by L. L. Raand
Torren shook her head. I don’t think so. I am bonded to Misha, and Misha to you. Through you, I am linked to your Pack. Here in Faerie, those bonds are entwined with the magic of the land. That merging has strengthened our link in unexpected ways.
Sylvan had no time or reason to question Torren’s assessment. Many things had changed as members of her Pack had mated outside their borders with other Weres, humans, and even Fae. A new world order was emerging, one Sylvan needed to understand so as to protect those who were hers. She had left her mate, her young, and her Pack behind when she’d stepped through the Faerie Gate, just so she could begin to understand what forces might be arrayed against her. Torren was a friend of the Pack, and she trusted her. You are welcome then, Lord Torren. Do you know where we are? Or when we are?
Time is meaningless here. Torren’s full melodic voice reverberated through Sylvan’s mind. What may feel like hours or even days to you is mere illusion. We are creatures with endless time, and therefore time has no significance.
And when we return to our own world, Sylvan queried, a pang of fear roiling in her belly, will my young be adults, will my Prima have gone years without me?
Only if Cecilia bends the dimensions, and that might require even more power than she possesses. Torren held her gaze, something no other being dared do without challenge. Sylvan showed her canines in warning, though she smiled inwardly, adding Torren to the small circle of her equals, her friends, in the ongoing fight for Praetern survival. Time was changing, despite its irrelevance here in Faerie.
You are not here voluntarily—nor bespelled as most earthlings are when they arrive. I do not believe Cecilia would be foolish enough to perpetrate what would be considered an act of war. If you do not return…soon, Torren smiled, and for an instant rainbow colors slashed through her eyes, Drake and Misha and I suspect a legion of Vampires will find their way through the Gate. As I am connected to Pack, Misha is connected to Faerie, more strongly than she realizes.
Sylvan frowned. If that’s true, can she open… She shook her head and closed her mind. Whatever Misha’s emerging powers might be, Cecilia did not need to know of them. Beside her, Niki growled.
“Yes,” Sylvan said aloud, “I feel it too.” Power, pressing against her chest, attempting to choke her. Her skin prickled and pelt rolled beneath her skin. Her wolf alerted, signaling danger, ready to do battle.
Attillus, the Fae warrior, stepped into the glade as if he’d merely opened a door and walked through. Behind him, twelve Fae guards bedecked in Cecilia’s livery, standards held high and spears in hand, stood at placid attention. Attillus’s gaze swept over Sylvan and came to rest on Torren. His eyebrow arched, the only expression on his transcendent, perfectly etched features.
“Torren,” he said coolly, eschewing Torren’s title.
Torren smiled. “Attillus. We are here to see Your Lady.”
If possible, Attillus’s features cooled even further. “The Queen,” he said, emphasizing the word, “is aware.”
“If Cecilia has changed her mind…”
“You will address the Queen as she deserves to be addressed.”
“I shall?” Torren shrugged. “And you? How shall you address me?”
The royal guard behind Attillus remained as immovable as statues. Sylvan, attuned to the nearest movement of prey in the deepest shadows, sensed Attillus’s tension.
“Lord Torren, Master of the Hunt,” Attillus said, as if the words were acid pouring over his tongue, “Cecilia, Queen of Thorns and All of Faerie, Ruler of Dark and Light, and Mistress of All Seasons, welcomes you to Faerie and invites you to her royal presence.”
“Consort,” Torren said evenly, “I come with Sylvan Mir, Alpha of the Timberwolf Pack, and Rafe, Emissary of Liege Jody Gates of the Northeastern US Vampire seethe, for audience with Cecilia, Queen of Thorns and All of Faerie, Ruler of Dark and Light, and Mistress of All Seasons.”
Attillus swept an arm in a glittering semicircle, and Sylvan found herself on a marble path as wide as many highways. At the horizon, a pair of golden arches fronted a gold-domed mound that rose in the midst of an ephemeral glade, circled by tall trees with bright orange leaves and delicate green and turquoise fruits dangling in bunches from vines as thin as hairs. In a crystal magenta sky, the blood-red sun shimmered within a golden halo. Beyond the golden arches, Cecilia no doubt awaited. Along the length of the marble colonnade, more guards as still as statues held the Queen’s standard with its fluttering blue pennant adorned with Cecilia’s crest of roses and thorns, while another dozen flanked two towering ornate doors cast in what might be pure gold. The grandeur was a show of power, so like Cecilia.
