay for what you have done. And I am coming to collect it.” When he pressed his hips to hers that time, he lingered. The low snarl in his throat was one of pleasure, not anger. For a moment, he, too, seemed overcome. “And I will have my fee whatever way I like it.”

Something ran through her at his words. Was it fear? Anticipation? Or both?

“Come to me, Abigail. Be my bride.”

“No…”

“We will be wed on the first day of Autumn. You would be sparing Astasha a terrible fate. And no one would die a day earlier for your sake.”

She turned her face away from him, for the first time denying his control of her. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“You will.” He chuckled darkly. “Remember that I gave you this chance to spare so much needless pain and anguish.”

“W—what do you mean?”

“If you sacrificed yourself to spare others my blight, then I expect you will do it again, won’t you?”

She shuddered at his words, this time for a very different reason.

His lips ghosted over her ear as he whispered to her. “I am still High Lord of the Unseelie. And I can cause a great deal of pain to a great many innocent souls. With all their dying screams, you shall know…that you are to blame.”

“No. No, please—don’t—”

“Then come to me. Kneel at my feet. Surrender to me, and you will spare their lives, little witch. Little Seelie.”

He knew. Of course he knew. How could he not? “You plan to murder the Seelie.”

“Murder them? No. I plan to enslave them.” He chuckled, the hand around her throat giving her the sensation of tightening, just a little. “And I believe I shall start with you.”

Opening her eyes, she sat up. And like that, the connection was severed. She could hear his laughter as he faded away.

“Spare their lives. Sacrifice yourself to me. That is what you want, isn’t it? In more ways than one…”

Then he was gone. It left her sitting there, shivering like a fool. She wrapped a blanket around herself and leaned against the wall, tears streaking down her cheeks even as obscenities left her mouth.

Damn him.

Damn him to whatever pits spawned him.

“What am I to do now…?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Titania once more paced her throne room. Back and forth, back and forth, relentlessly. Her feet moved because her thoughts were spinning uselessly about in a circle. And if her mind could not make progress, then her feet would try to make up for it.

She had already walked the woods for two days, thinking, pondering the vision she had been given. A Seelie—a wood witch, more powerful than she was—would be the downfall of Tir n’Aill, and the delicate balance they had fought for so long to maintain.

The image of the chained woman, shackled and sobbing, was burned into her mind beside the image of Valroy’s feral grin. But her vision had not yet come to pass. She still had time. But time to do what?

She could not very well send her minions out to search every corner of Tir n’Aill, scouring the world for a redheaded fae. She would have a thousand of them standing in her court within the hour. Short of sketching the woman’s face—which she did not have the ability to do—she was at a loss.

But the fae woman had to be found. Titania knew her mission in this world was quite simple. Find the girl, and ensure that she never, ever fell into the clutches of the Bloody Prince.

Oberon sat upon the throne behind her, his elbow on the armrest, chin resting against the back of his hand. He had long since shut his eyes, clearly tired of watching his queen needlessly pace about.

“I come with news.”

Titania jolted in surprise and turned to see the shadowed figure lurking in the corner of the room. They were shrouded from head to toe in a tattered black cloth, as they always were.

The appearance of her spy was enough to calm her tracing path. She turned to the creature. “Well?” she exclaimed. Perhaps she was a bit too eager. Clearing her throat, and ignoring Oberon’s chuckle, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Speak, Unseelie.”

The shrouded figure paused. “Abigail Moore lives.”

Titania could have heard a pin drop, the room went so silent. Blood rushed through her, her heart pounding, instantly reacting to the news without having anywhere to direct the energy. “You—you must be mistaken.”

“No. She has been restored. And she is not only fae…she is Seelie.”

Titania could feel the blood drain from her face as her whole body seemed to go as cold as the grave in a single moment.

The woman in her dream.

The Seelie captive who ended everything.

It was her. She was certain of it. Titania swallowed the lump of coal in her throat and forced herself to remain calm. Or at least, perhaps, look as though she were calm. “Where is Abigail?”

“Hiding. Hiding from him, hiding from you…” The Unseelie laughed, a low, hoarse sound. There was no telling what gender the figure was. Or if there were any body beneath the tattered fabric at all.

“Hiding from me?” She raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

The figure shook its head. “You would chain her up, would you not? Use her as leverage against the prince. She knows this. She is no fool.”

“We are not Unseelie. I—” Titania sighed. There was no point in arguing with the spy, as there was no use debating Unseelie scum in the first place. There was no convincing creatures that were so caught in their foolish, backward ways. There was even less reason to argue the point, since…well…the figure was possibly right.

If she had Abigail Moore in her custody, what would she do? The thought had not crossed her mind.

“Find her. If the prince catches her before you do…” The figure huffed a dark laugh. They did not need to finish the sentence.

“Do not speak to me in such a fashion.” Titania’s lip curled in disgust. “You are a traitor to your own kind, and I am Queen. I will do as I see fit, cretin.”

The figure bowed its head. “Forgive me, Queen Titania. I simply do not wish to see this world end.”

“Nor do any of us.” She summoned a bag of gold to her hand, tossed it up and down in her palm for a moment, testing the weight, and then tossed it to the figure. The Unseelie caught it easily, a flash of a pale hand as it snatched the gold from the air. Titania shook her head. Greedy creatures. “I will search the day. And you shall search the night. If you find hint of her, any at all…come to me immediately.”

The figure bowed its head and, taking a step back toward the wall, sank into the shadow and was gone.

“Distasteful thing,” Oberon said from behind her. “But useful.”

“Useful indeed.” Titania shut her eyes and tried to plan her next move. “We need to find her. But no one amongst the Seelie knows her face, save I.”

“Then I suggest”—he pushed up from the throne to approach her—“you put your pacing to good use, and search for her.”

“She is likely frightened and alone. She will search for allies. I must position myself such that I am on that list.” Titania smiled faintly as Oberon laced his arms around her waist, tugging her back to his chest. He kissed the back of her head, nuzzling into her hair. “I hope I am successful.”

“You have no choice but to be. For if you do not find this Abigail Moore and bring her to safety…we are all doomed.”

She rolled her eyes. “I love you too, darling.”

He chuckled, squeezing her tighter for a moment. “You will succeed. You always do.”

Turning her head, she kissed him, enjoying the familiar shape of his lips against her. She laced her fingers into his evergreen hair and took solace in his embrace.

For if I do not hurry, these moments may never come again.

SHE WAS RUNNING through the forests. She was running for her life, and something was close on her heels. A predator. One that meant to devour her.

She should be terrified.

Why was there pleasure in the moment?

She ran—she ran as far and as fast as she could. But she could not help but delight in the knowledge that some great and shadowy creature wanted to sink his teeth into her.

Wanted to have her.

Wanted her.

Suddenly, she found herself cornered against the base of a cliff. She could climb it, but not nearly fast enough. A moment’s hesitation was all the monster needed. Hands pressed her to the ground, her fingers twisting into the blades of grass.

She felt him there above her. The weight of him. The sensation of long, clawed talons pinning her to the earth.

“You are my little witch. My little Seelie.” A hot breath washed over her ear. “Mine to claim. And mine to have.”

She struggled beneath him, but it was pointless against his weight. He chuckled, and she felt him shift, yanking her hips up until she was on her knees, her shoulders still pressed to the damp grass. It was only then that she realized she was naked. There was nothing to protect herself from—

She gasped out as he pressed against her. He felt impossible, the size of him. He did not relent, and eventually her body did. She wailed as he slid inside, just the barest amount. It was more than enough. But it was not a cry of pain that broke from her throat. His name as it left her lips was not one of anger, or pain, or strife.

It was of one of ecstasy.

“Valroy—”

ABIGAIL AWOKE WITH A GROAN. Something had stirred her. She hadn’t wanted to wake up. She had slept terribly after Valroy’s shadowy visit, and her slumber had been restless and fitful. But finally, at the last possible moment before the dawn, she had fallen asleep. The dream she had must have been a nightmare with how it left her trembling, but she did not remember any of it.

It took her a moment to realize what had woken her. Barking.

With a pained, pathetic whine, she wiped at her eyes and curled into a ball on her side. “Please, no.” She wanted to rest. By the gods, she wanted the dog to stop barking. But the latter prevented the former, and the dog showed no signs of relenting.

Damn it.

With a huff, she pushed up onto her hands and then sat back on her heels. Combing her fingers through her hair, she untangled the strands as best she could. Even if the thin vines that seemed to grow from her made it a bit more difficult than it used to be.

And still, the dog barked.

“Fine, I’m coming.” Standing up, she stretched and yawned. She was exhausted and wished she could just curl up and sleep all day. Can I? What’s stopping me?

Oh. Right. Yes. Now she remembered.

The fact that Valroy was going to torture and kill perhaps dozens of people in order to lure her to him. Taking a breath, she held it and let it out in a wavering sigh. She would have to talk to Uri about that and see what the little elf had to say on the matter. Not that she figured her newest, and not-entirely-willing, companion was going to have much useful advice.

There really was only one option in front of her.

She had run from Valroy and embraced death to spare the lives of others. And he was right. If she was willing to do it once before, she was willing to do it again. Besides—

She couldn’t focus with that damn dog.

With a groan, she tilted her head back and glared up at her ceiling. “Bark, bark, bark. All right! All right.” She allowed herself to pass through the tree, emerging from its base. That was becoming much less alarming each time she did it. Rubbing her hand over her eyes, still groggy from being woken up, she searched for the source of the noise.

The dog was there at her bizarre apple tree, sitting in the morning shadow of the branches, and barking up at one of the lower hanging apples. He jumped, paws scrabbling in the air, but he was just a few inches shy of hitting his goal.

And so, he barked at it.

With a chuckle, she walked across the clearing and to her strange apple tree. She hoped that Bayodan and Cruinn had found it. “Hello.” In Tir n’Aill, nothing should be believed to be only as it seems. This looks like a normal dog, but I have no doubts that it is secretly some powerful fae in disguise.

The dog looked at her, whined loudly, and then looked up at the apple again.

She smiled. A powerful fae who could not fetch an apple from a tree. She walked up beside the animal and, reaching up, plucked the apple from the branch, along with a few others. She was hungry as well. She sat down with her back against the odd black bark of the tree and placed them in her lap.

The dog tried to steal one.

She gently pushed it away. “Wait.”

He whined and sat beside her legs, drool dripping from his mouth. The dog was scruffy, to put it lightly. One of his pointed ears had a bite taken out of it. His fur was a matted beige, and he was covered in dirt and sticker burrs. He was a big dog, large enough at the shoulder to be a shepherd or sheepdog, but he was clearly a mongrel of some kind. He pawed impatiently at her knee.

Reaching out, she patted his head. “You’ll get some. But if you eat the whole apple, you’ll make yourself sick. The seeds aren’t good for you.”

The dog let out a hrumf of a sigh. It made her laugh. She wanted to scratch his chest and tell him he was a good boy. But if this dog was a fae in disguise—or some other creature—she figured that would wind up being very inappropriate when they revealed themselves. Then again, the fae seemed to have no sense of propriety in the slightest, and he would probably enjoy it.

With a breath, she shut her eyes and summoned the image of her hearth to her mind. Reaching out, she plucked the knife from where she always left it and felt the familiar weight of it in her hand. Grinning—still proud she had managed to learn to do that—she picked up an apple and cut a slice from its side.

The exterior of it was a deep crimson, and the meat inside was the same, colored through-and-through with the pigment of blood. She sniffed it. It smelled fine. Taking a small bite of the slice—much to the dog’s chagrin, which earned her another loud whine—she shrugged. “Tastes normal.”

She held the apple slice out to the dog, who quickly gobbled it from her fingers. Laughing, she cut him another slice, to the same result. If this was someone else in disguise, he seemed to be starving. The dog looked poorly fed, and she could see some of his ribs showing along his side. She frowned. “Are you all right, friend?”

The dog whined, then barked, and pawed at her leg.

She cut another slice for him. “Eat first, talk later? Suit yourself.” The first apple disappeared quickly. The second followed suit shortly after. All the while, she studied the animal, waiting for the knowing glint in his big brownish-yellow eyes. Or for him to reveal himself as some terrible monster.

“I shouldn’t feed you too much of this, you’ll be sick. Oh! One moment.” She stood and patted the dog on the head. “I’ll be right back, friend. Wait here. Do not eat the rest of the apples.” There was still some cheese and bread in her new home leftover from yesterday with Uri. She quickly fetched it, and when she returned, the dog was still sitting obediently where she had instructed him to. She smiled at him. “Good boy.” She chuckled.

His thick tail thumped on the grass.

“I am not fool enough to believe you are a normal dog, friend. You will have to excuse me when you reveal yourself, and all this has become terribly awkward in retrospect.” She sat down again where she had been before and placed the basket beside her. He nosed it, sniffing the contents, and his tail thumped faster.

He might not be a normal dog, but for all intents and purposes, he was acting like one. Taking out the loaf of bread that was inside, she tore off a small chunk and fed it to him before doing the same for herself.

He lay down beside her with a loud harrumph, his tail still thumping in the grass each time she sliced him a piece of cheese or apple, or broke him off a piece of bread. Smiling, she petted his head again, cringing at how many bits of clingy plant matter she found trapped there.

Carefully, as to not hurt him, she began to pluck them out one at a time, pinching them between her fingernails. “You need a good brushing.”

When it was clear that the dog was no longer starving, and neither was she, she put the basket aside. It was only then that she noticed a black wine bottle resting against the trunk. She had missed it, since it blended in with the color of the tree. A crimson silk ribbon was tied about the neck of it in a meticulous bow. It matched the one Bayodan wore in his hair.

They had found her message and sent her one in return. We are all right.

For now.

Worry churned in her gut, even as she was relieved. What would Valroy do to them, if he caught them? She took Bayodan and Cruinn for their word—that they were powerful creatures and able to protect themselves. But for how long?

The thought of her two Unseelie guardians being put through the same manner of torture as Astasha nearly made her cry. A dog paw nudged her arm, and when she turned her attention to him, he tilted his head to the side as if to ask her what was wrong.

Certainly not a normal dog at all. She smiled gently and stroked her hand over his head. He did not seem to mind that. “I am worried for my friends. I am in a terrible situation, I must admit.”

He nudged her hand with his wet nose and then licked her fingers. Whether out of affection, or because she had remnants of food on it, she did not know. She wasn’t sure she cared either way. When he rolled onto his side and laid his head in her lap, she found her mood improved for it. “Thank you. Oh. Right. I’m not supposed to say that anymore.” She laughed. “You fae have strange rules.”

He huffed.

She began to pick more of the bits out of his fur, especially those around his face where they were likely the most uncomfortable. The dog shut his eyes, clearly basking in the attention.

“You!”

Abigail nearly leapt out of her skin, and the dog was on his feet in a split second at the sudden shriek if a voice beside her. Scrambling, she stood and turned to see Uri standing beside her, brandishing—of all things—a wooden rolling pin.

“What did I—”

But Uri wasn’t glaring at her. She was glaring at the dog, who was now cowering behind her, whimpering quietly.

“You! Begone, you bastard!” Uri waggled the pin in the air. “Or I swear, I’ll beat you to a pulp.”

“Stop—whoa—wait.” She held up her hands, waving them in front of her. “Slow down. Uri, what is going on?”

“Get away from that cur.” Uri spat on the ground, anger and disgust etching her round faces in deep lines. “Don’t you know who he is?”

“As he hasn’t introduced himself, as he is currently a dog, no.” She kept herself between Uri and the whimpering mutt. “Care to clue me in?”

“That”—she pointed accusatorially at the dog—“is Robin Goodfellow. That is Puck.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Abigail had seen the play. She knew the story. Turning to look down at the dog, she blinked. “Is this true?”

The dog whimpered and took a step back from her, his head lowered, tail between his legs. She frowned, feeling bad for him. The poor, pitiful creature didn’t seem to deserve the ire that Uri was directing at him. But what did she know?

Keeping herself between him and the elf, she turned back to the rolling-pin-wielding woman. “And why do you want to clobber him?”

“Because of what he’s done—because of what he did.” Uri wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Cavorting with the Unseelie.”

“Cavorting, as in…?”

Uri made a rude gesture.

“Ah.” Abigail sighed and sat back down on the ground by the tree. She patted the spot next to her, and Robin Goodfellow—Puck—walked over and lay down beside her, keeping his head tucked between his paws. His ears were flat against his head, and she couldn’t help but reach out and pet him. His tail began to warily wag. She frowned. “So?”

“So?” Uri laughed once in disbelief and paced away from her. “So? He was the right hand to Oberon himself, confidant to the Queen, and he was caught with not one, not two, but three Unseelie. That is treachery at its finest.”

