Crown of Roses, page 12
Land.
The clear definition of mountains came into view. Excitement exploded inside her. Her heart hammered and the rush of adrenaline left her vibrating with exhilaration. Or maybe she was going to throw up. It could go either way.
Saoirse stepped up next to her at the railing of the vessel and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Are you ready?”
Maeve nodded and handed her the book of fairytales to be tucked safely away into her pack. “Yes.”
Even if she wasn’t, she would be. There was no other choice. It was time for her own story to begin. One she hoped would be recorded in a beautiful book with leather bindings and shimmery words. One she hoped would be read and passed down through the ages of time.
Perhaps it would last an eternity, even if she did not.
Maeve could have melted into the beauty of summer. Into its delicious heat and brilliant warmth. Glimmering rays of sunshine spilled across lustrous mountaintops, down onto a city built atop curling canals nestled in a valley, dusting everything it touched in gold. A winding staircase of ivory stone rose up from the frothing waves and plateaued onto a veranda with ivy-wrapped pillars and a carved statue of an impossible size. It was a fae, of that she was sure, down on one bended knee. A mighty sword of granite was gripped between his palms, tip down, and his head was lowered. The helmet he wore left room for his pointed ears and a detailed cape was pinned to his shoulders with gilded wings. He was a guardian. A warrior. A protector.
Her blood sang and the song pitched, the melody of the magic coursing through her clearer now than she’d ever heard it before.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up to see Aran by her side. He smiled, but his eyes were focused on the city on the horizon. “What do you think of Niahvess, the Summer Court’s Crown City?”
“It’s…” She couldn’t find the words.
Niahvess was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Magic floated around her, kissed her skin, tickled her cheek. It was everywhere. Living. Breathing. Thriving. All of the books she’d read in the library back home, hidden under a blanket with a half-melted candle for light, were nothing compared to the reality of the fae realm. All the maps, all the drawings—none were as detailed or intricate. The terrain should’ve been treacherous, filled with poison and unknown dangers. All the rough sketches and blotted outlines were distant memories, hand-drawn lies about what to expect.
But she had to remember. She had to remember she was in Faeven.
With Aran’s book clutched to her chest, one hand slid over the ornate railing of his ship, and her nails bit into the smooth, glossy wood. Maeve rolled her shoulders back, adjusted her corset, and ignored the way the stiff leather stuck to her skin. Her gaze lingered on the city in the valley, on the way the beauty seemed to shimmer like a mirage, like it wasn’t even real. “It looks criminal.”
“Positively.” Aran looked down at her then, his delightful eyes warmed with approval, and he offered his arm as the planks unfurled from the side of the vessel, one by one, to take them to the verandah overlooking the city of Niahvess.
She accepted without hesitation.
Once they crossed the planks, Aran stepped onto the closest stone step, and waves of turquoise crashed near his feet. They docked by a pavilion, where a staircase of sandstone cascaded down into the depths of the sea. Maeve’s foot hovered between the safety of the boat and the land of eternal summer, and when her boot touched down onto the slick stone, the world around her shuddered. Sighed.
Saoirse followed behind her and didn’t look nearly as comfortable. Her sapphire gaze scanned the area, darting left then right and back again, waiting for some sign of life. She carried both hers and Maeve’s packs on her back, and her hand was positioned on the hilt of her sword. Casimir stalked down the planks after her. His hood was pulled up, his face a mask of shadows, but he, too, had his hand wrapped around his weapon. Only Rowan, who was the last to stroll down the wooden steps, had any sort of lackadaisical air about him. In fact, he looked ready to take on the world, and when he caught sight of Maeve, the slightest uptick of his mouth was enough to make her heart palpitate.
Aran captured her hand and tucked it into his arm. “Walk with me, Maeve.”
Casimir jolted forward, his hood slipping back with aggression, but Saoirse grabbed his collar and hauled him back. Maeve glanced at her friend, at one of the few people she trusted. Saoirse gave a slight nod, but her brilliant blue eyes were cold with a vow to fight to the death if necessary.
