by Layla Harper
But an orc?
Never.
I eye the remaining stones. It is a clever hiding place, but it could also be a clever rouse.
I drop the egg into my boot, the same boot holding the portal stone strapped to my leg. Since Kyra’s abduction, I have not left the stone unguarded.
The remaining eggs all smell like the first.
Except for the one.
I temper the hope blooming in my chest. The legends were not clear. Some spoke of a skin. Others a soul. I am leaning toward the later belief. But whether I hold the ceasg’s soul or not, I still have to capture and control a creature who may have been born long before Alfhemir existed.
A cunning being who has most likely killed all those who have come before me.
And with that grim thought in mind, I enter the next cave.
12
Rogar
The alcove opens into a large furnished space. On my right is a kitchen with a baker’s oven. Copper pots hang from the stone ceiling. To the left, two large chairs are angled in front of a fireplace. Sconces flicker along the walls.
I smell magic here.
Foul magic.
If the ceasg had a skin, would she hide it inside a chest of garments like the selkie tales of old? Or are the rumors meant to dissuade hunters from pursing her soul, therefore hiding her true nature and confusing her enemies?
I inhale the ceasg’s unique scent. A blend of a fetid odor similar to the eggs, fresh water, and the salty brine of the sea. She is not in this cave, nor the third, but I hear her approach from outside.
I lean against the wall and take in the runes carved into slate-colored rock. I know not their purpose, but they are powerful. I would expect no less from a creature such as her.
“Who are you?”
Her voice is airy and smooth and warm. The lack of malice in her tone takes me by surprise. On their own, my eyes flit to the creature. She is of average height for a female, clad in a dress of red cotton, the fabric draping her legs, exposing bare feet. Her blond hair falls in loose curls to her waist, the strands glimmering in the candlelight.
It takes me a moment to remember her question.
‘Who are you?”
“I am… no one.” Yet my tongue swells with the urge to proclaim my name. My status. Proudly broadcast my kills and my wealth. These things mean nothing to me, yet…
I move from the wall and rub the prickling at my neck.
She smiles. The flash of teeth draws my attention to her lips.
Her very red lips.
“Such a strong male.” A floral scent invades my nostrils. “You have come to be with me?” A sense of peace falls around me. “Come now, admit you have. You are here for me.”
“Yes.” What am I saying? “No.” I am here… I am here because…
The reason escapes me.
“No?” The female pouts. “Surely you are mistaken.” More of her floral scent cloys the air. “I have been so lonely with just Basil and Creig for company. Long ago, I had a harem of beautiful males worshiping me. So, so long ago. And now, here you are. A tall, brawny male.” Her tongue slides along her bottom lip, and her finger dips to the opening of her dress, just above her breasts. “It would take a special male to bypass my guards. I am curious. How did you find me?”
“I—” The female’s eyes are blue, a stormy blue. Pretty, but not as beautiful as…
There is a another, her eyes a rich cerulean hue, vibrant like the Sea of Storms. The color brings joy to my heart.
Kyra.
My mate.
My stomach sours. I shake my head to clear the fog gathering in my brain.
“Come,” the female prompts, her agile fingers working the first button of her dress. “Tell me. No harm will come to you.”
Have I fallen under her lure?
Jatta.
I did, and worse, I was two breaths away from losing my will.
The ceasg watches me with beguiling eyes. One slender finger twines a lock of her golden hair, and the other continues the task of unfastening her gown. I smell no fear. Only confidence.
I have but one plan. I cannot fail. To save my càirdeil, there is nothing I would not do, including assuming the role of a besotted fool.
“A female as beautiful as you should have one hundred guardians.” One hundred guardians I would slay to seize the wishes and reach my mate.
“One hundred?” Tension eases from her shoulders. “Would they all look like you?” She takes a step closer, her gaze dropping to my bared chest. The bloodied fabric around my arm. My jaw. “Strong and clever if you bested Basil.” Without taking her eyes from me, she undoes the last of the buttons.
A male enthralled would be unable to look away.
I bite back the river of bile washing up my throat. My harsh breath sends the right signal, for the ceasg laughs and increases her lure, clogging my nostrils until I can barely breathe.
Rowena’s words ring in my ears. “This creature will lure you. She will eat your soul if given the chance.”
No fragrance compares to my mate. No female comes close to the beauty she holds. And if I do not stop Aelinor, Alfhemir will fall, and I will have no future with Kyra.
The garment drops to the ground, revealing blue-gray scaly skin. “Come to me. Tell me what you want.”
My smile is genuine. “Gladly.”
I stride across the cave, and when I reach her, I slow and circle around.
She does not scent the air like most fae, and thus has not detected the change in my mood. Her smile flares brighter with the ever-increasing lure, and the closer I get, she shifts her body to reveal more of her nudity. An arm curves over the top of her head. A leg spreads out.
The moment I drop out of her peripheral vision, I make my move.
Pressing the dagger to her cheek, I wrap an arm around her upper chest, locking her in place. “What I want are three wishes. Grant them and you live.”