“I suppose.” Reaching down, she put her hand on the dog’s back between his shoulders and scratched her fingers into his fur. His ears unflattened just a little. “It makes sense he found me, then.”

“What do you mean?” Uri furrowed her brow.

“I can hardly judge him for that, when I grew this tree as a gift and a sign to my two guardians—and friends—who are high-ranking members of the Unseelie court.” She chuckled. “Or were, before they betrayed Valroy for my sake.”

“It—” Uri shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. That isn’t your fault. What he did, betraying Oberon and Titania, was on purpose. He deserves this curse and deserves to be driven away. You should tell him to go.”

“You’re cursed?” She frowned down at Puck again. “You cannot change your shape?”

He let out a long, dragged-out sigh, his visible ribs expanding and then collapsing.

“How terrible. I’m so sorry for what you suffer.” She picked another sticker burr out of his fur close to his neck. At her words, Puck lifted his head and looked back at her, wary hope in those brown-yellow eyes.

She smiled at him.

He wagged his tail, just a little.

“What?” Uri exclaimed, throwing a hand up in frustration. “You cannot be serious. You cannot feel pity for him.”

“I do not understand this war between the Seelie and the Unseelie. It is not my fight. But what I do understand is someone who has been caught in the nonsense in between. He suffers what I am likely to experience in short order.” Abigail shrugged. “And I cannot fault him for finding the Unseelie attractive.” She chuckled. “That is another curse we share.”

“You will not send him away, then.” It wasn’t a question from the elf. It was a disgruntled statement. Her shoulders fell away from her ears, as she realized her rage was pointless.

“No. I will not. I do not know why he wishes to be here, but if he does, that is his right, and he is welcome, and—gah!” She stopped as Puck leapt up from the ground and nearly tackled her, hurling himself into her arms and licking her face. He was probably close to seven stone in weight. She cackled in laughter and tried her best to push him away. “Off! Down!”

He obeyed. Mostly. He stayed sitting close to her side, now panting, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.

Uri was glaring at the dog.

And now the dog was happily smiling back at her, prideful in his victory.

She patted him on the head. “Don’t gloat.”

He shut his mouth for a moment, and clearly made an attempt to look serious. It lasted a second before his tongue was hanging back out, and he was happily panting once more. She shook her head and smiled at him. “This is made exponentially stranger by the fact that you are Robin Goodfellow. But I suppose I need some levity in my life right now—no matter how brief.”

“What do you mean?” Uri sat down on the other side of her, careful to avoid the dog, and plucked one of the crimson apples from the basket Abigail had brought from her home. She began to eat it, humming at the sight of the strange interior but shrugging it off.

“I…was visited last night. Valroy has found a way to contact me, if not in his true form.” She shivered at the memory. She shivered for more than one reason, although Uri and Puck likely believed it to be only from fear.

“What did he say?” Uri shifted to face her.

“That many will suffer and die, that he will torture dozens if not hundreds, if I do not return to him. I…I will have to do as he says.”

“No! No, no. No. No.” Uri said the word every way it was possible to do so. She reached out and grabbed Abigail’s wrist tightly. “You shall do no such thing!”

Puck barked, seemingly agreeing with her.

“What choice to I have, Uri? He will turn on his own people. Any Seelie he holds captive who are still alive will suffer terrible fates.”

“Bah. May the gods spit on the Unseelie. If he wishes to kill off his own people for sport, so be it.” Uri shook her head. “But if you go to him, you will never escape again. I do not think you will be allowed to die a second time.”

She sighed. She knew she was telling the truth about the last portion. “You may not care what happens to the Unseelie, but I do. I have met them, and while they are monstrous and terrifying”—she made a face at the memory of the man whose head was only an eyeball—“they can also be kind, loyal, and gentle. Anfar, though I think he may die of grief, is a reasonable and approachable man. Bayodan—”

“Bayodan?” Uri shouted, her eyes wide, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “It is still early in the dawn. Do not say his name too loudly, lest he appear.” She glanced around nervously. “What dealings do you have with the goat king?”

Abigail blinked. “Goat king?” She laughed. “Well…I suppose he does carry an air of regality about him. I suppose I am not shocked at his title.”

“You should be happy you survived an encounter with him. He tricks the mind—he can be anywhere, or anything. He can make you believe you sit in a sunny field in the embrace of pixies, while he is stripping the flesh from your bones.” She shuddered dramatically.

“He is one of my guardians. His mate, Cruinn, is the other.”

Uri’s mouth fell open.

Puck made a noise that might have been the sound of a dog attempting to laugh. He fell over onto his side and then rolled onto his back, kicking his legs in the air.

Abigail simply shrugged at Uri. “I fear I do not know what to tell you. I had no say in the matter, nor did I understand who they were when it happened.”

The elf sputtered for a moment, then finally let out a long, beleaguered groan. Muttering under her breath, saying something about how she was utterly wronged and maligned, and her life was just simply getting harder by the day.

Abigail smiled faintly at her. “Your troubles will not last long. Despite your opinions of the Unseelie, if I can stop the onslaught that Valroy plans to unleash on his people, I must do it.” She cringed at the thought all the same.

Valroy’s desires for her were plain—his actions and his words left no room for argument. But she also trusted him to be as angry as he was lustful for her. And that was a dangerous and depraved combination, especially in regard to the Unseelie prince.

The Bloody Prince.

Would he maim her like Astasha? Or was he capable of worse?

What a stupid question.

“No. No. Under no circumstances are you to go to Valroy.” Uri stood and brushed herself off. “We shall go to Queen Titania. She will know what to do.”

“You would have me be her prisoner, instead. And it will solve nothing.”

“What it will solve, Abigail, is that he will not force you to wed him and start his awful war!” Uri glared at her. “Or have you forgotten?”

“I have not, believe me. But what am I to do, Uri? If I do not wed him, he will simply marry what is left of poor Astasha. The man will have his crown, one way or another. But if I go, I might spare some of the slaughter that is to come.” Standing, she brushed the dirt from her pants.

Puck rolled back over and stood, looking up at her with a quiet whine and a wag of his tail. It was clear he didn’t wish her to go either.

“I know.” With a sigh, she patted his head and earned a smile from him. She scratched his ear, and he leaned his head into her hand. It was so strange to think that the dog was in fact a powerful Seelie fae, but…judging by the tail wagging, he was enjoying the attention. “If I go to Valroy, I spare whoever he will torture and murder to draw me back to him, but the war begins. If I go to Titania, those souls are lost, and the war begins. Beatrice said that I am meant to stop him. But I do not know how.”

“Blindly rushing to become his prisoner is certainly not the way to do it.” Uri put her hands on her hips.

“And doing the same with Titania is not it either. Besides, if the Seelie are even half as unkind to their prisoners as the Unseelie, I still do not wish to endure it.”

“But you cannot just rush into the Maze as you are now.” Uri stood firm her brow lowered in a firm glare. “You barely know how to control your form, let alone hold your own. Do you want to fight him? Or do you just want to lie down and spread your legs for him?”

Can I have both?

She shook her head and looked away, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “I doubt I have much time before he begins.”

“Well, it is still early and—Oh! I know just the fae to help you.” Uri grinned wide, feeling confident in her new plan. “Agga the Small can teach you to shapeshift. She’s one of the best there is, and she has a stall in the market. We’ll see her, and in a day or two, you might stand a chance walking into that place alone.”

Puck barked.

Uri nodded. “See? He agrees with me.”

I am being bullied by a dog and an elf. She sighed. “Fine. To the market we go.”

VALROY CRACKED HIS NECK, twisting his head to the left and to the right, feeling faint relief at the action. His brief conversation with Abigail had been…enlightening. Enlightening and enjoyable.

And soon, she would walk right back into his hands.

If the girl was so “noble” and “righteous” as she would lay down her life to spare the Seelie and humans his wrath for so short a time—she was certain to surrender to him. It would only save her a few lives tallied upon her card, but the fee he was asking of her was a fraction of what she had paid before.

And in his relatively short time knowing Abigail, her damnable morals seemed to drive her forward above all else.

It was honestly rather sickening.

But he could look past it. And he had. The sound of her voice had nearly made him weep, it had been such a relief to his ears. He had wanted to wring her neck. To scream at her for having the gall to die, when he could have made everything all right. He wanted to shake her for her impertinence and whip her for her stubbornness. He had wanted to kiss her, to clutch her to him and whisper that no harm would ever touch her again.

And he would do all of those things.

And he would do them soon.

Because before long—perhaps even before the sun set, though he would give her a few days grace—Abigail would be on her knees before him. And he would make sure she apologized in a very particular way.

Stepping toward his bed, he unwrapped the blue and crimson sash from his waist, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. He would sleep in his bed alone for the one of the last times in his long existence.

For soon, Abigail would be there beside him. Even if I have to chain her there for the first few hundred years.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The market bustled as Abigail walked through it, a smile on her face. It was just as beautiful and colorful as it had been when she had visited in the night. Now, she was a modicum less terrified, and she could fully enjoy the insanity of what she was seeing.

Stalls were stacked nearly atop each other, hastily arranged with what looked like driftwood or fallen limbs. Nothing she saw was hewn or fashioned with tools or knives. It all seemed like it had been grown that way.

Or salvaged from the human world. She had to chuckle at someone hawking broken pieces of pottery and kitchenware as though they were the most valuable things in the world. When she hesitated at one stall that sold jewelry, she found herself caught up in the shining objects and trinkets.

Much of it was made with sea glass, but some looked fashioned from valuable gems. The man who stood on the other side of the counter was tall, broad, and covered in blue ink markings. Much like Valroy. But the ones he wore looked painted on, not tattooed. He had curly hair that matched her own color, and a friendly, lopsided grin.

“Hello, lass.”

He was handsome, and his smile made her cheeks warm. Uri tugged on her hand. “Don’t trust him. He’s a leprechaun.”

Awfully tall for a leprechaun. But what did she know? She smiled at him and bowed her head. “Sir.”

He chuckled at the use of “sir” and saluted her as she kept walking. Puck was staying close to her side, ignoring the glares and muttered insults of the people around him. Occasionally, she reached down and scratched his head or patted his shoulder, earning a wag of his tail each time. But Uri wasn’t allowing her any time to wander or gaze at the sights, as she was clearly on a mission. She was marching them through the winding rows of haphazardly placed stalls as if she knew precisely where she was going.

“What do you think, friend?” she said to the cursed-to-be-stuck-as-a-dog fae. “Do you think I should go to Valroy?”

The dog huffed and seemed to think it over for a moment. He grumbled then slowed his steps to lick at her hand.

She smiled. “I suppose I’ll take that to mean you’re worried what’ll happen if I do.”

He barked once and wagged his tail.

“So am I. But I have met his people, and I cannot stomach the thought that they will come to harm. He offered to wed me on the first day of Autumn, so that the war started not a day sooner than if he weds Astasha. I…I do not think I can rightfully refuse him.”

Puck whined and licked her hand again.

“I appreciate that.” She caught herself before she thanked him.

“Here we are! Agga, are you in?” Uri threw open the flap of a tent and marched inside.

Abigail was about to follow the elf when teeth in her trousers tugged backward. She looked down at Puck, her brow furrowed. The dog was growling, his ears flattened. Something was wrong.

Uri was in danger.

Grimacing, she clenched her fists. No. The elf was not going to come to harm because of her. Vines appeared around her wrists, the red blooms of the Gle’Golun forming along their twisting shapes. She did not summon them mindfully.

Her anger did.

She patted Puck on the head. “Stay.” And with that, she stormed into the tent, ready for a fight. She threw aside the flap and entered, her eyes taking a moment to adjust. Uri was in the grasp of a fae dressed in curling, golden armor. He carried a spear and a shield. A soldier. He had a hand clasped over Uri’s mouth.

They were not alone in the tent. There were two more soldiers in the room, flanking a tiny creature that was no bigger than a loaf of bread sitting upon a shelf. They were wringing their hands together nervously.

But the one who caught her attention stood separate from the rest. It was a woman with long, flowing hair the color of golden wheat. She wore a long, pink gossamer dress that was more sheer than opaque, the fabric plunging low to her narrow waist. Her eyes were a brilliant shade of violet, and she was, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the most breathtaking creatures Abigail had seen since coming to Tir n’Aill.

A thin circlet of gold ringed her head, made in the shape of delicate twisting vines.

And she was staring at Abigail in recognition.

Recognition and fear.

“Stand down, Abigail,” the woman whispered.

Stand down? She was unarmed, and there were three soldiers in the room, and—

Oh.

The vines of the Gle’Golun had spread out from her and filled the entrance, twisting along the ground, reaching toward the interlopers. Red blooms opened and stretched in their direction, threatening and hungry. The soldiers gripped the hilts of their swords, but they watched her in abject terror.

With a wavering breath, she relaxed her fists. The vines retreated but stayed close. “Please let Uri go. She has done nothing wrong.”

With a nod from the crowned woman, the soldier released the elf, who scrambled to the farthest corner of the tent she could—away from both the fae woman and, Abigail realized with a small amount of regret, also away from her.

Abigail flinched, but she was also not surprised in the slightest. Turning to the woman, she bowed her head. “Queen Titania, it is an honor to meet you. I fear I do not know what else to say, save for that I—I mean no one any harm.”

The woman tilted her head back slightly, regarding Abigail carefully. “And I believe you.”

“May I be blunt?”

“Please.” Titania smirked.

“Do you mean to imprison me?”

“I hardly think I could manage, wreathed in death as you are.” The queen huffed a laugh. There was a slyness to her, a wry kind of amusement that flickered in her violet eyes that surprised Abigail. She was not an imperial, haughty thing. Regal, yes—but there was a quickness to her expressions that she found disarming. “Do you mind reeling it in a bit? You are making my men fidget.”

“I. Um.” She looked around herself at the vines that surrounded her and sighed. Focusing, she willed them to retreat. She knew they were still tangled about her arms and in her hair, but at least now the tent was clear. “Sorry.”

“You came here to learn to control your power, did you not?” Titania took a step toward her, seemingly unafraid of the crimson flowers.

“I…I did.”

“For what purpose?” Titania tilted her head slightly to the side.

“If I—” She paused. She did not know if she could trust the queen. But as she considered her options, she realized there was no harm in telling her the truth. She squared her shoulders and did her best to be brave. “I visited Beatrice and was told that I am meant to ‘save the world’ from Valroy.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm.

Titania snorted in laughter. Actually snorted.

Abigail smiled. “Yet I find myself visited by the prince in the night as a shadow. He tells me he will torture and slaughter his own kind until I return to him. I do not know your opinions on them, but I cannot let this stand. The prince and his rise to the throne are…” She trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“Inevitable. Yes. I know.” Titania sighed. “You came here to Agga the Small, for what reason?”

“To learn to control my power. I do not know what I am, or what I am capable of. If I am meant to fight Valroy—if I need to march back into the Maze to stop what bloodshed I can—I would like to know how not to suddenly find myself as a swarm of bees.”

The queen laughed hard at that. She smiled. A dangerous kind of intelligence burned in her eyes. “If you could stop Valroy—end his designs for war, as the hag foretold—would you?”

“Yes.” She answered it without hesitation.

“And if you could kill him, would you?”

That time, she wavered. Abigail found she could not answer for a long moment, struggling to find words that wouldn’t damn her. Or, more importantly, words that she understood. I do not wish Valroy to die. “I do not wish death on anyone.”

“Hm.” Titania pondered her for a moment, and Abigail knew without a shadow of a doubt that the woman could see right through her and into her turmoil. The woman shrugged. “No one’s perfect.”

What an odd reply.

Abigail did not know what to do.

Titania tapped a long finger against her chin. Her nails were painted as violet as her eyes. Or perhaps they were that color naturally, like hers having turned green. She watched as the woman plotted. It was a little alarming to watch someone scheme her future. When the queen’s attention turned back to her, Abigail fought the urge to take a step back.

“You wish to learn? Very well. You will have the best tutor in Tir n’Aill, to prepare you for the fight against Valroy.

“Dare I…dare I ask who?” Abigail braced herself. She already knew the answer.

Titania smirked. “Why, me, of course.”

ABIGAIL FOUND herself in a place she knew she had seen before, except that it had been cast not in sunlight, but the cold, pale light of the moon. And before her was not a throne made of wood and bone drowned in silver—but one made of gold instead.

Yet the bones and wood remained.

It seemed that gory detail was not limited to the Unseelie. The Seelie were just as dangerous, even if they perhaps were not so spectacular about it as their darker twins. Abigail stood there, trying to look more confident than she felt.