“I won’t hurt you,” Aran assured her, and he led her up a few of the steps toward the verandah, toward the towering statue of the warrior fae whose armor was adorned with the crest of a swirling sun rising between twin mountain peaks.
“I know why you’re here.” He looked down at her and when she met his eyes, she saw they were clear and kind. “What you seek, it will not be easy to find. It was torn from this world, and no one knows if it survived.”
She swallowed down the sudden lump of panic in the back of her throat, and forced herself to take a steadying breath. To remain calm. Her gaze hooked onto the towering mountains, the rows of colorful buildings shoved together, forming a city full of life. “I will not leave without it. If I fail, my kingdom will fall, and I won’t let the death of innocent souls smear my hands.”
“You should know, there is one who has fallen from the grace of the goddess. She should be banished, like me. But she managed to remain in Faeven. She’s found a way to control the dark fae. To bend them to her will.” He paused and a pained look pulled his expression tight. “Creatures that only existed in nightmares, in legends of the past before even the Evernight War, now exist. And they’re a very real danger.”
“To you?” A chill raked over her, the warmth suddenly stolen by the memory of the Hagla in the Fieann Forest. The one who dragged her back to the memory of that wretched cage on those damned cliffs.
“To all of us.” Aran patted her hand. “Neither human nor fae…nor you, are exempt from the wrath of dark fae. The only ones who are, are the soulless.”
She glanced back down behind her to where his boat rocked gently upon the foaming waves. Casimir watched her, Saoirse watched him. And Rowan, his glare could cut her skin. He looked ready to take off Aran’s head. She peered up at the fae in question. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Nothing is as it seems.” Aran studied her and the wind picked up, slashed across them both. “Sometimes the mind taints what the heart knows to be true.”
“So, you think I should trust you?”
He laughed and it was the most rapturous sound. Pure and joyous. “Of course not.” He grinned and leaned in close, enough so that the glaring daggers Rowan shot their way pierced her neck and back. “Just something to consider as you make your way.”
Then he swept into a low bow. “This is where I leave you, Maeve. Don’t forget, I’ll call upon one of you for a favor.”
He left her on the stone steps and returned to his vessel, where his banner of charred orange and the strange black creature unfurled and whipped in the now merciless breeze. There was a chill in the air, cooler than before but not cold. The sun disappeared behind a blanket of clouds and the waves threw themselves upon the sandstone staircase. Even the warrior fae crafted from fine quartz and marble seemed to kneel to whatever storm was coming. The harbor of Niahvess was no longer as lovely or welcoming. Saoirse climbed the steps toward her, with Casimir and Rowan not far behind. But something was missing…Maeve couldn’t shake the feeling she was forgetting something.
She rushed down the steps past them, toward Aran’s boat.
Her boots slid along the damp stones and she threw her arms out, fighting with the air for balance.
“Wait!” The wind swallowed her call to him. “Aran! How will we find you once we’re ready to return home?”
He gave another knowing, smirking smile, and her heart sank. “We only agreed I deliver you to Faeven, dear Maeve. Not return you to the Shores.”
“Bastard,” Saoirse hissed, and she dragged her silvery blonde braid over her shoulder.
Aran had told them not to trust him.
Casimir’s scowl cut across his mouth.
Summer roiled. The sky overhead turned an angry shade of gray, and menacing clouds rolled in from the steep mountain peaks, where two of them rose like twin protectors. Mist blanketed the harbor and stole the sun. Goosebumps broke out along Maeve’s flesh as the once gentle breeze now whipped around them, sprayed them with the salt of the sea. It clung to her lips, the briny tang of it all too reminiscent of the cage above the cliffs. Maeve shuddered, wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and shook off the vengeful memory. Drops of rain pelted down; the storm of summer was now upon them.
A blur of teal and black shot past her.
Suddenly Rowan was further down the stairwell. Waves crashed at his feet, soaked his cape of shadows. He stood firm, fists clenched by his sides while the wind tossed his hair across his face.
“You called him to us?” Accusation lit his tone and the world shimmered once more.