Without waiting for an invitation, which would only underscore the advantage Cecilia held in her own territory, Sylvan took a step onto the marble walk, shoulder to shoulder with Torren and Niki. Rafe and the Vampire guards fell in behind her. Time to see exactly what Cecilia had planned.
Chapter Eleven
Trent drew Jace aside as the first glimmer of dawn broke above the tree line in the east. She’d stood guard all night, too restless to sleep, her wolf agitated and pacing. The Snowcrest Weres would be on the move now. The engagement might commence at any moment. And still, she scented nothing. Where were the Snowcrest wolves? More importantly, where was Zora? Trent shuddered at the memory of Zora’s hands and mouth on her, and still, the air carried no scent of their opponents.
She asked Jace, “Does it bother you how quiet it is out there?”
“I was thinking the same thing myself.” Jace glanced around the clearing, checking their warriors’ positions. Most were secluded under cover in the surrounding forest or on sentrie duty along their perimeter. “None of our runners have reported sign of them yet.”
“I don’t like it,” Trent said. “It’s not like Loris or Ash to let us have the high ground.”
Jace smiled, the satisfied look she got whenever Ash crossed her mind fused with a warrior’s hunger. “This is a perfect encampment for defense,” Jace said, “and Ash would know that. So would Loris.”
“Which means they may suspect our location.”
“They still have to approach us,” Jace said, “and by the time they draw close enough to engage, we will have the advantage of location.”
“We should have the advantage of time on our side too,” Trent said. “We left quickly.”
“True,” Jace said slowly, “but this is their territory, and they know the ground.”
Trent scented again—still nothing, but the wind was coming from behind them. If the Snowcrest were foolish enough to launch a frontal assault, she wouldn’t know until she sighted them. The Snowcrest Alpha and her general were not warrior trained, but they were wolves. They would not be foolish. “We need to send out an advance guard—I don’t want any surprises.”
Jace nodded. “Take the point with six of your best warriors, cross the stream, and occupy the bluff above the trail. You’ll see any movement from the direction of Snowcrest from there, even if they try to circle around behind us.”
“As you command, Centuri.”
“And Trent,” Jace said quietly, “remember, they are our allies.”
Trent showed her teeth, but she did not argue with her commander. She wasn’t so certain exactly how much of an ally Loris and some of the other dominants really were. Even Ash, mated to a Timberwolf or not, was Snowcrest, and she led the Snowcrest soldiers today.
Trent saluted. “Good hunting, Centuri.”
“And you,” Jace said, shifting into pelt and loping to join her cadre.
Trent gave her wolf leave to ascend, her pelt swiftly rolling over skin. She dropped to all fours, signaled with a quick bark, and trotted off into the forest, her warriors at her flanks. The bluff from which she would command the hunting ground was a quarter mile away. They should be well ensconced before Snowcrest moved in for a counterattack. She expected them to advance in groups along the line, sweeping outward fanlike from their Clan home, protecting their flanks while driving fo
rward in the center. A sound defense, but not always the best offense. But then, that’s what she and her warriors were here to demonstrate.
Her heart thundered as battle hormones and the simple joy of running filled her blood. That, and, knowing Zora was coming. The Alpha would not let this battle pass her by. No Alpha would, and Zora, above all else, was Alpha. Were she not, Trent would’ve pushed her claim on Zora’s wolf by now. Would have let her wolf show all her power, would have let Zora know her desire, and would have answered the pull of instinct and primal need that could not be denied even if they should want to.
But Zora was not for her.
Had Zora merely been Snowcrest, as Ash was, then Trent might have chosen as Jace had chosen, to move into the uncertain ground between the two Packs to claim her mate. No might’ve been about it. She would not have hesitated. Sometimes, the wolf in them understood far better the rightness of an action than their reasoning mind. But she was not all wolf, and Zora had made it plain what she wanted, and that did not include anything more with Trent than the one-sided tangles they’d shared. Trent was duty bound and heart bound to follow Zora’s command. The ache in her chest never relented despite her focus on the coming engagement.