She was surrounded by the Sunlit Court. Fae royalty stood crowded about her at the edges, eyeing her with wide-eyed curiosity and fear in equal measure. They matched the variety of the Unseelie, but these creatures were all kissed by the day, not the night. She had been shepherded here by Titania’s soldiers after they left the market.

“Best to make a good impression,” the queen had said. “They will all wish to see you, and will find their ways to intrude upon you, if I do not.”

But now she was not so sure. They were all staring at her. She hugged her arms around herself, trying her best to keep the blooms of the Gle’Golun to a minimum. But she was agitated, and it was clear they were linked to her moods.

And upon the throne of wood, bone, and gold, sat Titania, silk dress draping down her frame. The center cut plunged to her waist, leaving her clad in two strips that were more decorative than they were effective at hiding her nakedness. Although she could just go naked like so many seemed to do, she supposed.

Someday it would stop standing out to her. Someday she would become used to it. If she lived that long.

“Abigail Moore.” Queen Titania rose from the throne. Her voice was soft, but grave. She stepped down the stairs of the platform toward her. A hand laid itself gently on her shoulder. “Look at me, Abigail.”

It was only then that Abigail even realized she had been staring at the floor. She turned her attention up to the woman before her.

The queen smiled. “You poor creature. I heard tale of what became of you, and yet…seeing what that path has made, I do not think I would wish a different fate upon you. Look at you.” Titania placed her palm against Abigail’s cheek, stroking her cheekbone with her thumb. “No wonder that bastard prince covets you so deeply.”

“I, well, um.” Abigail blinked in confusion, and after a moment of silence, shrugged. “I am not supposed to thank you.”

Titania laughed, and a few of her court chuckled with her. Her features lit up like the sun, and Abigail was once more caught up in how radiant the woman really was. No wonder she had stories written about her. No wonder she was queen.

And then matters became far stranger as Titania…hugged her. Abigail stayed frozen, unsure of what to do. Titania released her but kept her hands resting on her shoulders. “I hereby declare this woman under my protection,” she declared. “Abigail Moore shall stay here as long as she decides she must, in order to master her gifts.”

Abigail stared at her flatly.

“Do you not believe me, sister?” Titania smirked.

“I do not believe you. My time here has not been kind.” She took a step back from the Seelie Queen.

Titania nodded, seemingly unoffended. She turned to her courtiers. “Does anyone here object to my decision?”

Silence.

The queen smiled. “I thought not.” She clapped her hands. “This afternoon we shall have a great feast in her honor. You may all fawn over her then.”

The courtiers all bowed and left, knowing when they were dismissed. After a few moments, Abigail found herself alone with the queen. She was not in chains. She had not been attacked. But her thoughts kept pulling back to one particular concern of hers. “Do you plan to torture me?”

“What?” Titania barked a laugh. “Torture you? Why ever would I—” She sighed. “You wretched thing, what did he do to you?”

“It was not what he did to me, precisely. But what I witnessed him do to others.”

“I am sure. But you tell me that he never harmed you?” Titania tilted her head curiously. “In truth?”

“No. He was cruel to me, but he was not vicious.”

“Interesting.” Titania let out a small hum, looking away thoughtfully. “Interesting and unexpected. I am sure you lay with him, however, yes? That must have been torture enough.”

It was Abigail’s turn to chuckle. “No. Much to his chagrin, I’m afraid.”

“I can only imagine.” Titania grinned. “You refused the Bloody Prince himself? I’m impressed! Not many women can say no to him, let alone several times.”

Abigail once more debated whether she should be honest with the fae Queen. But, in the end, she had nothing to lose. “I was losing my resolve. That is why I chose to die.”

Titania gazed at her in a look of shock that quickly turned to one of eager fascination. She stood there silently for a moment, studying Abigail. “You recognized that he was successfully seducing you. And in order to avoid him…you gave yourself to the Gle’Golun.” She gestured at one of the crimson flowers on her shoulder.

Abigail nodded.

“Why? Why did it matter to you? Valroy’s rise to the throne is inevitable. Your sacrifice would have saved us three seasons, in the end.”

“What is my life worth, in the end? Add those three seasons together for everyone whose lives I spared. I am not more than that.”

After a long moment, Titania sighed. “I propose a deal, Abigail.”

“I have had a bad time dealing with the fae.”

Titania chuckled. “Yes. I am sure you have. But you have been honest with me, and in return, I will be honest with you. I need your help, Abigail.” Titania shut her eyes, and for a moment she could see the weight of years—years and rulership—play out across her features. She looked so very tired all of a sudden. “I need your help in stopping Valroy.”

“I do not know how I am meant to do anything of the sort, despite what Beatrice and Bernadette might have told me.”

“I received a vision as well, sister.” Titania regarded her coldly. “One where I saw you, bound and chained, bleeding from an iron crown that dug into your skin. I saw you kneeling in the muck and mire at the feet of the Unseelie King. I saw you tear apart my defenses. Shred them as if I were a child. And that is how we died.”

Abigail shut her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself, trying not to picture the things that Titania said. But she knew they were not only possible—they were likely, if she returned to Valroy.

“I will teach you to control your power. And in exchange, you will help me stop Valroy. I have a plan.”

“Plan?”

“Oh, yes, darling.” Titaina smirked. “There is a way out of this…and I think I might know what it is.”

“SHE WHAT?”

Anfar kept his fists at his sides. He dared not move. If he did, he knew it would result in another pointless, bloody brawl between him and Valroy. And this time, Valroy might not be so keen on letting him live.

News traveled fast in Tir n’Aill. And when the boggarts clung to every shadow in the daylight world, it was certain to travel even faster.

Abigail was Titania’s “guest.”

And Valroy could not be happier.

“Don’t you see, old friend?” Valroy laughed. “This is perfect!”

“You are not concerned?”

“That Titania might hurt Abigail? Of course. If the queen had a lick of sense in her head, she would sentence my little witch to death. But Titania is a fool and will try to use her against me.” Valroy was searching through a pile of his collection of human relics. A silver cross with a scrawny corpse of a man sculpted upon it. A terrible painting of a woman who held a baby whose face looked like that of a grown man. He lifted a sword, and peered at it thoughtfully, then shrugged and hurled it over his shoulder. It clattered into a pile of other random bits and pieces.

Anfar did not even bother to ask what the man was searching for.

“And moreover, Titania has done it. She has declared war. This is the perfect excuse I need to pull the Unseelie army beneath my rule.”

“But Abigail is Seelie, Valroy.” Anfar shook his head. “You cannot declare war over what the Seelie do to their own people.”

“She is, yes, but you forget one crucial fact. I declared her as my chosen. I stood in front of the Unseelie court and declared to all who were in attendance—including you—that she was to be my queen. Did I not?” Valroy had a sick, sadistic grin on his face. An expression he wore often, but usually not this perfectly.

Anfar shook his head. “I do not think it is a given. Not only is she Seelie now, but she was human at the time you made that vow. She died.”

“Debts are still due after death. The court has established that before. Otherwise, our wonderful and ghostly Lady Sul’Hanlil would have lost everything.” Valroy rolled his eyes. “As for her being human, how does that factor? I made a vow to her soul. Not her flesh.” He chuckled. “Although…”

Anfar growled. “It is still enough to bring before the court. The Din’Glai must agree, otherwise your army will be limited to the goblins and boggarts you keep in your favor.”

“They would be enough to cause Titania problems.” Valroy plucked a painting from the rubble, blew some debris from the face of it, and tilted it around to examine it. “But not enough to stop her. I am aware I need the support of the court. Thank you for your dutiful reminder.” He huffed and set the painting aside. “They will side with me soon enough.”

“Soon enough? What do you scheme?”

“I will make Titania write the declaration of war in her own words. I will force her hand.” Valroy sneered, his wings flexing wider for a moment. “And then I will destroy them, and I will have that bitch Titania’s head on a platter for daring to meddle.” He finally found what he was looking for. “Ah-hah!” He picked up a golden necklace, resplendent with shining rubies and diamonds. “This will do.”

“Do for what, exactly?”

“Hm?” Valroy glanced to Anfar. “Oh. Well. The best way to declare war is to declare peace first.”

Anfar shut his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face. “Excuse me?”

“I will send this to Titania in good faith as a gift. Ask her to return my crowned princess. If she refuses, then…well, any question that the court would not side with me will be dashed, don’t you think?”

Damn it.

He was right. Valroy had declared his intentions with Abigail. Now, Titania held her as her “guest.” If Valroy peacefully asked for her back and was denied…the court would indeed take his side.

Damn it all.

Anfar shut his eyes and knew, in that moment, that the path was set.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

When Abigail had been abducted by Valroy and taken to Tir n’Aill, she had not ever once imagined it would lead to her sitting at a table—at a feast, no less—with Titania and Oberon.

The Titania and Oberon.

King and Queen—or rather, Queen and King—of the Seelie court.

Shite.

Briefly, she found herself hoping Puck was all right, and that he had food and shelter. The poor creature. She shook the thought away. She had her own problems to contend with.

Namely, how precisely was one supposed to behave at a feast of the Sunlit Court? The Din’Lae surrounded her to her left and her right. Each one bizarre and beautiful. She found herself sitting across from a man who had branches growing out of his head like horns. Another woman beside her had the gills of a fish along her throat and seemed to need to drink a lot of water.

There was music playing, and everyone was eating and laughing. The table before her boasted every kind of roasted vegetable in every kind of dish she could name—and several she couldn’t. Cheese, bread, and cakes seemed to fill every square inch of the huge table.

That was, save for the copious amounts of wine and bottles of other kinds of hard alcohol.

Reaching for her wine, she sipped it. Valroy’s tableware had all been stolen from Earth—and almost entirely Christian relics. But the goblet she held was unlike anything she could imagine a human making.

Namely, because it looked as though it had not been made but grown into the shape of a goblet. It was made out of vines and leaves. And it was, somehow, still alive. She sipped her wine from it, still pondering its existence.

And the goblet was not alone. Everything, even the pieces that resembled porcelain, resonated with her as though they were part of the song of life itself.

“You can feel them.” Titania was sat at the head of the table, two seats away from her. And it was a statement, not a question.

She looked up to Titania and nodded faintly. “I am…still getting used to it, I admit.”

“I do not blame you, being born a human.” Titania smiled, clearly doing her best to be reassuring. “The oddness will fade in time, I’m certain.”

“If I survive that long.”

The man with the tree branch horns snorted and sipped his wine.

Everyone smiled at her when she met their gaze. But there was rarely anything kind behind it. They were all simply being polite. Some watched her with open fascination. Some with contempt. But most smiled in that vapid way that she knew was backed with nothing.

Oberon huffed a laugh that was altogether joyless. He was staring at her with an expression that she couldn’t decide whether it was curious or cold. Perhaps it was both. He was exactly what Abigail would have expected, and yet somehow more. His long hair was a perfect, pure shade of deep green. And his eyes were a molten shade of gold that was both eerie and beautiful.

She supposed that went for most of Tir n’Aill, if she were honest.

Yet he did not seem nearly as frightening as Valroy, with his faintly glowing sapphire eyes and enormous, batlike wings.

As if the simple thought of him had summoned the creature himself, her cheeks went warm. She turned her attention back down to her plate of food, attempting to hide her turmoil in her extreme shyness.

What she found interesting was that there was no meat on the table at all. That was fine by her—she realized she had no stomach for it. Where once she would have been slavering for roast goose, she now found the thought made her vaguely ill. I suppose it would make sense that I should no longer eat meat.

She shoved the thought away with the rest of her troubles. “I will not complain about your hospitality, but I find it confusing.” She picked up a slice of buttered bread. “I…expected worse.”

“You have been amongst the Unseelie too long.” Oberon picked up his own wine goblet and sipped from it. “That is not surprising.”

The food was incredible, she had to admit. Something about it just felt…right. The table was placed in the center of a large clearing. It, too, was alive, growing up from the grass in intricate and delicate woven vines and branches that gave it the appearance of an ancient, carved wood piece. But no chisel had ever touched it.

The trees that stretched overhead were still in their Spring blooms, early leaves a shade of lighter green than they would be in a few months’ time. She furrowed her brow. They looked far more in bloom than they had yesterday. “Does time pass normally here in Tir n’Aill?”

“Hm. In a manner of speaking.” Titania looked up to follow her gaze. “Ah. You are asking about the seasons. No. Sometimes they pass faster or slower than others. I have seen a Summer last a day, and a Winter last a decade. There is no predicting how the wheel will turn, I’m afraid.”

“So…when Valroy is set to wed Astasha on the first day of Autumn, it could be either tomorrow, or in a hundred years.” She sighed. “Fantastic.”

Titania laughed. Not at her, but in sympathy, perhaps. But it quickly faded. “Yes. But I fear it will come sooner rather than later. It seems even the seasons themselves are eager to see Valroy play his hand. And for us to retort.” Titania sat back in her chair, curling her fingers beneath her chin thoughtfully. “And retort, we shall.”

“Pardon my bluntness, but I have been led around in circles enough as of late. What are you planning?” She couldn’t help but go for another slice of the cheese in front of her. It had little blue flecks in it that looked as though they were mold—but after watching Oberon eat some, she figured it was safe to try. It was pungent, and she didn’t know if bitter was the right word for it, but it was glorious either way.

“It is clear you hold some manner of sway over the Bloody Prince.” Titania wrinkled her nose. “Which is both to your aid and your detriment. I believe we can use this, and his greatest weakness, to slow him down. If not stop him.”

“His greatest weakness?”

“His games.” The queen smirked. “He cannot resist playing them. And I believe…especially so with you.”

“Oh.” Great. More torment. “You want me to strike a bargain with him?” Would she get in trouble if she ate an entire block of cheese? Was that considered rude? She truly wished she knew more about the ways of the fae. But at the moment, she was about to devour it herself unless someone stopped her.

“Indeed, I do.”

“Shouldn’t we…discuss this in private?” Abigail glanced around the crowded table.

“Hardly. One, Valroy will know our ploy for what it is. And two…nothing said in the Din’Lae ever stays a secret for long.” Titania drank from her wine glass, perhaps a bit heavier than normal. “For better or worse.”

“Worse,” Oberon muttered, just barely loud enough to be heard.

Titania chuckled. “Regardless, here is how I expect events shall unfold. Valroy likely already knows you are here as our guest. He will offer me something in exchange for you—a trinket, or perhaps a peace treaty he has no intention of keeping.” She sat forward to refill her wineglass and then reclined again, studying it thoughtfully.

“And what will you say?”

“That it is not my decision to make. That you are not my prisoner.” Titania sipped her wine. She apparently could drink a great deal for a woman her size, and she clearly enjoyed doing so. “Besides, he knows I will refuse him. He will use it as an excuse to wage war upon us.”

Abigail winced. Now she felt the need for more wine as well. “Then I must go to him to avoid such an outcome.”

“I agree.” Titania picked up a piece of bread and toyed with it for a moment, watching Abigail with an exacting, critical gaze. As if she was some great teacher, judging the value of her pupil. And perhaps she was. “But you shall not go unprepared. And not without your own negotiation with the Bloody Prince.”

She shook her head. “The moment he lays eyes on me, I will be his prisoner. He will bind me in iron chains and never let me go.”

“That is one possibility, yes. If he were wise, he would do that. But he is not.” Titania grinned. “His weakness is his love for games, as I said. You will propose to him a deal.”

“What deal shall I propose?”

Titania shrugged, that wry expression briefly crossing her features again. It was clear she was playing a game of chess—one that Abigail was subject to, but not necessarily able to influence. “That is up to you to decide. You know the Bloody Prince better than anyone here.”

“I…do?”

“You are his sworn princess,” the woman with the gills said next to her, looking at Abigail down a thin, pointed nose. “Are you not?”

“I. Well.” What in the name of the gods was happening? She shook her head, baffled. “I had nothing to say in that decision. He declared it in front of the court, yes, but I was his prisoner, and—”

“Then you are his sworn princess.” The woman sneered. “And you are therefore corrupted by his influence.”

The man with the tree horns rolled his eyes dramatically. “Lady Vira, behave. You know her circumstances.” His voice was low and gruff and held a bit of a sound like two slabs of bark rubbing together. When he gestured, Abigail noticed that his fingers were made of twisted vines. “She is not corrupted by the Bloody Prince any more than you are corrupted by your own unflinching ego.”

Lady Vira laughed. “Lord Yurgin, do you have moss in your ears again? I—”

“Enough.” Titania’s one word was enough to silence the conversation. All conversation. Even the musicians quieted.

Titania stood, and suddenly all the quick, easy expressions and smiles were gone from her. She was in every sense the Seelie Queen. Abigail shrank reflexively down in her chair.

“Abigail Moore is one of us. She has been raised from the dead by the gods to be with us. Do you wish her to side with the Unseelie? Do you wish for her to be lured in by the darkness?”