“Called who?” Casimir asked, his sword already drawn.
Maeve tossed a reckless glance over her shoulder. On the verandah, Saoirse’s daggers were drawn, her hawklike gaze trained on the skies.
“Aran!” Fury infused Maeve. Scoured her. Carved her. But the sea shoved her back. Its crashing waves lashed at her feet, forced her further up the stone steps. “You said we’d be safe! That the Summer Court was accepting of mortals!”
Aran’s lips pressed into a thin smile of disappointment, a look she knew too well. It was the same one her mother always gave her whenever Maeve should have known the answer, or should have performed better, or should have killed without remorse. “I said they were tolerant.”
Maeve rushed forward and yanked Rowan’s arm, pulling him back to her. The rising, seething sea was now to their knees. His arm quickly slipped around her waist, and together they climbed back up the steps to the safety of the verandah.
“What’s happening?” Maeve’s heart thundered, and her blood roared as adrenaline caused her awareness to pulse. “What did he do?”
Rowan sighed, but drew no weapon. “Aran is a Dorai, remember? He’s been banished from Faeven. They are not allowed to return, no matter the circumstances.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and shoved his hair back from his eyes. “When Aran stepped onto the stone of the verandah, he summoned Niahvess’s Archfae. The High King of Summer.”
“Let me guess.” Casimir admired the svelte edge of his sword and ran his tongue along his teeth. “This High King is on his way to us right now.”
Rowan nodded.
Casimir groaned.
The wind barreled into her, and a wall of silver clouds stretched before her. “We can still bargain with any fae, right?”
“If we have something he wants,” Saoirse muttered, rolling her wrists, ready for a fight.
“She’s right.” Rowan’s lavender gaze flicked to Maeve. “There’s not much a High King would want or need from a group of mortals.”
“I can think of something.” Casimir scoffed, and his stiff frame turned toward the mountain of mist.
Chills riddled Maeve’s flesh and the fae magic in her blood rippled and sang. Called and beckoned. Longed to be free from the cold, hard metal binding her wrists. The surge of it was dizzying. Captivating. It left her lightheaded, so her entire body tingled until her toes were numb and she couldn’t feel her fingers. Then, as quickly as it came, it was crushed, dampened back down, swallowed whole by the charms and spells of her mother’s sorcery. A longing she didn’t know she possessed tugged at her, whispered for her to listen.
Maeve brushed off the murmured pleas as the most terrifying being she’d ever seen strolled out of the storm.
He headed straight for her.
Chapter Thirteen
He was summer and death.
Terrifying and striking.
He walked with storms but ruled the sun.
His hair was dark like a night without stars. Haphazard, windblown pieces fell across his tanned face and a pair of startling blue eyes watched her from beneath a drawn brow. His ears were long, pointed, and exceptionally fae. A ruby glittered in his left lobe. He strolled toward her with his hands tucked in his pockets, the sleeves of his cobalt silk shirt cuffed to nearly his elbows. A swirling tattoo crawled up his neck; it looked to be made of gold dust. His pants were white in color, nearly cream, and a gold belt slung low at his waist. Sheathed on either side of him was a set of matching swords. But there was something about him, something about the way shadows danced around him and lightness kissed his skin, as though he was a prince of summer who owned the twilight hour.
Maeve’s blood surged and the magic in her sang, a violent melody only she could hear. The burst of magic inside her collided with the charms of her cuffs, then crashed, leaving her breathless. Her knees quaked until she thought the ground would split open and swallow her down to the sea below.
“You okay?” Saoirse’s whisper came from somewhere to her right.
She could only nod.
Three other fae flanked either side of him. Two males and one female. One of the males scowled. The other smirked. And the female looked bored out of her mind. But then the Archfae shifted, and out from behind him stepped the most beautiful female Maeve had ever seen.
She was nearly identical to the High King, yet opposite in every way.