At the crest of the bluff, she signaled with a low growl for her warriors to follow her off the path and into the forest. Perhaps if she hadn’t taken that route, and the wind hadn’t shifted in just that instant, she would not have scented the dark, oily, foreign scent of the enemy.
They were not alone in the forest. She could turn back and warn Jace, but then the enemy would be behind her, and she and her wolves would be vulnerable in retreat. At the very least, she needed to know what they faced.
Benjamin, she signaled to another lieutenant. Take three, scout left. Dara, two on the right.
She sent the last Were back to warn Jace. Silently, her wolves melted into the undergrowth. She went forward alone, slipping through shadows, climbing ever upward toward the scent of wrongness, of death and the metallic stench of sorcery. If the Snowcrest wolves were spread out in an advancing line as she suspected, they would be at risk for attack from whatever held this bluff. They needed to be warned.
Zora needed to be warned. If she could not warn them, she would have to search out the enemy and attack before the enemy could make the first move.
* * *
“Ah, Sylvan, so good to see you again. And you brought your friends!” Cecilia’s voice shimmered through Sylvan’s mind, a sound like the tinkling of bells and the rustle of the wind through the trees, mixed with the scent of spring blossoms bursting with life. And underneath it all, the sharp, bloodied edge of thorns.
Cecilia sat ensconced on a surprisingly modest throne that only with close inspection revealed its construction of precious metals and even more precious jewels studding the curving surface that wrapped around Cecilia as if it was a living beast. For all Sylvan knew, it might be. The Faerie Queen seemed to emerge from the glittering gems and swirling gold and silver filigree as if she herself was a precious jewel, her skin the pure translucency that marked the high Fae, her hair a gleaming shimmer falling around her breasts to her slender waist in golden ripples, and her green eyes, the rarest of all emeralds. She was beauty personified, and Sylvan often wondered what lay beneath her glamour. Perhaps she was even more beautiful, or something more terrifying to match her power. Sylvan never forgot that nothing in Faerie or of the Fae was as simple or true as it appeared.
“Cecilia,” Sylvan said, intentionally eschewing all her many titles, “I think you know my allies.”
Sylvan emphasized allies ever so slightly. Friends, they were indeed, but they had come with one intent—to do battle if needed. “My imperator, Niki Kroff and Rafe, of Liege Gates’s guard, and of course—”
“Torren de Brinna,” Cecilia said, sex and censure rolling through her throaty caress. “It’s been far too long since you’ve graced my court, my love.”
“Only a century or so, my Queen,” Torren said, the sarcasm imperceptible to those who didn’t know her well.
Sylvan knew her well enough to know she’d spent a century in an earthbound prison, stripped of her powers at Cecilia’s hand. But as well as she knew her, Torren was still Fae. Immortal, centuries-old, a power without reckoning and motives far more complicated than what might appear on the surface. If Torren and Cecilia were involved in some ancient Fae game, Sylvan didn’t care, as long as it didn’t impact those she was sworn to protect.
“We could have made you comfortable at the Compound,” Sylvan said, “or met with you somewhere of our joint choosing. But considering your invitation, I assumed there was some urgency to this meeting.”
Cecilia swept her gaze over Attillus and his guards, coming to rest on Attillus. Her expression was far cooler than it had been when she’d first greeted Torren. Torren had called him Consort, but as the Fae did not take partners, or mates, Cecilia undoubtedly had many lovers. Nothing showed on her face when she said, “Leave us, Attillus, and take the others.”
Attillus’s displeasure, a swirling breeze heavy with anger and surprise, raised the hair on Sylvan’s nape. Her wolf tensed, and pelt prickled her skin.
“My Queen—” Attillus protested.
“It’s quite all right,” Cecilia said, her smooth tone doing nothing to hide the steel in her voice. “Go now.”