Violet eyes turned to Abigail, and she felt suddenly so extremely small.

Titania continued. “We are what they say of us, Abigail. We are deceitful. We are conniving. We enjoy our games of politics and false niceties too much.” She waved a hand dismissively at the others seated at the table. “Each one of them would smile to your face and stab you in the back. But let me make one thing perfectly clear—the Unseelie are what we say they are, as well. You have seen the torture they pay upon their own people. I have heard of what Valroy did to Astasha. Would you say she deserved that punishment?”

Silence. Oh. Titania was expecting an answer. “N—no,” Abigail stammered.

“We are merciful. We value life above all else. You sit here of your own volition, do you not?”

“Mostly.” The table quietly chuckled at her honest answer.

Titania smiled, the first thing that broke her austere expression. “Do you wish for Valroy to wage his wars?”

“Absolutely not.” She glanced at Lady Vira. “No matter what others may think.”

“Good. Then the matter is settled. I will help you control your gifts, Abigail Moore. And you will help us control the Bloody Prince.” Violet eyes turned harsh again as Titania glared at the rest of the table. “And there will be no more discussion on the subject of Abigail’s loyalty. Are we clear?”

Murmured words of agreement, or silent nods, answered her.

“Good.” Titania sat back down and gestured for the party to continue. Conversation slowly started back up, along with the music. She shot Abigail a look as if to say “can you believe what I have to put up with?” She lifted her wine goblet and downed it in a gulp before she poured herself another glass.

The queen really could drink.

Abigail smiled.

“Do not mind us,” Lord Yurgin said and smiled. His lips were tinged brown and flecked in bark. He was as though a human and a tree had merged into a single creature. “We are…immortality is dull, you understand.”

“So far I have seen nothing to support your claim.” Abigail reached for more food. Yes, she was going to eat an entire block of cheese on her own. She wondered if she could sneak some to Puck. She wondered if she could talk to Titania about the poor creature. “But I believe you.”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Tell me, what do you think of the Unseelie? In your honest words. I hear you are willing to surrender yourself to spare their lives.”

Word really did travel fast in Tir n’Aill. She sighed and fidgeted with her bread knife. It was also grown from living things. If everyone knew her secrets, what was the point in keeping them? “They are cruel, most certainly. They seem to dole out torture and death without considering the cost. But…I suppose that is their way. But I have also seen their kindness and their pity. A young selkie helped me for the sake of it. He gained nothing in return. Sirens asked me to sing with them.” She smiled at the memory of Talla and the rest. “And Anfar—”

“You have had dealings with the great sea beast?” Lady Vira interrupted, looking shocked.

“I have. He gave me a sword when I first came to the Maze, what little good it did me in the end. And he…” She remembered their conversation on the shore of his lake. How he had wept for Astasha. “They are capable of love. I know this without question. And that, to me, is the measure of someone’s worth.”

A murmur from those seated.

“Well said, Abigail.” Titania smiled. “Well said.”

Thankfully, the conversation drifted from her after that. She was allowed to sit, listen, and eat, mostly without interruption. And that was fine by her. After the party began to wind down, Titania stood and gestured for Abigail to follow.

She was eager to get away from the feast, even if it had gone by rather harmlessly. She didn’t want to chance her luck. She excused herself as politely as she could and exited after Titania into the woods as quickly as she could without making a scene.

She found the queen with her back against a tree, looking exhausted. She pulled her crown from her head, hooked it over her elbow, and then ran her fingers through her hair. She sighed. “I hate those bloody feasts.”

“At least it was not literally bloody.” Abigail smirked. “I never attended a feast of the Din’Glai, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Titania chuckled. “That is quite fair. No, I simply get so very tired with their duplicity. It is all by design, of course. What did they tell you of us, in your time there?”

“That the Unseelie are murderous, but that the Seelie lie.”

“Hm. No. We do not lie. We simply enjoy the art of social positioning far more than they do. Come, walk with me.” Titania pushed off from the tree and turned to walk deeper into the woods. It was still mid-afternoon, and the sun was streaming through the leaves of the trees overhead.

Abigail walked beside her, amused as Titania idly spun her crown between her fingers. “Do you enjoy being queen?”

“Of course! Nobody played the game better than I.” She grinned. “But I think I enjoyed climbing the ladder more than I enjoy being at the top of it. But that is the price of power, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Abigail chuckled. “I have always been at the bottom. And coming to Tir n’Aill has only made it worse.”

“You are stronger than I am.”

Abigail stared at Titania in shock. “Excuse me?”

“You are. I have never seen someone with a gift such as yours. I think if you waged war on the whole of the Din’Lae just there at the table, we would all be hard pressed to defeat you. Together, you and I could defeat Valroy.”

Defeat. “I…”

“I know.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You do not want him dead. You want him between your legs first. That is fine. You will come around once you heal from the event and see that he must be put in a grave to spare the world.”

Her cheeks went warm, and she glanced away. She folded her arms across her chest, shame welling up within her. Yes. She wanted Valroy. But she was also terrified of him. And she was horrified at what he planned to do.

“Now, now. Don’t look like that. I don’t blame you, you know.” Titania chuckled. “I’ve had my roll with the Unseelie Prince. I understand your attraction to him.”

“Wait—what?” Abigail nearly tripped over a root in her shock.

Titania howled in laughter. She wound an arm around Abigail’s and tugged her into her side, walking arm-in arm with her. She had a few inches on Abigail in height. “We were not always at war, our people. Well…not…not to the extreme that it is now. The daylight hours have always been ours, and the night theirs. But it was not punishable by death or imprisonment to stray in one direction or another. Do you know, not so long ago, when I was young, only a few hundred years old, that it was not treasonous to dally with each other?”

Young. Young in perspective. “No. I thought you were always sworn enemies.”

“Opposites. But not enemies. And there is a world in between where we meet. The sun gives way to the night at dusk, and dawn in return. In those times, we were one people, not two.” She sighed. “But then he came. Then the Morrigan upset the balance and bred a creature who wanted no such accords. When I was new to my crown, I…thought perhaps I could tame him. Negotiate with him.” She sighed. “You see how well that worked.”

“You…and he…negotiated?”

Titania laughed again at her terrible inuendo. “Yes. We ‘negotiated.’ I thought if I lured him in, if I could win his heart—I could change him. A woman can never change a man’s nature, Abigail. Never. Not by any power, not by any measure of love or lust. In the end, I failed and had many a bruise for my trouble.” Titania eyed her wryly and grinned. “Although it was a great deal of fun. I’m sure you’ve seen by now, but his cock is positively enormous and—”

“Stop! Stop. Please, stop.”

Titania stopped and brought her into a hug, laughing again. “Oh, you poor thing. Look at you blush! It is too fun to tease you. I’m certain Valroy must do it constantly.”

“He does. Trust me.”

Titania pushed away far enough to place her hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “You will save us, my dear. I know you will.” Her violet eyes glittered with affection and hope.

Hope.

Hope for something Abigail did not know if she could live up to. “If you could not stop his wars, how am I meant to do it?”

“By killing him, of course.” Titania’s smile faded to a sad one. “When you tire of his enormous cock—”

Abigail whined. Titania laughed.

“—then you will see him for the monster he truly is. You are beguiled by him.” Titania crooked a finger beneath Abigail’s chin. “You are drawn in by his darkness and sexuality. And I will not scold you for this or tell you it is wrong. Revel in it, for as long as it lasts. Savor it. And when you wake up in the cold dawn and see that there is nothing past that? Then you will drive a dagger into his heart while he sleeps.”

“I—I do not think any dagger of mine will kill him…not that I own one.” Not that I think I am capable of such a thing, regardless. She didn’t dare tell the queen that aloud. First, she suspected she already knew. And second, the fate of worlds rested on it. She wanted to scream.

“Well…then we’ll have to change that, won’t we?” Titania took her hand and began walking again. “I have such wonderful things to show you, Abigail. But we will have to work quickly. The prince is an impatient thing.”

Abigail fell silent, not sure of what to say. Her thoughts were too full, whirling in circles as she pondered what Titania had told her. The weight of it was still sinking in.

Kill Valroy.

Or let him kill two worlds.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Abigail returned home just prior to twilight, feeling a little bit drunk.

Home.

She was shocked that Titania let her leave. But she had made a valid point—for the moment, they needed each other. Abigail needed to know how to control her power, and Titania…needed her to kill Valroy.

A thought that still churned her stomach. But why? It was not the simple act of murder that bothered her so much—it did, but that wasn’t what made her feel so disgusted at the mere notion of it.

It was because of the creature in question.

And that in and of itself was another reason she had accepted Titania’s offer of a bottle of wine and had sat with her by the shore of a lake. She had finished most of it, and Titania had done the rest.

It was clear the fae queen could toss back far more than Abigail was capable of. She wasn’t at all what Abigail had been expecting. Powerful and regal, yes—but not nearly as austere and aloof as she would have figured a fae queen would be.

Titania was…nice. Reasonable. Clever. And Abigail could not fault her for her desire to see Valroy destroyed. It was the sensible solution to the problem. If Valroy would not give up his quest for war—and that was all that he was designed to do—then stopping him permanently was the only logical answer.

But why did she hate it so much?

Pressing her hand to the bark of the tree where she had built her home, she let herself pass through the tree and into the one-room structure.

And she blinked.

It was not as she left it. Not in the slightest.

Her home was filled with…things. A crude wooden table sat by the false hearth, topped with wooden bowls, candlesticks with unlit tapers, and place settings for two. A pair of chairs were pushed neatly in place.

From a hook on the wall dangled the green wool cloak that Bayodan had given her. She had a bed, on which were piled her blankets and pillows that she had summoned the previous night.

And on that bed was a dog, sprawled out on his back, legs up in the air. He sniffed, sneezed, and then rolled over. Lying there, paws dangling over the edge of the bed, the dog smiled, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

She laughed quietly. “Is this your doing, friend?”

He barked.

With a shake of her head and a smile, she walked to the bed and sat down beside him, petting his head. “Good boy.” She paused. “Wait.”

Puck shut his mouth.

She eyed him narrowly. “If you can summon all this…you can summon yourself food.”

He laid his head down between his paws, trying to look as cute as possible, no doubt.

“You—” Abigail sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over her face. Unseelie killed—Seelie lied. But it was a harmless game, she supposed. “You did that just to get my attention and see what I would do.”

His head landed heavily in her lap, and she looked down at him to see those yellow eyes peering up at her with wary hope.

With another beleaguered exhale, she petted his head between his ears. “Fine. I forgive you. But you didn’t need to play the poor, pathetic dog to get my attention or my kindness. I don’t know what you did to deserve such foul treatment, because I do not believe it was simply for sleeping with some Unseelie, but I have no grudge with you.”

He shot up to siting and was licking her face. She laughed and gently pushed him away. “All right, all right, I get it. You’re welcome.”

The dog yawned loudly then flopped down onto the bed.

“No, no, no. Off.” She pointed to the floor. “I’ll give you a blanket, but off.”

He didn’t budge.

She pushed on his side and groaned at the dead weight. “Off!”

He squirmed in the other direction, planting himself even farther on the bed.

“You are a fae. You are a person. You are Robin Goodfellow. This is deeply inappropriate.” She pointed at the floor. “Off.”

He rolled onto his back, looking up at her, mouth open, tongue hanging out. He was all of those things, and he was also an incredibly adorable mangy dog.

“Off.” Nothing. “Puck, off. Off.”

All she got was a tail wag.

She sighed. “Fine.” She was far too tired to deal with this. Lying on her back, she let out a grunt. She was a little drunk, and a lot exhausted. Puck stood, walked up next to her, dug at the blanket, circled, then collapsed to the bed beside her with a rumf.

“I shouldn’t be letting you sleep in my bed. You’re Puck. You’re not a dog at all.”

The quiet wump of a wagging tail. He snuggled closer.

But despite her protests…it did rather make her smile. What had become of her life?

Wrapping an arm around the “dog,” she let herself enjoy the warmth and the quiet sound of breathing, and let sleep take her.

“YOU WHAT?”

Anfar watched as the Unseelie Court shrank back from the furious prince. His wings were flexed to their full extent, almost touching the trees at the edges of the clearing. His teeth were bared, and his fists were clenched at his side.

He was murderous.

And Anfar idly wondered if he was about to watch the slaughter of a second tier of lords and ladies of the Din’Glai.

“Give me your reasoning,” Valroy seethed through his teeth.

“She is Seelie. Your claims on her as princess no longer apply.” The one who had likely been told to volunteer as the spokesman that night wrung his hands before him. But to his credit, his voice was shockingly firm. “The state of her being has changed too much for any previous liens upon her to remain valid.”

Silence.

Then, after a long pause where Anfar swore no one breathed, Valroy began to quietly laugh. And that should have scared the fools even more. They glanced between each other nervously. Anfar himself took a step back, waiting for the carnage to begin.

But slowly, one at a time, Valroy folded his wings around himself. “Very well. I honor your decision, fellow members of the Din’Glai.”

Anfar felt dread creep up over him like he was sinking into a cold, murky bog. He knew Valroy was up to no good. He was too calm. When he smiled, he knew precisely what was about to happen.

“Then, in two days, I will wear the crown. And I will no longer need your vote of support.” When the crowd murmured, he spread his wings once more and took a step toward him, his features twisting into rage. “Silence!”

They obeyed.

Valroy sneered. “I have waited long enough to take the throne. I have waited, out of my own pathetic desire to find a queen I wished to have by my side. Not some…pawn to wed and throw away. If I cared not for who stood beside me, even briefly, don’t you think I would have married Astasha centuries ago? No. I, foolishly, wished to find someone who agreed with me. Who was loyal to me.” He stepped toward the court, and in unison, they took a step back. Save for Anfar himself.

He did not much fear the prince, to be honest.

Not until he became king.

“But I am sick of these games. Sick of you insipid lot of fools. No matter how many of you I kill and replace.” Valroy turned from them to stare at the silvered throne. The one that would be his in a few days’ time. “Soon I will not need a single one of you to get what rightfully belongs to me.”

Anfar clenched his fists. Did the prince mean the throne? Or Abigail? Sadly, he suspected it would indeed prove to be both. He turned from the scene and folded himself through space. He needed some distance from the prince and the politics. For he would have only two days of peace and quiet.

Before the king ascended.

And both their worlds were ended.

ABIGAIL AWOKE TO GROWLING. The room was pitch dark, and she blinked rapidly to try to see. She could make out vague shapes—she was still in her home—but it was the dead of night. Puck was standing on the bed, staring into the room, a low growl running endlessly from him.

“Puck?”

Sitting up, she cupped her hands together and breathed into the space, summoning her glowing orbs. She was pleased to see she could still work some of her old magic, even if it had been surpassed by her newer, stranger gifts.

The little, glowing, colored balls flitted around the space, filling the room with oddly colored, contrasting shadows. They did their best, though the light they cast was still dim. But it was enough to see precisely where the light did not shine.

In the corner of her room, where Puck was staring, was a mass of dark shadows. Tendrils of darkness wisped across the walls and floor, stretching ever outward. It was as though the shape were made of black smoke.

Puck barked and jumped down to the bed, his hackles raised, growling louder.

“Abigail…”

She shivered at the voice. It was Valroy once more. Puck took a step back, his tail tucking between his legs, but he kept growling with his teeth bared.

“You have two days.”

She went rigid. She needn’t ask for what. It could be his wedding, or the funerals of those he threatened to kill to lure her in. It didn’t matter. The end result was the same. “I need more time.”

“No.”

She winced. “Please.”

Silence. For a moment, she wondered if he was considering it. “No.”

“Then why wait at all?” She stood, glaring angrily into the shadows. She knew he could not see her, but she did not much care. “Why not give me until the dawn before you tear your own people to shreds, like the tyrant you are?”

He laughed. The sound sent a chill racing down her spine. It was filled with so much malice and so much certainty that her anger faltered. “Well…I do need some time to plan my wedding, don’t I?”

Astasha. Her anger found new purchase, and she took another step toward the shadowy corner. Puck barked and moved to stand in front of her, but she put her hand on his shoulder, silently asking him to stop. He did. “Let her go. Let that poor woman go. Don’t humiliate her any more than you already have.”

“You have the power to free her, Abigail…”

The darkness suddenly surged, spreading wide along the walls like the reach of his enormous wings, nearly overtaking the entirety of the room. Puck yelped and jumped onto the bed, now cowering behind her. She fell back, nearly tripping over him. “Stop all this cruelty, Valroy!”

“Oh?” His response was nearly a purr. “And why is that?”

Why?

He had asked her why. She stammered. How was she supposed to argue what was to her such a cut and dry issue? “What you are doing is wrong.”