Cloaked in pale, shimmery gold, her gown swept across her neck and pulled tight at the waist. Layers of silk and chiffon billowed toward the ground like a cloud, the hem dotted with sapphires and golden beads. Her sun-kissed skin was marked with floral tattoos from her hands to her bare shoulders, and the ink was the same soft, pearlescent gold. Rich, golden waves of hair fell to nearly her waist, and woven into the perfectly coiffed strands were ribbons of brilliant yellow and blue; the sun and the sky. A strap of five jeweled daggers was tied onto a satin sash at her hips, a hard edge to counter all of the softness she evoked. Though the planes of her face resembled the High King, they were gentler somehow. Smoother. Not so stern or harsh. But everything else was the same. The eyes. The mouth. The walk.
Sister. The word echoed in Maeve’s mind and she knew it to be right. They were siblings.
The High King stopped before her, inches from her, and she was overwhelmed with the scent of him. Of sun-drenched palms, sandalwood, and a warm floral she couldn’t place. Maeve held her breath while her fingers lightly played along the tips of her throwing stars banded around her waist. She’d fought worse things. She could fight a fae.
”What do you think, Ceridwen?” The High King lifted his hand and his knuckles grazed Maeve’s cheek. She stiffened against the intimate touch.
The stunning female named Ceridwen spoke. “I think she’s missing something.”
“I think you’re right.” He twirled one finger around Maeve’s hair and the strawberry blonde strands whipped and swirled into a beautiful twist over her shoulder. Flowers bloomed down the intricate braid, pretty pink roses, blossoms of aqua and green, all fastened by gold-tipped ferns. Maeve’s heart stopped in her chest.
“Mortals.” One of the males laughed and raked his bright, hot pink hair back from his face. “Always impressed by the smallest of things. Especially the women.”
The bored-looking female jabbed him in the ribcage with her elbow. “Shut up, Merrick.”
The Archfae leaned back, tilted his head as though admiring his work. Yet he still managed to look unimpressed. “I’ve seen better.”
The insult shamed her, burned her cheeks with unexpected heat, and darkness roused inside her. She clung to the vicious strands of it and her magic exploded within her, a blinding burst of everything she’d kept hidden and bottled since childhood. Her blood curse raked over the surface of her skin, snaked past the charms of her mother’s sorcery. For one brief, fleeting moment…she wanted it. Wanted the power. Wanted the fae magic, to rule it, to own it. But just as quickly as that traitorous thought stole into her mind, the cold metal cuffs on her wrists tightened and squeezed. Spells stole her breath, left her gasping, and aching. Tiny beads of sweat slid down her corset, and her blouse clung to her skin. Until a harsh, shuddering sigh escaped her and she trembled from the pain.
Saoirse was there, the warmth of her palm pressed firmly into Maeve’s back to keep her upright. Focused. How could she not possess the blood of dark fae? That fracture inside her, that sudden, spiteful desire to use her magic for harm was a sure sign. It had to be. There was no other explanation.
But then the High King waltzed over to where Rowan was casually propped up against one of the verandah’s pillars. The High King crossed his arms and Maeve looked away when his biceps bunched and strained against his shirt. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Rowan lifted one shoulder in feigned nonchalance. “Here and there. Mostly there.”
The High King glanced at his sister, then again to Rowan. “You shouldn’t have come back here. It’s not safe.”
“Yeah, well.” Rowan’s arms spread wide. “I was running out of options, and it sure as hell isn’t safe where we came from either.”
The High King snatched Rowan’s arm and examined his wrist. The storm rolled in, hard and fast. It was fury unlike anything Maeve had ever seen. She was nearly crushed from the blow of wind. It whipped them, beat them, threatened to drown them in the sea as the waves rose higher up the sandstone staircase.
“What is the meaning of this? A slave?” the High King growled. “And the mortals think we’re cruel and merciless? You think we are the monsters?”
His gaze ravaged each of them, accusing them all of a crime.
Maeve tugged on the cotton sleeves of her blouse, and pulled them tight to hide her own cuffs.
Fury radiated from the Archfae. “Who dared enslave a fae?”
“Wow,” Merrick mused, smiling broadly. “Ballsy.”
“Merrick. Seriously.” The one female smacked him on the back of the head. “Shut the fuck up.”