She laughs but makes no move to fight me. “I enjoy snaring spirited males the most. Do not think your mate will keep you safe from my lure.” At my rigid stance, she laughs again. “There is a mate. I was not sure. So rare they are these days. Perhaps I will take her too.” A feminine growl emits from her throat. “Fight me, my handsome beast, but it is only a matter of time before you succumb. I am patient. I will enjoy taking you.”
I inhale deep and then exhale slowly. “Your lure cannot hurt me.”
“I have only just begun.”
“Capture and control, is that not what the legends speak?”
She pats the arm clasped around her neck. “Capture and control. You have captured.” Her arousal bleeds into the air. “But you have yet to control.” When she tries to rub against me, I maintain my distance and somehow my morning meal.
“Perhaps you should take a good whiff of the air in the cave. Smell anything… familiar? No? How about your senses? Are they as weak as your nose?”
The lure dissipates, leaving the scent of rotting meat in its place. “What have you done? What have you done?” she shrieks.
“Three wishes. It does not seem like much to exchange for a soul. But if you prefer not to bargain—”
“Wait.” She grips my forearm. “Wait, my handsome beast. I will grant your request, but you must promise to return my soul. Yes?”
I say nothing.
“Come, come, have pity. You have killed my guardians and left me with no suitable replacement. I am completely at your mercy. Release me. I have nowhere to run. This is my home.”
I step back, dropping my arm. “Get dressed.”
She steps into the gown, quickly fastening the buttons over her scaly skin.
“Go.” I point to the entrance. Frinhol did not see me enter the cave. He will assume I drowned, and since we did not discuss a scenario to cover this outcome, I am anxious to let him know I survived.
She laughs. “Clever male, but the outside air will not delude my lure.” She steps closer.
I step back.
&n
bsp; Another cackle. “Even captured, you fear me. Tell me, what clue did I leave behind?”
We step out into the daylight. I look in the direction of Frinhol’s viewpoint. I cannot see the male, but I know he is there. Watching.
“It matters not how I discovered your treasure. Grant me my wishes.”
She eases up to my chest. “Will you return my soul?” Her face crumples into one of fear and angst. “Do you know what it is to live, century after century, filled with the fear of having your will exploited? To be chased and captured and forced to grant countless desires while your own are forever lost?”
Shrugging, she turns away from me and walks several paces in the direction of the river.
I tense. Will she run? “That is far enough.”
“I am bound to this place until you free me. The others who came before you sympathized with my circumstances. They returned my soul—my life force, for that is what you have stolen. And I fulfilled their demands in return.” She brushes sand with her toe. “When I asked you how you found me, I did so not to lure but to learn. To better protect that which is most precious to me. For after you are gone, there will come another. And another. And another.” She raises sad eyes to mine. “I grow weary of this life.”
I almost pity the ceasg.
Only I smell the lies on her breath. “My wishes.”
“Very well. Think well on what you want, dear beast, for once I have consumed your deepest desire, there will be no turning back.”
“Consume?”
Her lips curl into an evil smirk. “I must taste your wishes. Did you think words would suffice?
“You lie.”
“Do I?”
Jatta.
There are two groups of fae in Alfhemir. Those who fight with honor, choosing to outplay, outsmart, outlast their opponent, regardless of which side they stand on. And those who lie, cheat, and deceive, fooling you into victory to then twist the dagger in your back when you walk away.
The ceasg falls into the latter category. Of this I have no doubt. She will grant me my wishes, and just when I think I have truly gained my desires, she will rip them away.
“Three wishes I will grant. What will they be, my handsome beast?”
“First, tell me how you bestow your magic.”
“With a kiss.”
“No.”
She makes a face. “Fine. Then I will need your saliva.”
“Give me an oath that you will grant my wish as I so desire it. No tricks. No deceptions.” I remove the white rock from my rear pocket, carefully watching her expression.
Her face remains completely blank, but her scent? Her scent flares with want. With longing and anger.
“Make the oath, ceasg.” I hold the egg in the air, high enough that she cannot reach it. “Make the oath, and I will give you this. It holds great value, does it not?”
She shakes with rage. Or defeat. I cannot tell which, but if she could wield fire or ice, I would be encased in both, dying a miserable death.
“I agree to your terms,” she spits. “Three wishes issued with no deception. Exactly as you demand it.”
The hair on my nape bristles. The terms are adequate. Perhaps too adequate. Yet I see no way she can twist my words. “You grant my wishes exactly as I deem them?”
“Have your ears gone deaf?”
I make a show of displaying the rock before securing it in my pocket. “You grant my wishes without malice, and I return this stone. Yes?”
“Yes. The wishes will come exactly as you require, free of malice in the granting.”
“I agree to your terms.” Magic flares, binding us both, the oath stabbing my right shoulder.
“No smugness?” she sneers. “No pride at besting the ceasg?”
I eye her warily. “It is not pride that brings me here.” But desperation. “On with it.”
“Make your wish. Spit in my hand. Three times. Three wishes.” She holds out her palm.
Although my mission is clear, my emotions tangle with what I must do. I clear my mind, separating my heart from each wish, and focus on the first intention.
The spell to activate the portal stone. Once I am sure the wish is specific and well-defined, I spit.