“To you.”

“And, I believe, quite literally everyone else.”

He chuckled. “Oh, how I wish I could see your anger…how I wish you could see your glare. Come to me, Abigail, and Astasha’s pain will end. And your traitorous guardians need not suffer my wrath.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are my prisoners. And I am certain you remember how we treat our captives.”

Her thoughts hitched again, and she felt panic well inside her. “No. No, tell me you lie. Tell me you lie!”

His laughter was all that answered her as the shadows shrank and disappeared, as if slithering back through a crack in the far corner.

She was trembling as she sat back down on the edge of the bed, her eyes welling with tears. Puck whined and sat next to her, licking at her cheek, resting his paw in her lap. Wrapping her arms around the dog, she did not care that he was fae. She needed the comfort.

What was she to do?

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

Abigail flinched and stared down at her feet. Titania was pacing about in front of her. She had gone to the queen at the first light of dawn. Puck…had opted to stay behind. She understood why. There was no telling what the queen would do if he strolled in with her.

“I cannot spend two days here if there is even the possibility that Bayodan and Cruinn are suffering. If I can—”

“No. Absolutely not. You are playing into his hands, Abigail! You speak of two of the most powerful Unseelie creatures that walk Tir n’Aill. They are fine. He is tricking you.” Titania walked up to her and placed her hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “You cannot simply storm in there without any preparation.”

“And what kind of training can you impart on me in two days?” She looked up at the queen. “What meaningful knowledge can you give me in such a short span of time?”

Titania smirked. “Likely very little. But it is better than nothing. No, I believe Valroy will not harm them unless you miss his deadline. That is, if he even has them in his grasp. Which we do not know for certain.” Titania paced away from her and sighed. “I will summon my informant.”

“Informant?”

“I have a spy.” Titania waved her hand vaguely. “As I am certain Valroy has his. If Bayodan and Cruinn are indeed prisoners of the prince, then word will have spread quickly. I will find this out for you.”

“Thank you.” That did put her at some small measure of peace. “If…” She paused. “May I ask you a question, Queen Titania?”

“Just Titania, please.” Titania smiled and moved to sit down on a long, upholstered bench by a series of trees, and stretched out upon it. They were in her “drawing room,” insomuch as fae seemed to define most of their spaces less by walls and more by just scatterings of furniture.

What happens when it rains here?

Does it rain here?

Huh.

She shook her head. Another question for another time. “It’s about Puck.”

Titania burst out in laughter. “Of course! Of course that little rat found you.”

“Dog.” Abigail smiled faintly.

Titania laughed harder and then let out a long sigh. “He is playing on your kindness.”

“I’m certain. It seems that is a hobby for many people as of late.” She moved to lean up against a tree and slid down it to sit in the grass. Normally, she would have plucked a blade to toy with between her fingers. But now that just seemed rude.

“What about the mutt?”

“Did you curse him for sleeping with Unseelie?”

“Is that what you were told? By whom, the elf?” Titania draped her head back against the arm of the bench, looking ever much the resplendent queen, even as she snorted in derision at the thought. “Please.”

“What did he do?”

“Oberon and I were on one of our…spats. One of the few things William managed to pen down correctly in that slanderous, cheap little skit of his. Fascinating man. Took a great deal of what I told him and ran with it, I fear.”

It took Abigail a moment. She blinked. “You knew him?”

“Of course.” Titania smiled, a rather wistful but sad expression. “Puck is cursed because he is, and shall ever be, a dog. It is the far more honest form for him. Did he get caught sleeping with Unseelie? Yes. He did. But he did so in my bed.”

Abigail laughed. She didn’t mean to, but it happened anyway. Covering her mouth with her hand, she tried to wave it away with the other. “I’m sorry, I know it isn’t funny.”

“Oh, it’s hysterical. But it also had to be punished. He will stay as he is for a few more years, and I will release him, and all will be forgiven.”

“I am relieved to hear that. I would argue about the length of time, but…I am not yet accustomed to being nigh ageless. I assume time and punishment works differently for your—our—kind.”

“It does. Did you think I would leave him like that forever?”

“I…” She paused. What was the point in lying? “Yes.”

She held up her hand in front of her, in the direction of the sunlight, and studied her fingers in its rays. “You speak of Valroy and his cruelty. Would you like to know the single most unkind thing I have ever done? Then, perhaps, you can weigh us appropriately.”

“I…never said you were as bad as he.”

“No, but you wondered. Everyone wonders. You said it yourself—the Unseelie kill, and we lie. You make it sound as though the acts are equal. They are not.” Titania shut her eyes and draped her hand back down to her side. “I knew William. I knew him quite well. The poet fascinated me. His words, his mind, the places he could summon with nothing but simple human language. He had no magic, but he might as well have been a wizard for his command over the mortals. I was…jealous.

“I have never held that kind of sway over my own people. Why would such a gift be given to a simple man? So, I decided to ruin him. I visited him every day. I spoke to him of our worlds and enchanted him with my beauty. I never needed to weave a spell to make him love me. But I never let him touch me. I never loved him in return. It drove him quite positively insane. Oberon had to intervene and cast upon him a spell to make him believe that all that he had known of me had been nothing but a dream. And lo, that piece of trash was written.”

Abigail took a moment to think over what she had said. “And that is the worst act you have ever committed? Really?”

Titania chuckled. “You have never known a man whose love has been denied. For never is there a more tragic, nor dangerous soul than that. Heed my words.”

“I shall, but I doubt I will ever get the chance to use them.”

“We shall see.” Titania sat up and stretched. “Well! I have hardly had breakfast, but it seems our prince is eager to deny me my spare time. Come, Abigail. If I have only two days to teach you what you are, we best begin now.”

She followed the queen from the clearing, but her thoughts circled about her words and could not leave them.

Though she did not know why.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Abigail gazed up at the largest tree she had ever seen in her life. She had to tilt so far back to see the top of it that she nearly fell over. Titania chuckled at her from somewhere nearby. In fact, the whole grove of trees was immensely tall. They were stick straight like evergreens, their bark reddish and craggy.

Some of their trunks were bigger around than her house had been in Haltwhistle. Some were bigger than that by two or threefold.

And the song they sang—it took her breath away. It was a deep, resonant thing. She walked up to the tree and carefully placed her palms against it, afraid she might become overwhelmed at first.

“These are the oldest trees in Tir n’Aill. Some of them we think predate even our gods, and the gods who came before them.” Titania sat down in the grass and began laying out their lunch. She was supposed to be learning how to control her power—not eating in a grove of enormous evergreens.

But Titania was the queen, and Abigail was rather hungry. I really must learn to eat on a regular schedule.

“They are beautiful.” Abigail looked back up toward the top of the tree, holding on to the trunk for balance. “I have never seen anything like them.”

“Nor would you have on Earth. Not where you’re from, at any rate. I hear rumors that our kin overseas have something similar—but it is rare we meet spirit walkers on the Isle.” Titania patted the ground beside her. “Come. Let us talk.”

“I thought I was meant to be learning to control my power.”

“That is precisely what we are doing.” She chuckled. “What did you think I was going to do? Put you in a sandy pit and have you spar against my warriors? No, dear. You know everything you need to know. You merely lack the awareness of it.” She paused thoughtfully. “No, you’re frightened of it.”

“I…feel as though I have every right to be alarmed by what has happened to me.” Abigail walked to the blanket Titania had laid out and sat down upon it. She folded her legs beneath her. She was still wearing the same clothes Bayodan had gifted her. She would need to change them eventually. Or grow my own.

“You do. But that time has passed. Now it is the time to embrace what you are. You have created yourself a home. You can summon things you remember from the world around you. But you are not yet truly yourself.” Titania began to plate them some bread and cheese. She put nearly an entire block of the pale-and-blue pungent cheese she had eaten at the feast the day prior, a small, knowing smirk on her face.

Abigail felt her cheeks go warm. “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that entire wedge.”

Titania laughed. “You are adorable, do you know that? No wonder Valroy is so obsessed.” She shook her head idly. “Neither here nor there. He will be your problem to contend with soon enough.”

Abigail’s shoulders fell. But there was more than just dismay that roiled in her stomach. There was something else, something far more dangerous and treacherous that twisted in her at the thought of what was to happen in two nights.

She was to return to Valroy.

And all that it entailed.

She could almost feel the claws of his wing scraping on her skin. She shivered, though it was not entirely from fear. She was to walk into the den of the wolf and lie down before him.

She was terrified.

But she was also excited.

“I understand. I truly do.” Titania’s words cut into her thoughts. She uncorked a bottle of wine and began to pour them both a glass. There were two bottles of wine in the basket.

“Isn’t it a bit early to drink?”

“It is never too early to drink. Especially when Valroy is involved.”

Abigail chuckled and lifted her full goblet to her. “Fair enough.”

Titania did the same, and they touched the edges of the grown-and-living things together. They drank in silence for a moment, Abigail unable to resist the pull of the pungent and savory cheese. She could not help but stare up at the beautiful trees around her.

“What do you believe happened to you? In the simplest of descriptions?” Titania leaned back on her elbow, stretching her legs out in front of her. Abigail was not attracted to women, though she found no fault with it. But Titania pushed her to reconsider her opinion on the matter.

“I died, and I was brought back to life.”

“False. You never died. Nor were you brought back.”

“But…I…”

“You lost your individuality. You lost your mortality. But you were never dead. You never experienced what it means to die. And now I do not think you ever will. Not unless every single living thing in Tir n’Aill is burned to cinders.” Titania swirled the wine in her goblet. “That is why you are so perfectly dangerous.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do not believe you can be killed, Abigail. I think that if I were to drive an iron dagger into your heart this very minute, you would fall to the ground and then simply heal the wound. Something else in this world would wither away and die instead. You are not simply connected to the trees, darling. You are connected to life itself.”

Abigail could only stare at the other woman. It was not that she did not understand what Titania was saying, nor appreciate the weight of the sentiment. It was just that she simply could not believe it. “But…I’m no one.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe. The fact remains.”

She shut her eyes and let herself feel the hum of the forest. Titania was right—there was more in the song than simply the trees. She chose to focus on those, because they were the easiest for her to understand. The most stable. But mixed within were the birds, the insects, the creatures in the underbrush. The doe, the rabbits, the voles. The flowers and weeds.

“I do not know what will happen if—when—you return to the Maze. It is a corrupted place, and its song does not match ours. I do not know if you will have any power there.” Titania sighed. “But you will have your Gle’Golun, that is for certain. For they are you, now.”

Abigail held up one of her hands and willed one of those strange, crawling vines to slither up over her arm and around her fingers. They didn’t frighten her. To be truthful, they never had. Not even when she had chosen to die.

Or not, as the case may be.

I never died. I simply ceased to be unique. “I was pulled up from the ground like one of these trees. Made individual again by the Morrigan.”

“Precisely.”

“I still do not know why.” She lay down, stretching one arm out wide, careful not to spill her wine with the other. “To be Valroy’s enemy? Or his plaything?”

“That, I cannot say. Nor do I know which is better or worse than the other. That, I think, will be for you to discover.”

She listened to the song of the forest all around her. Harmonious and dissonant at the same time. “Teach me to change my shape.”

“You already know how. Stop being afraid to try.”

“You have to admit that waking up and finding yourself with the legs of a doe, and then changing into a swarm of bees, is a little alarming.”

Titania laughed. She heard the sound of more wine being poured. “Oh, no doubt. You are handling this far better than I imagine most might. A product of your background as a witch. The improbable is not so impossible for you. Now, darling, drink you wine and then become the deer.”

Sitting up with a huff, she did the first part without complaint. It might help with the second. “You are going to give me a drinking problem.”

“I believe Valroy will handle that on his own quite nicely.” Titania took Abigail’s empty goblet.

Pushing up from the ground, she brushed the needles off her trousers and took a few steps away. “Now what?”

“It is just as simple as anything else. As simple as walking, as thinking, as talking. It’s about will. Just like picturing your home in your mind and pulling things from your memory, you must picture what it is to be a deer.”

“But I do not know what it means to be a deer.”

“Yes. You do. Because you can hear it. Shut your eyes and listen for their part of the song. Then…match it. And try not to panic when you find yourself on four legs, hm?”

Abigail shook her head at Titania’s playfully sardonic tone, trying to find her teasing less amusing than she did. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly and shut her eyes. Finding the deer’s song in the chorus around her was easy.

Matching it was easy.

Not panicking?

Not so much.

She tore into the woods like the frightened animal that she was. She did so on four legs—four very inhuman legs. She froze, shook her head, and backed up, nervously prancing about from side to side.

I am a deer.

I am a gods-damned deer!

Her heart was pounding. The world looked different—felt different—smelled different. She could hear every rustle of grass, every snap of a twig. And each sound sent a bolt of terror through her. It was too loud, too close, too much.

“Breathe, Abigail.” Titania was standing nearby, leaning against a tree, smirking. “Remember to breathe.”

Right. Yes. That. Lowering her head, down from a far-too-long neck, she snuffed at her legs. They were long and thin, but she felt the power within them. They ended in black hooves.

“That’s it. Very good. Now, let yourself return.”

For a moment, she worried she might be trapped as a deer for the rest of time. But she found releasing the song of the doe was far easier than adopting it. Mostly. She fell to her hands and knees, the sudden change in shape throwing her off balance. She groaned and let herself roll onto her back, sprawling out wide in the pine needles. “I feel sick.”

“That might be the wine.”

Abigail laughed. When she lifted her arm to study it, she discovered a patch of fur remained by her wrist. She willed it to fade, and it did.

“The farther in shape from you the animal is—insects or mice—the more jarring the change, as you can imagine.” Titania offered her a hand. Abigail took it and let the queen heft her to her feet. She was stronger than she looked. “But you will adjust quickly, I’m sure.”

“Can all fae change their shapes?”

“No. Not all. Many are of dual forms, like Anfar or Oberon.” Titania began walking back to their picnic, and Abigail followed, if on unsteady feet. At least her clothing remained with her. Reappearing naked would be annoying. “But true shapeshifting is somewhat uncommon.”

“And what of adopting parts of an animal—like wings or the like?”

“It’s more difficult to master than the whole beast, to be honest.” Titania turned to face her and held out her hands at her sides.

Abigail gasped and watched as the wings of a butterfly rose from her back. They were a deep purple, with iridescent sections of white that shone in the sunlight. They looked so very fragile, but she was certain they were not so delicate as they seemed.

“You must merge your song with that of what you wish. It takes finesse and practice. You are just as likely to end up with the head of a butterfly as you are its wings at first.” Titania chuckled. “But I have every ounce of faith you will master it in time.” She folded her wings to her back, and they disappeared, fading away as if they had never been there.

Abigail could only simply stare in awe. “I…”

“You doubt you’ll ever be capable of such a thing. I know.” Titania walked up to her and placed a palm to Abigail’s cheek. Her touch was soft and warm. “But you are young. You have only been a fae for days, child. I am thousands of years old.” She grinned. “Allow me my superiority in my years of practice. At least before you come for that title as well.” She turned and walked back to the blanket, sitting down with a woosh of air from her lungs.

“Are you jealous of me?”

“Of your power? Yes. Of what you’ve suffered and what is to come? No. I would not trade places with you. Not for half of the strength you have.” The queen scooped up her goblet and took a sip.

Abigail joined her on the other side of the basket, folding her arms over her knees and looking thoughtfully off into the woods. “What is it like?”

“Pardon?”

She paused before she worked up the nerve to answer. “Valroy. What is it like?” She winced, her cheeks going warm. “I have heard he’s…violent, cruel, often deadly, and I…”

Titania laughed. Hard. She looked over to the queen to find her once more reclining back on an elbow, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, Abigail. Oh, sweet, darling Abigail.”

“What?”

“I repeat my sentiment that you are absolutely adorable.”

“I’m no maiden. I had a husband once. I just—” She sighed and reached out for the bottle of wine. She poured herself a second glass and drank more of it in a gulp than she probably should have. But she was facing down the inevitability of what was about to come to pass. “He will not take no for an answer. I fear his anger, just as much as I fear his lust.”

“I fear my experience with him will be of no solace to you. Nor will it be of any good.”

“What do you mean?”

Titania shook her head. “I only have my theories. But with you and Valroy, nothing I can say to you will prove true. You walk a path no one else has tread before.”

“That makes me feel worse, not better.”

“I know. But tell me this—do you hate him?”

Abigail shut her eyes. “No. I should. But I don’t.”

“Do you fear him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you want to stop him?”

“Of course.”

“Does some small part of you look upon tomorrow night with excitement, not dread?”