The clear definition of mountains came into view. Excitement exploded inside her. Her heart hammered and the rush of adrenaline left her vibrating with exhilaration. Or maybe she was going to throw up. It could go either way.
Saoirse stepped up next to her at the railing of the vessel and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Are you ready?”
Maeve nodded and handed her the book of fairytales to be tucked safely away into her pack. “Yes.”
Even if she wasn’t, she would be. There was no other choice. It was time for her own story to begin. One she hoped would be recorded in a beautiful book with leather bindings and shimmery words. One she hoped would be read and passed down through the ages of time.
Perhaps it would last an eternity, even if she did not.
Maeve could have melted into the beauty of summer. Into its delicious heat and brilliant warmth. Glimmering rays of sunshine spilled across lustrous mountaintops, down onto a city built atop curling canals nestled in a valley, dusting everything it touched in gold. A winding staircase of ivory stone rose up from the frothing waves and plateaued onto a veranda with ivy-wrapped pillars and a carved statue of an impossible size. It was a fae, of that she was sure, down on one bended knee. A mighty sword of granite was gripped between his palms, tip down, and his head was lowered. The helmet he wore left room for his pointed ears and a detailed cape was pinned to his shoulders with gilded wings. He was a guardian. A warrior. A protector.
Her blood sang and the song pitched, the melody of the magic coursing through her clearer now than she’d ever heard it before.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up to see Aran by her side. He smiled, but his eyes were focused on the city on the horizon. “What do you think of Niahvess, the Summer Court’s Crown City?”
“It’s…” She couldn’t find the words.
Niahvess was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Magic floated around her, kissed her skin, tickled her cheek. It was everywhere. Living. Breathing. Thriving. All of the books she’d read in the library back home, hidden under a blanket with a half-melted candle for light, were nothing compared to the reality of the fae realm. All the maps, all the drawings—none were as detailed or intricate. The terrain should’ve been treacherous, filled with poison and unknown dangers. All the rough sketches and blotted outlines were distant memories, hand-drawn lies about what to expect.
But she had to remember. She had to remember she was in Faeven.
With Aran’s book clutched to her chest, one hand slid over the ornate railing of his ship, and her nails bit into the smooth, glossy wood. Maeve rolled her shoulders back, adjusted her corset, and ignored the way the stiff leather stuck to her skin. Her gaze lingered on the city in the valley, on the way the beauty seemed to shimmer like a mirage, like it wasn’t even real. “It looks criminal.”
“Positively.” Aran looked down at her then, his delightful eyes warmed with approval, and he offered his arm as the planks unfurled from the side of the vessel, one by one, to take them to the verandah overlooking the city of Niahvess.
She accepted without hesitation.
Once they crossed the planks, Aran stepped onto the closest stone step, and waves of turquoise crashed near his feet. They docked by a pavilion, where a staircase of sandstone cascaded down into the depths of the sea. Maeve’s foot hovered between the safety of the boat and the land of eternal summer, and when her boot touched down onto the slick stone, the world around her shuddered. Sighed.
Saoirse followed behind her and didn’t look nearly as comfortable. Her sapphire gaze scanned the area, darting left then right and back again, waiting for some sign of life. She carried both hers and Maeve’s packs on her back, and her hand was positioned on the hilt of her sword. Casimir stalked down the planks after her. His hood was pulled up, his face a mask of shadows, but he, too, had his hand wrapped around his weapon. Only Rowan, who was the last to stroll down the wooden steps, had any sort of lackadaisical air about him. In fact, he looked ready to take on the world, and when he caught sight of Maeve, the slightest uptick of his mouth was enough to make her heart palpitate.
Aran captured her hand and tucked it into his arm. “Walk with me, Maeve.”
Casimir jolted forward, his hood slipping back with aggression, but Saoirse grabbed his collar and hauled him back. Maeve glanced at her friend, at one of the few people she trusted. Saoirse gave a slight nod, but her brilliant blue eyes were cold with a vow to fight to the death if necessary.