The ceasg licks her palm. Her eyes glaze, color leaching from her irises. A burn spreads across my left inner wrist.
The words to a spell.
The second wish is easier to frame. An intention-based portal charm strong enough to transport three armies. I deposit more spittle. And wait. The charm appears in my hand.
Anxiety builds over the last wish. I am torn between wanting Kyra out of Azgagh or requesting the communication spell to notify Khao of Aelinor’s betrayal. I have every confidence I can save Kyra. We have no future if Alfhemir is destroyed.
But what if I choose wrong?
Ancestors help me.
I slide the portal charm into my pocket. Kyra would want our people saved. My feisty mate would bellow and skin me alive if she learned I chose her life above thousands of others. But if I could find a way to save both…
Decision made, I ask for my mate’s forgiveness and make my wish.
The spell burns into my right wrist, this one more painful than the last.
“I have completed my portion of the oath. Three wishes delivered without malice. And now my soul.”
As agreed, I hand her the egg. No sooner are her fingers clasped around the stone and pressed to her breast than the air shimmers. A portal opens. And less than ten feet away, an army of drows steps onto the sand carrying the Wild Hunt’s banner.
Surtyr’s fires. Does nothing go according to plan?
“What is this?” I growl.
The drow at the lead throws the ceasg a pouch.
She shrugs innocently. “Coin is coin, orc. And they offered so much for you.”
“Rogar of Drengskador,” the commander hails. “By order of the high queen, you are hereby called to return with us for questioning.”
I am trapped like an animal caught between her perimeter wards. My only exit is the river.
Or death.
“You will pay for this, ceasg.”
She smirks and slips the egg into the pouch. “Do not be angry, my handsome beast. I simply cannot help my nature.”
The drows advance.
“And for once, ceasg, I am glad I did not abide by mine.”
The smug mask drops, replaced with a mien twisting in horror.
With the portal charm in my hand, I run and teleport to Azgagh amidst the shrieks of an outraged ceasg.
13
Kyra
The ice queen is in rare form.
“Where is he?” Tables fly across the air, shattering against the wall. “It has been days. Days!”
Magda huddles on one side of the room while Aelinor’s mage, the elf who’d assisted her in killing the poor goblin at the ruins, ducks to avoid the shrapnel.
She doesn’t say who he is, but I’ve got a pretty good hunch. And it makes me smile.
Stomping down the throne steps, she snaps her arm in the elf’s direction. “He should have issued the accord. Is this not what you foresaw?”
An accord? I shrug at Ilearis, who looks just as confused as I am. Rogar didn’t say anything about a negotiation.
“I-I-I did, Your Majesty,” the elf stutters.
“Then where is it? Where is the raven?”
The mage’s jaw dislodges and sets loose a small croak. When Aelinor stops before him, the male drops to a knee, and I’m surprised he doesn’t pee himself. The longer she goes without speaking, the more his body shakes.
“I have no answer,” he says finally.
“You have no answer?” Aelinor huffs, scanning the empty room as if throngs of goblin watch. “You have no answer? Then you leave me no choice.”
“Your Highness, I beg of you—”
“You beg?” She snickers. “Yes, I suppose you will when I return your traitorous bones to the spring court.”
“Behold th
e truth. I do not lie. The threads of fate are hidden, my liege. I can no longer see what is to come.”
She crouches and takes the male’s face between her hands. Magic wafts from her body like tongues of black smoke. “Show me.”
The tremors racking the elf’s body escalate. A low whining keen erupts from his mouth, thick with suffering like a dying animal.
It sets off a shudder of my own. We’ve been off Aelinor’s radar since my interlude with Rogar. Thank the stars, because I haven’t figured out a plausible lie for my flawless skin and the two inches of hair that regrew overnight. She’ll assume the obvious—Ilearis.
I can’t let that happen.
“Hmm.” She releases the mage and straightens. “You speak true.”
She sounds surprised.
The elf sags into himself.
Shifting her weight to one hip, Aelinor crosses her arms. “Why, then? This is unlike Rogar to forgo a plan that would ensure the protection of the hostages. Have you an explanation? A reason for this sudden lack of sight?”
“The threads of fate have changed, Your Highness.”
“Pfft.” Aelinor taps her chest. “I create my own destiny.” Pacing a tight circle, she kicks chairs and debris out of her way. “This is not fate. Rogar has received counsel from someone he trusts enough to make an out-of-character decision. I would be impressed if his actions were not impairing mine.”
She pauses for a moment, head angled, and for a brief second, I see the old Aelinor. Tough yet fair. And then the darkness flows back into her eyes. “Who? Who? Who? Not the fool, Frinhol? No, no, no. I do not think so.”
“The norn?” the mage suggests, head bowed.
Aelinor wheels around to Magda, her lids lowering to slits.
The baobhan sith shakes her head. “I left her for dead.”
Black tendrils slither across the floor, coiling around the vampire’s leg until it reaches her neck.
Magda jerks against the mist dragging her across the room like a tractor beam.
“Left for dead?” Aelinor’s voice is glacial. “Were those your orders?”
“No, but—”
The fingers of smoke tighten around the vampire’s neck.