Every Fae in the spacious chamber snapped to attention and saluted as her power flooded the air like an ocean wave. Within seconds, the audience chamber was empty. Cecilia drifted down from her throne. To say she stepped or walked would be to do an injustice to her motion. She was as ephemeral as the wind, as beautiful as a ray of sunlight slanting through the evergreens. Sylvan wondered what the others saw, if what they perceived as beautiful would be how Cecilia appeared to them. Sylvan blinked, but the glamour remained. And then, Cecilia was within touching distance of her, and Niki growled.
“Stand,” Sylvan murmured.
Cecilia leaned in and kissed Sylvan’s cheek. “It’s been far too long.”
Sylvan sighed. Cecilia’s glamour slid along her skin like a soft touch, teasing and provocative. Even had she not been mated, she would not have been tempted. Now, she was barely amused. “As I recall, at our last meeting, we didn’t exactly agree as to much of anything.”
Cecilia laughed again, the peal of the bells dancing through Sylvan’s consciousness, and her wolf perked up. Her wolf recognized the ploy too, the seduction that was second nature to the Fae. She huffed, annoyed, and settled back into wary watching.
“You needn’t have brought so much power with you.” Cecilia stepped up to Sylvan and slipped her arm through Sylvan’s, as if they were about to promenade. She turned, ignoring the others in Sylvan’s party, and Sylvan followed her down the length of the audience hall and through the arches. Instead of the marble colonnade she’d entered through, she stepped out into a verdant meadow, surrounded by more of the trees with the orange leaves and delicate fruit. A rainbow-haloed stream cascaded into a shallow pool the color of morning glories. Niki, Torren, and Rafe followed as Sylvan accompanied Cecilia along the path lined with polished opalescent stones.
“It appears,” Cecilia said, “we have a common enemy.”
“Do we,” Sylvan said.
“I’m afraid so.” Cecilia stopped beside a marble bench and settled down on it, gesturing for Sylvan to join her. She tucked her diaphanous skirts around her legs, and when she finished, her hand came to rest on Sylvan’s thigh.
Sylvan shifted just enough to break the contact, and Cecilia laughed. “Still not one to be tempted.”
“You spoke of enemies?” Sylvan said.
Celia glanced up at Torren. “You remember the Dark Lord of the South?”
“Of course,” Torren said. “The last time I saw Cethinrod, he commanded a small army and coveted your throne.”
“Not much has changed,” Cecilia said conversationally, “although now, apparently, his army includes a Sorcerer and a Master Vampire.”
<
br /> Rafe hissed. “Francesca.”
Celia nodded. “They’re cloistered somewhere in a peripheral realm, one of the old Fae knowes that’s been long abandoned and slowly disappearing. They won’t be able to stay there for long but…” She sighed, and frustration and anger tingled in the air so thickly Sylvan could taste it. “I cannot find her. The Mage—Sorcerer—whatever they are, has managed to mask them.”
“And they’re using this place,” Sylvan said carefully, “as their headquarters while they regroup and move back into the human world.”
“I think so, yes.”
Sylvan narrowed her eyes. “Why call on us with this news? What they might do in the human world doubtlessly gives you no pause.”
Cecilia smiled, a smile that offered so much more. “And that’s why you’re here, because not only are you honest and trustworthy, and oh so handsome, you’re also intelligent. They’re not just interested in what is in the human realm. They are—”
Torren interjected, “Interested in your throne.”
“As are so many,” Cecilia said, as if to throw off the threat as of little importance. But they would not be there if she wasn’t worried.
“My Queen,” Torren said, respectfully, “I would think you would be able to find them.”
“I would, under ordinary circumstances,” Cecilia said, “but my situation is unusual.”
Torren barely registered surprise with a flicker of her eyebrows. “Unusual.”
“My power has been…diverted somewhat by a greater demand.”
Torren stiffened. “There hasn’t been a royal Fae birth in millennia.”
“Apparently that is about to change.” Cecilia smiled, and a flight of doves broke from the trees above them, spiraling into the sunlight like diamonds. “So you see, now is not the time I want to go to war.”
“What is it you want from us?” Sylvan said.
“An alliance. I want the Weres and their allies to fight for me, if my throne is threatened.”