“I won’t hurt you,” Aran assured her, and he led her up a few of the steps toward the verandah, toward the towering statue of the warrior fae whose armor was adorned with the crest of a swirling sun rising between twin mountain peaks.
“I know why you’re here.” He looked down at her and when she met his eyes, she saw they were clear and kind. “What you seek, it will not be easy to find. It was torn from this world, and no one knows if it survived.”
She swallowed down the sudden lump of panic in the back of her throat, and forced herself to take a steadying breath. To remain calm. Her gaze hooked onto the towering mountains, the rows of colorful buildings shoved together, forming a city full of life. “I will not leave without it. If I fail, my kingdom will fall, and I won’t let the death of innocent souls smear my hands.”
“You should know, there is one who has fallen from the grace of the goddess. She should be banished, like me. But she managed to remain in Faeven. She’s found a way to control the dark fae. To bend them to her will.” He paused and a pained look pulled his expression tight. “Creatures that only existed in nightmares, in legends of the past before even the Evernight War, now exist. And they’re a very real danger.”
“To you?” A chill raked over her, the warmth suddenly stolen by the memory of the Hagla in the Fieann Forest. The one who dragged her back to the memory of that wretched cage on those damned cliffs.
“To all of us.” Aran patted her hand. “Neither human nor fae…nor you, are exempt from the wrath of dark fae. The only ones who are, are the soulless.”
She glanced back down behind her to where his boat rocked gently upon the foaming waves. Casimir watched her, Saoirse watched him. And Rowan, his glare could cut her skin. He looked ready to take off Aran’s head. She peered up at the fae in question. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Nothing is as it seems.” Aran studied her and the wind picked up, slashed across them both. “Sometimes the mind taints what the heart knows to be true.”
“So, you think I should trust you?”
He laughed and it was the most rapturous sound. Pure and joyous. “Of course not.” He grinned and leaned in close, enough so that the glaring daggers Rowan shot their way pierced her neck and back. “Just something to consider as you make your way.”
Then he swept into a low bow. “This is where I leave you, Maeve. Don’t forget, I’ll call upon one of you for a favor.”
He left her on the stone steps and returned to his vessel, where his banner of charred orange and the strange black creature unfurled and whipped in the now merciless breeze. There was a chill in the air, cooler than before but not cold. The sun disappeared behind a blanket of clouds and the waves threw themselves upon the sandstone staircase. Even the warrior fae crafted from fine quartz and marble seemed to kneel to whatever storm was coming. The harbor of Niahvess was no longer as lovely or welcoming. Saoirse climbed the steps toward her, with Casimir and Rowan not far behind. But something was missing…Maeve couldn’t shake the feeling she was forgetting something.
She rushed down the steps past them, toward Aran’s boat.
Her boots slid along the damp stones and she threw her arms out, fighting with the air for balance.
“Wait!” The wind swallowed her call to him. “Aran! How will we find you once we’re ready to return home?”
He gave another knowing, smirking smile, and her heart sank. “We only agreed I deliver you to Faeven, dear Maeve. Not return you to the Shores.”
“Bastard,” Saoirse hissed, and she dragged her silvery blonde braid over her shoulder.
Aran had told them not to trust him.
Casimir’s scowl cut across his mouth.
Summer roiled. The sky overhead turned an angry shade of gray, and menacing clouds rolled in from the steep mountain peaks, where two of them rose like twin protectors. Mist blanketed the harbor and stole the sun. Goosebumps broke out along Maeve’s flesh as the once gentle breeze now whipped around them, sprayed them with the salt of the sea. It clung to her lips, the briny tang of it all too reminiscent of the cage above the cliffs. Maeve shuddered, wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and shook off the vengeful memory. Drops of rain pelted down; the storm of summer was now upon them.
A blur of teal and black shot past her.
Suddenly Rowan was further down the stairwell. Waves crashed at his feet, soaked his cape of shadows. He stood firm, fists clenched by his sides while the wind tossed his hair across his face.
“You called him to us?” Accusation lit his tone and the world shimmered once more.
“Called who?” Casimir asked, his sword already drawn.