That made her pause. Abigail frowned and pulled her legs beneath her again, sitting upon her ankles. Titania seemed patient for her answer. Finally, she nodded. It was wrong. It felt wrong. But it was the truth.

“We are done for the day.” Titania stood and began gathering up the items in the basket.

“Are you upset with me?”

The queen chuckled. “No. Anything but. You simply need to rest and settle those nerves of yours. And I, sadly, have work to do. Oberon is a brilliant man, but he has no patience for the court. He wishes them all to vanish.”

“I feel as though I might agree with him.” She stood. She would ask how to get home, but…she already knew how. She could move through the roots easily enough.

“Ah, give them another chance before you judge them too harshly. In their eyes, you are already soured by your time with the Unseelie. They wish for their darker kin to be defeated.”

“And you? What do you wish for?”

Titania sighed. “Peace. Simply peace. Here.” She handed the basket to her. “Go feed your new dog.” The queen turned and left her then. “I will see you tomorrow for lunch. I will have a gift for you, before you go.”

“I—that’s all? You have nothing left to show me?”

“Nothing. You know all you will need. Go and get some sleep. You look as though you’re about to faint on your feet.” Titania placed her palm to a tree and vanished, leaving Abigail standing there, holding a basket of cheese, bread, and half-drunk wine.

And her thoughts.

Most dangerously, her thoughts.

She shut her eyes and, with a whine, disappeared into the song of life and went home. Titania was right about one thing. She was very, very tired.

VALROY WAS DREAMING. Garnet hair was tangled in his fingers. Vines, thin and dangerous, wrapped up his wrist. He held her down, grinned at the anger in her expression. Anger and lust, equally matched.

Perfect.

He could work with that.

He plunged into her depths and heard her breathless cry as she arched beneath him. She was perfect. Beautiful. Defeated. His.

Abigail.

The vision of her was cloudy in the dream. He could not see what she had become. What kind of Seelie goddess had he overtaken and claimed? He would finally have the chance to breed her, if it was the last thing he ever did.

He woke himself up from his dream and growled in his throat in frustration. His body was tight, aching, and desperate for her. For his dream to be reality. He climbed out of his bed and, half asleep, went to his bathing pond. He threw himself into the chill water, glad for the splash of it against his overheated skin.

But his body would not be calm.

Sitting on a stone by the shore, submerged up to his shoulders in the water, he leaned back and remembered the time that Abigail sat in his lap, nearly naked, gasping out her release as he touched her.

And he had only needed to touch her.

Her blood had been on his lips, against his tongue, in his body. Poisoned as it was, he had not cared. For she writhed, sinful and perfect, crying his name in ecstasy.

He took himself into his hand and began to stroke his length, wishing Abigail was there to do the deed for him. The image of her on her knees before him, supple and willing, those pink lips of hers so sweetly parted…begging him to use her, flashed before his eyes. It was more than enough to bring him to release.

He snarled and threw his head back, letting the pleasure wash over him in waves.

Tomorrow night, she would be his.

Tomorrow night, the real game would begin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

For once, Abigail slept peacefully, though it was the middle of the day. She spent it with a dog cuddled up against her stomach. Though he kicked her occasionally, the warmth of Puck—I still can’t quite get over that—was a reassuring presence.

When she awoke, it was dark. She summoned her little glowing orbs to fill the space, and she decided to fix herself, and her new companion, a late dinner.

Sitting down at the wooden table, she shut her eyes. She pictured a bottle of wine in her mind. Reaching out, she pulled it from the ether. Apples, bread, and more of that wonderful cheese followed shortly after. The smell of vegetable stew filled the air, and she looked down at the table and laughed. She hadn’t planned on that. But she wasn’t sorry for it. She filled a bowl with various bits of food and put it down on the ground for Puck.

He began to gobble it up greedily.

“I’m sorry that you will be on your own soon.” She reached down and scratched his back between his shoulders.

Puck lifted his head and licked her hand before putting his head back down and continuing to eat. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she shrugged it off and went to her own dinner. Puck seemed unconcerned by what was about to happen, and in the strangest of ways, that comforted her.

But one thing did still trouble her.

Bayodan and Cruinn.

Were they safe? Or were they prisoners of Valroy, being tortured? She couldn’t stand not knowing. Titania’s spy had not yet returned with news. Sadly, that meant there was only one way to find out.

And it was a terrible risk.

She would be defying Titania. After she finished her meal, she stood from the table and looked down at Puck, who was now sitting there, happily panting and looking up at her curiously.

“I have to go outside.” She looked out the window at the dark and starlit sky. Taking in a wavering breath, she slowly let it out. “I have to know if Bayodan and Cruinn are all right.”

He shut his mouth and pawed at her leg.

She shook her head. “I can’t sit here and let them suffer for another day. I just can’t.”

Puck let out a wumf. Standing, he licked her hand and trotted toward the trunk of the tree.

“Wait!”

He did not. He vanished. She blinked, confused as to what just happened. Then she realized what he had done. He had gone out into the darkness for her.

“Damn it all.” She sat at her table and waited. There was nothing else for her to do. If she went out after him, she had no idea where exactly he had gone. She would give Puck an hour, and if he did not return by then, she would—

He reappeared, trotting up to her, tail wagging happily.

And he had a red silk ribbon in his mouth. He proudly sat at her feet, clearly immensely pleased with himself.

Abigail laughed and petted his head. “Good boy. Fae. What have you.” She took the ribbon from Puck’s mouth and placed it on the table. There was no doubt it belonged to Bayodan. “Are you friends with those two?”

He barked once, his tongue hanging out happily.

She looked at the dog with one narrowed eye. “Were they part of the orgy you had in Titania’s bed?”

Another happy tail wag.

She sighed. “Fae. You are all utterly debauched.” Picking up the silk tie, she ran it through her fingers. “I know I am not meant to thank you. It is bad manners. But you are a good friend, Puck. If I can convince Titania to shorten your curse, even by a day, I will do so.”

He jumped up into her lap, and she hollered as he tipped the chair back, taking her, it, and himself to the ground in a heap.

VALROY PACED. He paced at the edge of his Maze, watching the sun rise. It would never be more than a murky haze inside the walls of his kingdom. But soon, very soon, he would not be confined.

Abigail would come to him. He knew it. He was certain of it. She would not allow him to wed Astasha. She would willingly step into his grasp.

Back and forth along the edge of his territory, like a confined wild beast in a cage, he paced. He could count the seconds of the sun as it rose from the horizon. He would watch the arc of it as it traveled through the sky.

And then…

And then.

He did not even pause to consider that Abigail might defy him. There was no chance in all the pits of his father’s hells that she would not surrender to him. To consider such a thing would drive him over the edge into madness.

Once he had her, she would never escape him again.

And she would pay for her misdeeds.

His fingers itched, and he fidgeted them as he pondered over the punishments he would deal her for refusing him—for choosing death over his embrace.

For hurting him.

She had wounded him deeply. He could recognize that now. He could admit it to himself, and, begrudgingly, if he had to, to Anfar. Abigail had dealt him a deep wound, and he would have his pound of flesh from her. And he would have it in every fashion he desired.

Every fashion.

He cared not for the gala that was being planned for his farce of a wedding. Let the rest of his court put on the charade that was to commence.

He grinned as he watched the trees on the other side of the Maze begin to turn. Autumn had come, and it came to herald his rise to the throne, though it would not be this night.

Oh, he would be wed soon. But not immediately. No, he would give Abigail a little time to adjust to her new fate as his prisoner before he forced her to wear his crown. He would be a bit distracted, anyway.

Couldn’t very well conquer the world when he was busy conquering his bride, now, could he?

ABIGAIL WALKED into the throne room, peering curiously around the space. She had no clue how to find Titania, so she would check all the places Abigail had been. It was a strange thing, being able to simply picture where she wanted to go and to let the roots of the world bring her there.

But like all of the changes she had endured, it was slowly becoming more and more normal.

More natural.

She smirked at her own pun. She had tied her hair back with the crimson ribbon Puck had brought her. She missed Bayodan and Cruinn dearly. It was strange how quickly she had come to rely upon them. But there was some peace in knowing they were safe. For now.

The throne room was empty. The trees that stretched overhead were beautiful in their shades of Autumn. The season had come to meet Valroy’s schedule, it seemed. The leaves were brilliant hues of yellow, orange, and red. Some clung to shades of green, still struggling to meet the prince’s demand.

The throne was stunning in the midday sunlight, the rays causing the surface to almost glow. She walked closer to it, stopping at the base of the stairs. She had never really had a chance to get a good look at it.

It was a work of art, crafted from both bone and wood, each surface sculpted in twisting shapes of beasts and monsters. Some hunted, some hunters. But there was an elegance to the violence, doing it a kind of honor. It reminded her of the stained-glass windows she had seen in the church her parents took her to. Not in their form, but in their content. She had seen a knight slaying a dragon reflected in the image, a spear driven deep into the screaming lizard. But the beast had been fearsome, most of the space of the glass taken up with its visage.

It was paying respect to both the victor and victim.

“Do you want it?”

She screamed.

Whirling, she placed her hand to her chest.

Titania laughed and shook her head, a fond smile spreading over her features. “You silly thing. You should have known I was here.”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, clearly you weren’t.” Titania walked up the stairs to the golden throne and placed her hand on the back of it, running her fingers over the carved details. “Do you want it?”

“No.”

“Good.” There was no harshness in the queen’s voice. She expected it to be a rebuffing of her. But instead, there was only a strange, tired sadness in her. “You don’t want to have it.”

“I cannot imagine the stress.”

“Why do you think I drink so much?”

Abigail smiled. “Also because you like it, I think.”

Titania snorted. “That is fair. Come, I have something for you.” She reached for Abigail’s hand, and she climbed the stairs to place her hand in the queen’s.

The world folded away around her. When she came back to herself, she groaned and shut her eyes for a moment to keep from being sick. “I hate that.”

Titania let go of her hand. “Someday, you will learn that trick. Though you may not ever need it.”

When she opened her eyes again, she gasped. She was…she did not know where she was. There were things everywhere. Piles and piles of every item she could ever possibly conceive of. Statues of golden heroes mixed together with cutlery, pans, goblets, jewels, piles of gold coins, weaponry, and more. A chariot that looked as though it may have belonged to the Romans was tucked up against a tree, overflowing with shards of armor and pieces of furniture.

“Welcome to the horde.” The queen was already walking away from her, her long gossamer dress trailing behind her on the polished limestone floor. “Where all stolen and missing things go. Well…most of them, anyway. The leprechauns would have you believe it is quite literally everything, but they are not so total in their collection as they would like.” She gestured a hand over her shoulder. “Come along.”

Abigail jogged to catch up, unable to keep from stopping now and then to stare at stranger and more outlandish items. Including what looked like the entire front of a ship. The figurehead jutted proudly above the pile of stolen treasure. Next to it was a statue of a woman, who must be a goddess, but unlike anything she had ever seen before. The woman’s skin was painted blue, and she had four arms. In one dangled a severed head, and in two others she held weapons, a strange, hooked sword and a spear. A bowl was held beneath the severed head, and the liquid inside was painted red.

“Abigail,” Titania called.

“Sorry! Coming.” She jogged again to catch up.

Titania was standing next to a table, sorting through items that were not nearly so haphazardly piled up as the rest of the horde. They looked special. She found one item and pulled it from the rest, holding it up and turning it over in her hands.

It was a dagger. Made of a material Abigail could not quite name. It was tarnished a mix of greens and blues. Strange symbols in a language she did not recognize were etched up the side of the blade. The writing was pointed and spiraled, jagged and cruel looking. The hilt was covered in elegant, crawling swirls. Titania turned it over thoughtfully in her palm, running her fingers along the side of the blade.

“This comes from another world,” the queen murmured, her expression serious. “There is a curse laid upon it. The wounds it deals do not heal. And it can kill anything that lives…even those of us who are the hardest to put down. Even you, I think, would end should this pierce your heart.”

Titania held the blade and turned it over in her hand again, this time offering the hilt to her.

Abigail hesitated. She knew what it was for.

It was meant for Valroy.

She swallowed, her throat feeling dry as if sand had suddenly found its way inside her. “I…I do not know if I am capable of such a deed.”

“You must be. You will find the strength, Abigail.” Titania stepped closer, still holding the knife out to her. “You must find the power within you to end Valroy’s life…or all of us will die instead. All of us—and all the humans on Earth as well.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she let them fall. She did not bother to wipe them away. With a wavering breath, she shook her head and grasped the hilt of the blade. She tucked it away into the ether, not wanting to hold it for too long, placing it on the hearth that lived in her mind’s eye. The weight of it in her hand sickened her. “I…I will try.”

“You will do more than try, Abigail.” Titania placed her hands upon her shoulders, squeezing. “Or we will all be doomed.”

ABIGAIL STOOD at the base of the tree that had been her home for such a short period of time. It had been only days, and yet it felt more important to her than the cottage in Haltwhistle had been. Because it had been truly and entirely hers.

Now, she was unlikely to ever see it again.

Puck whined from where he sat at her feet, looking up at her, pawing at her thigh.

She sat down beside him, and without hesitation, hugged the dog. Uri was there as well, murmuring quietly to herself.

The sun was setting.

Puck draped his head over her shoulder, doing the best that a dog could do to hug her back. “I’m so afraid,” she whispered to him.

“Abigail.” Titania. The queen appeared at the edge of the clearing. Puck growled at the other woman.

It was time for her to go.

Standing, she brushed herself off and pulled the hood of her green cloak up over her hair. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into a corner of her home and never, ever come out again. But she had no choice.

This was her fate.

Surrender. You will become his prey.

The image of a knife digging into her chest as she stood before a tree whose trunk was filled with weaponry that had been driven into its surface and then abandoned flashed through her mind so vividly, she had to shut her eyes for a moment.

The Morrigan had picked her to walk this path…whatever it was.

She reached down and petted Puck, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll see you soon.” She went to Uri and, reaching down, hugged the elf. The woman bawled into her shoulder.

“This isn’t fair,” the elf whined.

“It’s all right. One way or another, I will be all right.” She smiled down at Uri, though she felt none of the assurance she was trying to impart on her friend. “I do not think he means to kill me.”

“But what he’ll do will be worse!” The elf sniffled and rubbed the back of her sleeve across her nose.

You needn’t remind me. But thank you for that. With a sigh, she walked toward Titania. The sun would not wait for her and her nervousness. She fidgeted with the drawstrings of the dark green and flouncy shirt Bayodan had gifted her some week prior.

“The wedding will be in the throne room. You should go there and wait.” Titania reached out and pulled Abigail into a hug. She held her tightly then kissed her cheek as they parted, her lips lingering there for a long moment. “You will persevere. For you are life, and life cannot be defeated, no matter how dire it seems.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“You will. Soon enough, you will.” She smiled and kissed her cheek again. “Now go, dear child. And be brave.”

Nodding, she took in a long breath, held it, and let it out in a rush. She let the roots beneath her carry her to the throne room with its golden chair and Autumn trees.

But she knew it would not last for long.

The shadows began to stretch long as the sun bowed low over the horizon. And wherever the darkness touched, the room changed. Limestone became marble. Greens became pale blues. Brown bark became silvered, paper-like, and peeling.

She stepped out of the way of the darkness, clinging to her last moments of sunlight.

Her last moments of freedom.

No—that was not quite right. She was no more free now than she was when she was mortal. These were her last moments without Valroy.

As the last of the amber and yellow began to creep away, she held her breath. She prayed to any and all who would listen for mercy. For bravery. For strength.

She held her breath.

And the sun set.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

With the first rays of the moon came the sound of celebration.

Abigail’s breath hitched in her chest once more, but for different reasons. All around her was swirling color. Swaths of fabric draped from the trees in shades of blue, indigo, cobalt, and cerulean. But around her was every color in the world, worn by the sea of dancing figures in emerald, vermillion, gold, and apricot.

And every single one of them wore masks.

Terrible, nightmarish flashes of grinning faces and long, protruding noses whirled by her. Sharp teeth and bulbous eyes mixed with formal attire and silver jewelry.

The music played loudly, but the sound of the crowd still nearly drowned it out.

There she was, standing in the center of it all. She pulled her hood tighter over her and turned her head down, trying to fight the dizziness that all the movement inspired. She was trembling, and she fought down the urge to be sick from fear.

And just when she thought it could not get worse?

It did.

The music stopped.

The crowd went silent.

Turning her head up, she watched in horror as all the dancers backed away from her, clearing the center of the throne room. And if she could have melted into the ground and turned into a puddle of nothing but fear, she would have. For there, standing atop the stairs…

Was Valroy.

His dark blue hair was brushed smooth, and his face was unobscured by a mask. He still wore no shirt, his blue ink tattoos proudly on display. Around his waist was a blue and red sash that dangled to his knees. His wings were unfolded, and she watched as the claws of his wings flexed and then clenched into fists before relaxing.