Maeve tossed a reckless glance over her shoulder. On the verandah, Saoirse’s daggers were drawn, her hawklike gaze trained on the skies.
“Aran!” Fury infused Maeve. Scoured her. Carved her. But the sea shoved her back. Its crashing waves lashed at her feet, forced her further up the stone steps. “You said we’d be safe! That the Summer Court was accepting of mortals!”
Aran’s lips pressed into a thin smile of disappointment, a look she knew too well. It was the same one her mother always gave her whenever Maeve should have known the answer, or should have performed better, or should have killed without remorse. “I said they were tolerant.”
Maeve rushed forward and yanked Rowan’s arm, pulling him back to her. The rising, seething sea was now to their knees. His arm quickly slipped around her waist, and together they climbed back up the steps to the safety of the verandah.
“What’s happening?” Maeve’s heart thundered, and her blood roared as adrenaline caused her awareness to pulse. “What did he do?”
Rowan sighed, but drew no weapon. “Aran is a Dorai, remember? He’s been banished from Faeven. They are not allowed to return, no matter the circumstances.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and shoved his hair back from his eyes. “When Aran stepped onto the stone of the verandah, he summoned Niahvess’s Archfae. The High King of Summer.”
“Let me guess.” Casimir admired the svelte edge of his sword and ran his tongue along his teeth. “This High King is on his way to us right now.”
Rowan nodded.
Casimir groaned.
The wind barreled into her, and a wall of silver clouds stretched before her. “We can still bargain with any fae, right?”
“If we have something he wants,” Saoirse muttered, rolling her wrists, ready for a fight.
“She’s right.” Rowan’s lavender gaze flicked to Maeve. “There’s not much a High King would want or need from a group of mortals.”
“I can think of something.” Casimir scoffed, and his stiff frame turned toward the mountain of mist.
Chills riddled Maeve’s flesh and the fae magic in her blood rippled and sang. Called and beckoned. Longed to be free from the cold, hard metal binding her wrists. The surge of it was dizzying. Captivating. It left her lightheaded, so her entire body tingled until her toes were numb and she couldn’t feel her fingers. Then, as quickly as it came, it was crushed, dampened back down, swallowed whole by the charms and spells of her mother’s sorcery. A longing she didn’t know she possessed tugged at her, whispered for her to listen.
Maeve brushed off the murmured pleas as the most terrifying being she’d ever seen strolled out of the storm.
He headed straight for her.
Chapter Thirteen
He was summer and death.
Terrifying and striking.
He walked with storms but ruled the sun.
His hair was dark like a night without stars. Haphazard, windblown pieces fell across his tanned face and a pair of startling blue eyes watched her from beneath a drawn brow. His ears were long, pointed, and exceptionally fae. A ruby glittered in his left lobe. He strolled toward her with his hands tucked in his pockets, the sleeves of his cobalt silk shirt cuffed to nearly his elbows. A swirling tattoo crawled up his neck; it looked to be made of gold dust. His pants were white in color, nearly cream, and a gold belt slung low at his waist. Sheathed on either side of him was a set of matching swords. But there was something about him, something about the way shadows danced around him and lightness kissed his skin, as though he was a prince of summer who owned the twilight hour.
Maeve’s blood surged and the magic in her sang, a violent melody only she could hear. The burst of magic inside her collided with the charms of her cuffs, then crashed, leaving her breathless. Her knees quaked until she thought the ground would split open and swallow her down to the sea below.
“You okay?” Saoirse’s whisper came from somewhere to her right.
She could only nod.
Three other fae flanked either side of him. Two males and one female. One of the males scowled. The other smirked. And the female looked bored out of her mind. But then the Archfae shifted, and out from behind him stepped the most beautiful female Maeve had ever seen.
She was nearly identical to the High King, yet opposite in every way.
Cloaked in pale, shimmery gold, her gown swept across her neck and pulled tight at the waist. Layers of silk and chiffon billowed toward the ground like a cloud, the hem dotted with sapphires and golden beads. Her sun-kissed skin was marked with floral tattoos from her hands to her bare shoulders, and the ink was the same soft, pearlescent gold. Rich, golden waves of hair fell to nearly her waist, and woven into the perfectly coiffed strands were ribbons of brilliant yellow and blue; the sun and the sky. A strap of five jeweled daggers was tied onto a satin sash at her hips, a hard edge to counter all of the softness she evoked. Though the planes of her face resembled the High King, they were gentler somehow. Smoother. Not so stern or harsh. But everything else was the same. The eyes. The mouth. The walk.
Sister. The word echoed in Maeve’s mind and she knew it to be right. They were siblings.
The High King stopped before her, inches from her, and she was overwhelmed with the scent of him. Of sun-drenched palms, sandalwood, and a warm floral she couldn’t place. Maeve held her breath while her fingers lightly played along the tips of her throwing stars banded around her waist. She’d fought worse things. She could fight a fae.
”What do you think, Ceridwen?” The High King lifted his hand and his knuckles grazed Maeve’s cheek. She stiffened against the intimate touch.
The stunning female named Ceridwen spoke. “I think she’s missing something.”
“I think you’re right.” He twirled one finger around Maeve’s hair and the strawberry blonde strands whipped and swirled into a beautiful twist over her shoulder. Flowers bloomed down the intricate braid, pretty pink roses, blossoms of aqua and green, all fastened by gold-tipped ferns. Maeve’s heart stopped in her chest.
“Mortals.” One of the males laughed and raked his bright, hot pink hair back from his face. “Always impressed by the smallest of things. Especially the women.”
The bored-looking female jabbed him in the ribcage with her elbow. “Shut up, Merrick.”
The Archfae leaned back, tilted his head as though admiring his work. Yet he still managed to look unimpressed. “I’ve seen better.”
The insult shamed her, burned her cheeks with unexpected heat, and darkness roused inside her. She clung to the vicious strands of it and her magic exploded within her, a blinding burst of everything she’d kept hidden and bottled since childhood. Her blood curse raked over the surface of her skin, snaked past the charms of her mother’s sorcery. For one brief, fleeting moment…she wanted it. Wanted the power. Wanted the fae magic, to rule it, to own it. But just as quickly as that traitorous thought stole into her mind, the cold metal cuffs on her wrists tightened and squeezed. Spells stole her breath, left her gasping, and aching. Tiny beads of sweat slid down her corset, and her blouse clung to her skin. Until a harsh, shuddering sigh escaped her and she trembled from the pain.
Saoirse was there, the warmth of her palm pressed firmly into Maeve’s back to keep her upright. Focused. How could she not possess the blood of dark fae? That fracture inside her, that sudden, spiteful desire to use her magic for harm was a sure sign. It had to be. There was no other explanation.
But then the High King waltzed over to where Rowan was casually propped up against one of the verandah’s pillars. The High King crossed his arms and Maeve looked away when his biceps bunched and strained against his shirt. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Rowan lifted one shoulder in feigned nonchalance. “Here and there. Mostly there.”
The High King glanced at his sister, then again to Rowan. “You shouldn’t have come back here. It’s not safe.”
“Yeah, well.” Rowan’s arms spread wide. “I was running out of options, and it sure as hell isn’t safe where we came from either.”
The High King snatched Rowan’s arm and examined his wrist. The storm rolled in, hard and fast. It was fury unlike anything Maeve had ever seen. She was nearly crushed from the blow of wind. It whipped them, beat them, threatened to drown them in the sea as the waves rose higher up the sandstone staircase.
“What is the meaning of this? A slave?” the High King growled. “And the mortals think we’re cruel and merciless? You think we are the monsters?”
His gaze ravaged each of them, accusing them all of a crime.
Maeve tugged on the cotton sleeves of her blouse, and pulled them tight to hide her own cuffs.
Fury radiated from the Archfae. “Who dared enslave a fae?”
“Wow,” Merrick mused, smiling broadly. “Ballsy.”
“Merrick. Seriously.” The one female smacked him on the back of the head. “Shut the fuck up.”