And all the while, those faintly glowing sapphire eyes were upon her.

A woman stood at his side, draped in white silk. Her head was lowered, and a veil hid her face from view.

But it did not hide the drips of red that stained the front of her dress, or the blood that pooled at her feet. She wavered, and it was not until that moment that she noticed Valroy’s hand clenched tightly about her wrist.

Astasha.

Her heart twisted. “Let—” Her words choked off the first time. She tried again and did her best to sound braver than she felt. “Let her go.”

“As you wish.” Valroy released Astasha. The poor woman collapsed to the stairs. Still, his eyes never left hers. He took a step forward, and as he moved, the crowd that clung to the edges of the room shrank farther back. And with every ounce of her person, she wished she could do the same.

She held her ground. Gods help her, she did not know if she had been pinned to the spot by some kind of foul magic, for it was the only excuse she could come up with for why she had not yet turned and run.

With each step toward her, she felt her heart race faster. He stopped his approach only a few hands’ span away. Whatever shone in those eyes of his, she could not name it. His expression was flat and passive, but those sapphire eyes burned with something.

Rage? Lust? Pride?

When he reached toward her, she gasped, expecting him to rake his claws over her face. Or perhaps to run her through with a sword. But instead, he slowly, ever so slowly, took the tie of her cloak between his fingers and pulled. Carefully, as if not to frighten the already terrified deer, he pushed the cloak from her, letting it fall to the floor in a rush.

His gaze raked down her body and back up, as if drinking in every inch of her. He stepped into her again, halving the distance between them, causing her to gasp once more. She was waiting for the viper to strike.

Silence. No one spoke. No one moved. He watched her.

Where she summoned the gall, she did not know.

Swallowing, wishing she had one of Titania’s bottles of wine, she spoke.

“I am here to see a man about a boar.”

VALROY BLINKED IN SHOCK.

And then howled in laughter.

Of all the possible things she could have said—of all the possible things she could have done—that was nowhere on his list. He laughed in true and honest joy. Oh, Abigail. Do you know that I love you? Can you see it in me? Or are you still too frightened to understand?

And oh, how he loved her. He was not certain how such a thing was possible, but now upon seeing her, there was no doubt in his mind. He had wished that the Morrigan had turned her into a wanton, sultry, murderous Unseelie creature. But now that he could see what she had become, how could he ask for anything else?

She was flawless.

Pointed ears. Mossy green eyes that hinted almost toward yellow. And mixed into her garnet hair were the slightest hint of green vines. Green vines…and blossoms of a flower he knew quite well.

She had not been destroyed by the Gle’Golun.

She had become them. Or perhaps the reverse. He did not care. It was a struggle to paint his face back to the passive, stern expression he had tried so hard to maintain. It was a struggle not to sweep her up in his arms and disappear with her. To throw her into some iron cage and begin her torment.

Straightening his shoulders, he spread his wings and watched those mossy green eyes of hers go wider in fear. “Hello, little witch. Little Seelie. Have you come to join the celebration?” He held his arms out wide, and she flinched every time he moved. He grinned. “Tonight, I am to be crowned king.”

“I—” Her voice wavered. The poor thing was beyond terrified. Good. It was delicious. “I have come to remind you of your deal with me, Unseelie prince.”

“Oh?” He laughed once and took a step back from her. “All deals with you are null and void upon your loss of humanity, or so judged the Din’Glai.” He gestured to the crowd beside him. “Any deals I had with you are canceled.”

“Then—then I seek to make another.”

Perfect.

Fear and desperation.

Two things he knew how to work with quite well. He turned back to her, smiling viciously. “And what do you propose, little Seelie?”

She was scrambling. It was clear she did not know what to say. The poor thing had come here with the knowledge that she was to bargain with him, but with no clue as to what to specifically do.

“You interrupt my wedding to make me a deal, and you do not know what it is? Pah…I am disappointed.” He began to circle her like a shark, grinning at the pink that began to form in her cheeks. But bless her, she did not turn to follow him. He stopped behind her and tilted his head close to her ear. She shuddered as he whispered to her. “I dreamed of you…did you dream of me?”

“No,” she replied, her voice hoarse and nearly silent.

“Oh?” He grinned. A lie. “You have wandered into my lair…because you wish to be my prey.”

When she went to whirl to face him, he caught her by placing his hands on her shoulders, keeping her back to him. He laughed, a quiet, cruel sound. Yes. She had dreamed of him. For their dreams had been one and the same. His words were still a whisper, meant for her and no one else. “You are mine, Abigail Moore. Never forget that. But if you wish to dance with me, how am I to resist your command?”

He nuzzled his head into her hair, basking in the scent of her. She smelled like Summer, like sunshine and fresh grass. Like the trees, and the warm wind. Her scent was all that he was not, and he wanted it never to leave him.

She was shaking, positively shaking in his grasp. He slid his hands down her shoulders, slowly caressing her arms, until he slid one across her stomach, fingers splayed wide, and yanked her roughly to him.

And to the proof of what the sight of her did to him.

The cry that left her throat did not help his current state.

“Here is my deal to you, little Seelie. I find Astasha an…offensive choice as a queen, but utterly uninteresting. I would have you for my bride. I place before you our original deal—solve my Maze, or you will wear my crown.”

“And how much time will I have to complete this challenge?” Her hand was wrapped around his wrist, clenching it tight. But she was not trying to pull him away. She was merely holding on for dear life. “More than two weeks, I hope?”

“I have had my fill of brandy wine this night, and I am feeling…generous. I will give you until the first blooms of Spring.” He chuckled, knowing precisely how indeterminate of a time that truly was. Two days? Or two hundred years?

He loved keeping his Abigail off balance.

Yet he suspected the seasons would not whirl by so quickly now. Indeed, he hoped they crawled by.

“What do I receive when I win this game?” She turned to look up at him over her shoulder. Anger flashed in her eyes, and he nearly groaned at the sight of it. “Will you give up your wars?”

“No. I cannot. But…I will lay down my life.” He smirked. The anger in her eyes faltered. What was that? Did she not want him dead? No. She chose death over her desire for you. She wishes you to rot in the ground like everyone else in this world. But hope was a pernicious weed, and though he ripped it out by the root, he was certain it would return. “If you solve my Maze, I will let you take my life.”

Silence.

Abigail searched him, her gaze flicking between his eyes, before she either gave up or was content with what she found. She nodded once, curtly. “Deal.”

“Fantastic! Now, I—”

“But I have other terms.” She pushed away from him, shoving him roughly. He was so surprised at the motion that he let her go. “I wish for conditions to be granted immediately.”

He laughed. “Do tell! What are these demands of yours, Seelie witch?”

“You will pardon Bayodan and Cruinn of all wrongdoing. Their vow of guardianship to me—which they insist is valid, despite the Din’Glai’s decision—was entirely at your behest. You are at fault for their so-called betrayal of you. You will forgive them.”

Valroy considered it for a moment, tapping his finger on his chin, before waving a hand dismissively. “Done.” In truth, he held no grudge against the two creatures. Especially not now that his quarry was in his grasp. They were friends of his, and he was glad to have his issues with them cleared.

“You will play fair. No shortening of time—no cheap tricks.” She pointed at him accusatorially.

He placed his hand against his chest. “Who, me?” He chuckled and then bowed. “Very well. Done.” He lifted his head far enough to meet her gaze, and let his tone turn sinful and low. “Regardless, I wish to take my time with you…”

Her cheeks went red, and she took a step back from him, glancing away, unable to keep matching him. He struck in that moment of weakness, jumping forward and snatching her hair in the claws of his wing, tangling it in his grasp.

She screamed, struggling and kicking. He could see the vines of the Gle’Golun begin to form quickly around her wrists. He would have to do something about her power. He did not wish to have her able to defeat him—what fun would there be in that?

He yanked her against his chest, wrapping a wing around her, trapping her arms to her sides. Taking her chin in his hand, he turned her head and kissed her. It did precisely as he had hoped it would. She froze, stunned, as he kissed her with all the fury and the wrath he had felt over the past seasons after her death.

He could marry her here and now. He could. Iron chains and an iron circlet, and his throne would be his. But he found he did not want to, for two reasons. First, if he were busy with a new queen…a new throne was going to be neglected.

And two, and far more troublesome, he loved her.

And now he had a distinct and desperate desire for her to love him back. He wanted her to want to marry him.

How dare you?

How dare you make me love you?

How dare you make me love you and then die?

When he parted from her, she was breathless, staring at him wide-eyed. By the stars, she tasted like strawberries, apples, and every sweet fruit he could think of, all mixed into one. He wanted her. No. He needed her. And he would burn down this world and every single other one in existence if it meant he could have her.

He placed his palm to her cheek and met her frightened gaze. “Sleep.”

She was stronger now. Far stronger. For a moment, she wavered, nearly fighting him off. But he moved to kiss her again, letting his lips ghost against hers, and he whispered the word a second time. “Sleep.”

She went limp in his arms. Catching her, he slipped an arm behind her knees and smiled down at his prize. He had won.

The night was his.

“Valroy.”

He looked up. There, standing by the throne, dripping into his own personal puddle as he always did, was the sea beast himself. He was staring at the broken form of Astasha, who was still upon the stairs where Valroy had left her.

He sighed, his jaw ticking. Nodding once to his friend, he knew nothing needed to be said. The fallen Lady Astasha was no longer of any use to him. She was to be freed, in the only way she could be.

He felt grief for his friend, and for the pain he felt.

But he had his own matters to attend to.

Folding his wings around himself, he vanished.

Let us finally begin our game in earnest, little Seelie.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Titania watched the stars from the window of her home. She let out a long breath and toyed with the drawstring of her nightdress. Abigail had gone back to the Unseelie court, and the world had not yet ended. There were no flames of war upon the horizon, no pounding of drums.

Valroy was not yet king, and the death of her people had not yet started.

Whatever she had done, it had worked.

For now.

“Do you plan to sleep tonight?”

She smirked at the scolding of her husband. “Perhaps. Am I keeping you awake?”

“Perhaps.” She heard him roll over on the bed with a deep sigh. “Speak your mind, my queen. Or else you shall not sleep tonight, and I shall have a difficult time resting without you beside me.”

“I am merely hoping Abigail has the strength to do what needs to be done. That she can drive her dagger deep into that bastard’s heart.” Titania glanced to her husband before looking back out at the night sky. The breeze was crisp and chill, as it always was in Autumn, and it felt wonderful against the warmth of her home.

“And what if she does not?”

There was a knowing tone in his voice.

Titania leaned her head against the window jamb and shut her eyes. She was exhausted. Not tired, per se—not enough to sleep. Her thoughts were reeling far too much for sleep. But she was exhausted. Of everything. Of Valroy, of Tir n’Aill, of the constant struggle.

Of the constant games.

“If she cannot do what needs to be done?” She looked out over the night forest once more. “Then I will.”

THE CELEBRATION WAS OVER, the wedding having been called off for obvious reasons. The guests had gone. But the trappings of it still remained. Fabric banners, tables full of food, goblets half-emptied left on every horizontal surface.

And Lady Astasha, still lying on the stairs where she had fallen.

Forgotten by all.

Abandoned by all.

Except by him.

Anfar approached her, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists. He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep. He wondered if either would help. For the sight of her, clad in white, stained in crimson, helpless and broken, made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

No, not broken.

Beaten.

Astasha had not surrendered. She had been shattered. The great and shining star—the glowing Lady Astasha, untouchable and unreachable—had not fallen from the sky. She had been dragged down.

It would be easy to hate Valroy for what he had done. It would be very, very easy to loathe him and swear vengeance upon him for sundering Astasha and leaving only a husk behind. And a great deal of Anfar wished to do precisely that. But he did not. For he knew Valroy was capable, and willing, to do far worse.

She never knelt at his feet and wept in supplication. She never begged him to touch her, begged him to wed her, to split her body wide and fill her. He could have twisted her mind around his fingers and used her for all that he wished.

But he had not.

He had painlessly emptied her mind of all things. Left her an empty shell. Removed from her the ability to feel, or care, or think about all that was happening around her.

In the strangest, most terrible of ways, what Valroy had done to the woman he needed to use as a pawn…was a mercy.

He could recognize that.

But he still very much wished to rip Valroy’s face off with his fingernails. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

How many years had he watched Astasha from afar, twisting his heart into knots? The way she laughed with the others, lay with the others, and always seemed to have a flock of loyal friends who followed her about? But where were they now?

Where were all those hangers-on who claimed to adore her, who wished Valroy death so that she might sit upon the throne in his stead?

Nowhere. No one even helped her from the stairs. There was only him. And he hesitated, standing some ten feet away, watching her. His heart was once more twisting into knots, but for a very different reason.

Do I love her?

I thought I did, once.

But now he was not so certain. He had seen what Valroy’s love for Abigail had done to him. It had taken the joy from him and left him a creature that he had barely recognized. He had only been broken from his despair when the girl had been brought back to life.

Most of the Din’Glai had expected Valroy to wed Abigail upon the spot when she appeared at the celebration. They were all shocked when he didn’t. But not him. He understood his friend, perhaps even more than he understood himself.

He was in love.

And what did love desire most above all, but to be returned in kind?

A tear slipped from Anfar’s eye and slid down his cheek. It joined the puddle of water that always pooled around him. He did not much care about adding more saltwater to the mix.

He wondered if Astasha had ever known how much he adored her. How much he wanted her. But not her flesh—he knew he could have had that, if he had asked her. But he had been…too shy, perhaps. Too afraid that once they were in each other’s arms, he would have his chance to earn her love, only to fail. That was the story he had told himself, so many times, over and over again.

If she takes me into her embrace, I will fall short of winning her. For how could someone like her, so shining, and bright, and beautiful, love someone like me?

He took a step toward her.

And knew that story he had told himself over, and over, and over again…was a lie. One that he had been telling himself, for what reasons he could not fathom. But the truth was staring at him now, in the form of her broken shape in her silk and lace wedding gown, stained in blood.

If she takes me into her embrace, I may discover my love for her was a charade all along.

The sight of her did bring him grief. Oh, how he hurt. He hurt for her. He hurt for himself. But he was not the broken, weeping pile of a man he pulled from the edge of the Gle’Golun, his hands bloodied and half-eaten away from the vines.

Valroy had tried to claw his way through the flowers, even after he knew Abigail was long gone. When Anfar had reached him, he could see the bones of the prince’s fingers and forearms. And still, hopelessly, he had screamed her name into the darkness.

Anfar hurt.

But he did not hurt like that.

Why? Why had he tricked himself into believing he had loved Astasha? Or perhaps he did love her, in a fashion that was not the same. He took another step toward her, and for the first time, the woman stirred.

Her head was bowed low, covered in an opaque veil of white silk. She lifted it, and Anfar watched with a cringe as a fresh glob of blood oozed out from under the veil and landed upon the stones.

“H—hello?” She reached out a hand, trembling, in his direction. Her voice was wistful, faraway, and carried no weight to it. It was as though it were the voice of someone who was only dreaming. Dreaming of another life, or another time. “I fear that I have fallen from my horse, good knight.”

Anfar’s heart shattered in two. He took another step toward her and took her hand gently in his. “I am no knight, my lady, but I will help you all the same.”

“Oh…how nice.”

He sat beside her on the stairs, uncaring for the blood.

“Be careful. There are spiders.” She chuckled quietly, a humorless sound. “They bite. I think I have been poisoned. Perhaps they will free me from my tower. Might I ask them, do you think?”

He could barely swallow past the lump in his throat. “You might,” he managed to rasp out. His tears were falling heavier now. He let them come. There would be many more to join them. “But I can free you.”

“You can? How wonderful. It is so terrible in this place. I have no walls, or windows, or doors.”

Anfar gently removed her veil. He pulled it up over her and back over her hair that was as pure as new fallen snow. Or it should have been. He remembered it as being straight and smooth, and how it had glistened in the moonlight. But now it was tangled and uncared for.

But that was not what pulled a choking sound from his chest.

Oh, Astasha.

The nails were gone. The iron nails that had been driven into her skull had been long since removed. But the holes…the holes remained. Her right eye was gone, only a gory socket remained, grown over with scabs and her body’s futile attempt to heal wounds caused by the cursed metal.

From her cheekbone to the line of her hair, the square wounds oozed and bled blood that was every shade it could possibly be. Someone had tried to clean her up before her sham of a wedding but had left some smears along her jawline.

“Hello, knight.” She smiled weakly. She could not see him. Her other eye was intact, but it gazed sightlessly forward. The damage to her skull had taken her sight. It was likely for the best. She shifted, as if to stand.

Startled, he grabbed hold of her, just as she slipped and fell, collapsing into his arms.

Finally, she was in his arms.

After all those years wishing, and praying, and pining for her? He was holding her. She reeked of blood and rot, and he bowed his head to kiss her temple. “I am so sorry, Lady Astasha. I am so very, very sorry.”

“Who is that…? Is that me? No, I am an owl, only an owl upon a branch. I am not a lady.”

He pulled her gently into his lap, sitting her sideways across him, so that he might cradle her in his arms and rest her head against his shoulder. “Then you are the most beautiful owl I have ever seen.”

“You are sweet, Sir Knight.” She hummed. “You smell like the ocean. Are you a sailor?”

He paused. “Yes.”

“I love sailors.” She smiled. “So much fun to trick. So easy to get them to throw themselves overboard. I used to dance at the edge of the ship, a wisp of white and silk in the moonlight, and stretch my arms out to them. ‘Love me,’ I would say, ‘and I will love you forever.’ Oh, readily they jumped to their deaths and drowned.” She giggled. “Do you know most sailors cannot swim? What fools, these mortals be.”

“I agree.” Stars, give me strength.

“And now and then, I would hang a jewel in…” She trailed off. Reaching up a trembling hand, she pressed her fingertips to his cheek. “Hello? I—I fear I have fallen from my horse, good knight.”

He had to shut his eyes. He took a deep breath, fighting back the sobs that threatened to overtake him. Once he began, he would not be able to stop. And he had a duty to perform. “I am here, my lady.”

“I am not a lady. I am an owl.” She giggled. “Silly knight.”

He swallowed thickly once more and forced his eyes open. He held her as gently as he could, though he wished to cling to her in desperation.

He could keep her like this, if he wished it. No one would judge him for secreting away the shattered form of Lady Astasha for his own desires. For his own selfishness. But the woman who was in his arms was not the woman he had led himself to believe he had loved.

Or that he did love, but…not as much as perhaps he thought he did.

Or should.

He did not know.

The creature in his arms breathed. It spoke. It could, on occasion, walk.

But it was not Lady Astasha.

It was a corpse not yet allowed to die.

Taking in a deep breath, he let it out slowly, stutteringly. And he whispered to her. “You are the most beautiful owl I have ever seen.”

“Thank you, Sir Knight.”

“You are trapped in a tower. The spiders have trapped you there, in a place with no walls, no doors, and no windows.”

“Yes! Yes—that’s it. I had forgotten.” She smiled. “How good of you to remind me.”

He shifted his grip very carefully, as to not alarm her at what he was going to do. He placed one hand on the back of her neck, cradling her head. He placed his palm against her jaw on the other side. But first, he rested his forehead against her temple. “I am so sorry. I am so very, very sorry.”

“But why?”

“I—I am here to free you from your tower.”

“Then watch me take wing, my loyal Knight. Throw open the gates and watch me take wing.”

He bared his teeth, the pain so visceral he wondered if Valroy had not appeared behind him and stabbed him in the gut. He whispered to her once more, barely audible through the thickness of his own grief. “Goodbye, Astasha. I loved you.”

A gentle touch of a hand against his cheek. “Goodbye, Anfar…”

He twisted her head.

He made it quick.

A simple snap, and—

And she was gone.

Anfar clutched her to his chest and wailed.

And somewhere he prayed, prayed to all that would hear him, that her soul had taken wing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Abigail awoke slowly, feeling as though she were the worst kind of drunk. Her limbs felt heavy. She was lying on something soft, and it smelled like the crisp night air. Letting out a quiet groan, she rolled onto her side.

What happened?

Her memory was hazy. She had…night had come. She remembered watching the throne room transform before her eyes. Then, Valroy, and a gala, and…

Oh.

She shot up. Her hands slid out from underneath her, and she wound up sprawled back where she began. And the sound of a dark chuckle from beside her revealed that she was as she feared. She was not alone.

“Hello, little witch.”

The purr of his voice sent a shiver crawling down her spine. It was enough to wake her up out of her stupor. “You—you—” She tried to move away from him. There were silk pillows and blankets beneath her. She was in his bed. But why did her arms feel so heavy? Why did she feel so weak?

“Cast a spell on you. Yes. I did. I didn’t want to have you whining and squirming about.”

When she reached the edge of the bed, she climbed out of it. She needed to put some distance between them as quickly as she—

Something around her neck stopped her progress without any room for argument. She let out a hurk and fell to the ground, landing squarely on her ass. She grabbed at her throat and found a round collar of some kind of metal that itched beneath her palms. She yanked on it, but it did not budge.

“Don’t bother. It’s iron.” Valroy climbed from his bed and moved to stand at her feet, grinning down at her with that sadistic expression that reflected just how victorious he felt. Or, in truth, how victorious he really was. He reached down and picked up the iron chain from the ground. It ran between the collar around her neck to his bedpost.

“You chained me to your bed?”

“Of course.” He pulled, forcing her to scramble to her feet, lest she be strangled as he shortened the lead. “Would you have expected anything else?”

No, honestly. She wouldn’t have. But that didn’t stop her from glaring up at him, wishing he might burst into flames. But that was not her gift. In fact, she wasn’t even certain she could use her gifts while chained in iron. “Let me go.”

“No.” He pulled on the chain again, tugging her closer. She wound up having to press her hands against his chest to keep from colliding into him. He watched her, his grin simmering to a smug smile. “I have missed that expression dearly.”

“Let me go, Valroy. This wasn’t part of our deal.”

“No, it wasn’t. And therefore, I am free to do as I like, as you did not stipulate against this.” He curled one of his wings around her back. The claws settled on her shoulder, caging her in against him. Even if she weren’t chained, there was nothing she could do. He lifted a hand and crooked his fingers beneath her chin before running his thumb along her to rest the pad against the hollow beneath her lower lip. She could feel the point of his nail.

Her cheeks went warm. Damn it!

Any hope that he hadn’t noticed her blush was dashed when his smile bloomed back into a grin. “I missed you, Abigail.”

She could feel the rumble of his voice beneath her palms as it resonated in his chest. He sounded like a thunderstorm upon the horizon, threatening to come closer. “I said no dirty tricks.”

“This is not a dirty trick. You are Seelie, and you were foolish enough to step into the darkness. So now…you are my prisoner.” He lowered his head slightly, inching closer to her, near enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek. She turned her head away from him, but he caught her cheek in his palm. “Now, now, don’t be obstinate. This is the price you pay for what you did.”

“Obstinate? What I did?” Now she was glaring up at him again, her hands on his chest curling into fists. She wished she had sharp nails like him, that she might dig them into his skin. She willed them to come, but it seemed the iron around her throat stole her power.

Fear struck her then, all at once.

She was helpless! “Stop—please—let me go—”

The tug of the wing that was around her, stronger than she could fight, and she was pressed to him. She squeaked and went to plead with him, but he shushed her quietly, his lips brushing against her ear.

“Shush, little Seelie. I will not hurt you.” He pressed his hand to her back, and she gasped as he slid it down, beneath her trousers, and cupped one of the cheeks of her ass. He squeezed—and he squeezed hard. It stung, but the sound that left her against her will was not one of pain. She pressed harder to him, trying to escape his grasp.

Trying to escape what his grasp did to her. Fire rushed over her, lighting her nerves and smoldering them, turning the pain to something perfectly unexpected, entirely unwelcome, and exquisitely wonderful.

“Correction.” The snarl that left him was feral and needy. “I will not hurt you much.” She could feel his desire pressed against her abdomen. By the old gods—perhaps now that she was fae, she might survive him.

Might.

When she managed to find her words, they left her breathlessly. She was afraid to know the answer, but she needed it all the same. “Do you mean to take me?”

“Hm. No.” His hand slid from her trousers and settled on her lower back. “As much as it would delight me to do so. I shall not conquer you…yet.”

What a relief that was. Also, a disappointment.

Why in the name of the pits was she disappointed?

What was wrong with her?

He did not give her enough time to consider her own turmoil. The hand that had been cupping her cheek slid into her hair and caught it tightly in his fist. She gasped as he pulled her head back, exposing her throat to him.

The press of his lips against her pulse made her shudder. He trailed a line of kisses to her ear that was slow, sensual, and meticulous. It undid some part of her soul, and she found herself relaxing into his grasp.

When he nipped at the lobe of her ear, it took every ounce of her remaining strength not to whimper. He chuckled. When he spoke, his voice was low and thick with his own need. “You taste like the Summer sun. I think I could get drunk from you, little Seelie. Do you wish for me to take you now? Throw you to the ground and rut you like a boar? Hm? Are you ready to surrender to me?”

“No…”

“I thought as much.” He pulled away from her, just enough to turn her head to face him. “I do not need to chain you. I do not need to keep you as my prisoner. You wish to solve my Maze—and the only way you can do that…is to stay within its confines. You have made yourself my prisoner, Abigail.”

He let go of her hair and took hold of the collar around her neck. She felt it click open, and he tossed it away, letting it rattle to the ground.

And with a terrible, sinking feeling, she knew he was right. I cannot defeat him without solving his Maze. And I still do not know what that means. How am I to solve a Maze whose center is staring at me in the face?

But she was caught. Trapped in his games and trapped in that sapphire gaze of his. Because no, she was not ready to surrender to him.

Yet she knew the day would come sooner rather than later.

Slowly, one limb at a time, he let go of her. The wing that held her to him was the last to peel away from her. She took a staggering step back and could not help but place her hand to her throat where he had kissed her. She was shivering.

Valroy tilted his head to the side. “So afraid. So powerful. But so very afraid. Delicious.” He grinned. “This will be a wonderful hunt. Shall I sound my horns? Rally the dogs and horses?” He took a step toward her, and she took another step back. Damn him for always calling her bluffs.

“I will solve this Maze of yours. I will do it. I will find a way to stop you.”

“No. I don’t believe you shall. And when the snow gives way to Spring, you will be my wife. And as the trees bloom, the world shall burn.” He held his arms out at his sides, spreading his wings slightly to match them. “That is who I am.”

“I have not forgotten.” She took one more step back and then held firm. Clenching her fists, she summoned her vines. They crawled around her wrists, spreading out along his polished stone floor.

She was not the mortal witch anymore.

He paused, eying the slithering green tendrils with open disdain, but he stopped his advance. All of his devilishness left him. When he raised his gaze to meet hers, he was serious. “Why did you do it, Abigail?”

“I suspect you know why.”

“But I wish to hear you say it.”

There was pain in his voice. Honest and true. She wavered, shocked at the look of grief in his eyes. All at once, she realized her death had hurt him. She felt her shoulders droop. “Valroy…I—”

“Say it.” He snarled at her, his teeth bared, revealing those too-sharp eyeteeth of his. “Tell me why you made me watch you die, Abigail Moore. Tell me why you would rather be devoured, tendon by tendon, muscle by muscle, drop by drop, than to be with me! Tell me why your desire for me is so abhorrent that death remains the greater path!” He pressed his palm to his chest, his wings spreading wide. “Am I so vile to you?”

Stammering uselessly for a second, she forced herself to stop. Guilt hit her like the swing of a club, and she struggled to bear the weight of the blow. “No. You—you are not. And that—” She despised how weak she sounded. “That was why I chose death.”

She took another step away from him, but now it was to avoid the pain and anger in his eyes. “I chose to die because you were ceasing to be so abhorrent. That I…was beginning not to care about your plans for war. I could not let myself give in to…to what I wanted.”

After a moment, Valroy’s wings relaxed and his features smoothed. Then he began to laugh. It was a tired-sounding thing, free of his usual malice and cruelty, but without any of the joy she had heard from him when she had asked him about the pig at his gala.

That had seemed to have truly surprised him.

Now, he just looked weary. He folded his wings at his back, letting them drape behind his shoulders like a cape. “What do you have to say for yourself and your actions, Abigail Moore, Seelie witch?”

Watching him for a moment, she fidgeted with the string of her shirt. There was no harm in honesty in this moment. “I did not mean to cause you pain. I…didn’t think my death would mean anything to you. I truly am sorry.”

A quizzical expression crossed him, as if he were truly perplexed by her words. But slowly, he smiled and bowed. “Then for that, you are forgiven.”

Something dangled from his neck.

She hadn’t noticed it before. “Wait! Is that—” She rushed forward, forgetting her fear of him, as she grasped the necklace he wore. It was a small wooden talisman, carved roughly into the shape of an owl. “That’s—”

“Ah-ah!” He jumped back from her, laughing, the gleeful darkness once more in his grin. “It is mine now. You died. You were gone! This was all that was left. Finders keepers.”

“No! Please—” She went after him again, and he danced away, dodging her attempts to grab him. He laughed and howled as she tried desperately to catch him. He was so very much faster than she was.

And for a split second, a very dangerous split second, she forgot with whom she was dealing.

He snatched her by the upper arms and whirled her around, her back to his chest. She squeaked in surprise and tried to yank from his grasp, but he was too strong. When she went to summon her vines, something held them back.

“I am the Master of the Maze. Remember that. You are strong, little witch, but within this place, you are only as strong as I allow you to be.” He nuzzled into her hair, the hands on her upper arms tightening just a little. “And you walked into my lair.” He chuckled. “Foolish girl.”

“You…dreamed as well?”

“Of course. Every night.” She watched as the claw of one of his wings dangled her necklace from the talon of a single digit, far enough in front and above her that she could not reach it unless he let her go. “Every damnable night, you were there. Just out of my reach—tormenting me. I did not know until later that they were more than just my mind, wishing to deepen our torture.”

“I cannot matter that much to you.”

“Then you are a fool. You will be my queen, Abigail Moore…if I must slaughter all the world to see it done, you will wear my crown.”

“You would have me reign over a world of ashes.”

“If it means you do it at my side? Without hesitation.” He chuckled. “You could simply grow it all back, couldn’t you? My darling little Seelie. Now…do you want it back?” He flexed the talon of his wing, swinging her necklace in front of her face. “Or no?”

“Please.” She tried to keep the desperation from her voice. She tried and failed.

“Why does it matter so much to you? It holds no magic. It is just a lump of wood. I should burn it.”

“No!” She felt tears sting her eyes. “Please. It is all I have left of the love I shared with my aunt. It is all I have of her and the time we shared.”

He released her arms. She snatched the necklace from his claw and quickly put some distance between them. She put it back around her neck, but kept the talisman clenched in her palm.

When she finally turned to look at him, he was smirking. There was something odd in his eyes, something she did not quite understand. She wanted to ask him why he kept the talisman. Why he had it in the first place. But…she did not want to know the answer.

She wasn’t ready for it.

Shaking her head, she looked away from him. “What happens now?”

“What happens now, my darling little Seelie…is you start from the beginning.”

That earned him another glare, if a confused one. “Excuse me?”

Faster than a snake, he jumped forward. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her toward him. But she didn’t stop moving. Because as he pulled, he moved them through space. When he let her go, she was so off balance that she fell. She braced herself to hit the marble floor of his bedroom.

But she found herself sprawled out upon grass.

When she rolled onto her back to fend him off—he was gone.

She was lying in a clearing beside a pond. The crystal-clear waters showed darting silvery fish by the bottom, glinting in the light of the full moon.

She knew this clearing.

She had been here before.

This was where he had dropped her…the first moment she had come to the Maze.

“Valroy!” She jumped up to her feet. “Come back here, you—you—” Her pointless shouting ended in an equally ineffectual growl.

She really was right back at the beginning.

Clenching her fists, she bit back a scream. Damn you, Valroy. Damn you to the pits. What do I do now? She stood at the edges of a Maze whose center was a creature she found both irresistible and infuriating. A Maze she was meant to solve—a task she still did not understand. How could she find the answer to a question when she did not know what the question was?

One thing she did know, however…was that standing there was not going to do her any good.

Great. More walking. At least my feet will no longer hurt.

She stormed away into the woods to the sound of his disembodied laughter.

Shite.

To Be Continued In

Maze of Shadows: Book Three

The Unseelie Throne

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Vampires, archdemons, evil fae, warlocks, necromancers, haunted circuses, ghostly magicians—I have a villain for you.

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www.kathrynkingsley.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kat has always been a storyteller.

With ten years in script-writing for performances on both the stage and for tourism, she has always been writing in one form or another. When she isn’t penning down fiction, she works as Creative Director for a company that designs and builds large-scale interactive adventure games. There, she is the lead concept designer, handling everything from game and set design, to audio and lighting, to illustration and script writing.

Also on her list of skills are artistic direction, scenic painting and props, special effects, and electronics. A graduate of Boston University with a BFA in Theatre Design, she has a passion for unique, creative, and unconventional experiences.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

The Duo

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

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