by Layla Harper
My body fires to life. Caught in his allure, I can’t help but stare while a small voice in my head questions my visceral reaction.
Is it him?
Or something else?
I mean, every freaking inch of that rock-hard body is divine, gorgeous, and definitely drool-worthy, but I’ve never been the kind of girl to lose my mind over a guy. What if this pull I feel toward Rogar isn’t real? What if this place, with its magic and history and mystical beings, is playing with my head?
The latter scares me. I believe Rogar when he tells me he’ll protect me. I believe him when says he’ll keep me safe.
That’s not like me.
And since I’m on a roll in the self-realization department, I might as well admit I could easily lose myself in him. In this world. In little fae kids who remind me so much of myself. In the idea that one human woman can help mend the wrongs stymieing from the abuse my race suffered on this alien plane. Imagine being able to freely study the structure and theory of fae government and their many courts?
It’s a political scientist’s dream.
But then again, this could be part and parcel of Alfhemir’s voodoo. Let’s face it, eventually the novelty would wear off, and my fae friends would grow tired of my human fragility. And then one day, I’d stumble out of this realm to discover a hundred Earth years have passed, leaving me completely alone, without a foothold in either world.
That’s reality for you. Emotions make you stupid. Haven’t I learned anything in twenty-two years?
Something catches Rogar’s nose. He pivots left, red gaze clashing with mine. With each purposeful step he takes toward me, the world falls to the wayside, logic goes blind, my heart pounds, and my doubts quiet.
I swallow and pull my cloak tighter around my body. Be cool. Act normal. Try not to fixate on the spark of heat flaring in those panty-melting eyes. “You’re alive,” I say all nonchalant. “That’s a good sign.”
He grunts. His hand finds my lower back, spreading warmth upon contact. He appraises Gauron, Sersha, then scours the field one last time before lowering his head. “I will speak to Gauron.” His lips are close, close enough that his breath tickles the side of my neck. “Stay here.”
I couldn’t move if I wanted to.
He tips his head for Gauron to follow, gently touching Gray’s muzzle when they pass.
Sersha snickers and leaves, telling Gerd to watch “our guest” before disappearing into the building.
I lean a shoulder against the stone wall, doing my best to eavesdrop. Heads drawn together, the two orcs really are a sight to behold, one that has every Lithyrian caught in their thrall.
Rogar’s voice rumbles like a purr, fading in the wind. I can’t make out a single word. Not that I have the brain juice to concentrate. I’m far too busy being mesmerized by the bulging biceps stretching his sleeves. My gaze rolls over impressive traps, appreciating inch after inch of hard and honed muscle before stalling over a sculpted, godlike ass.
I bite the inside of my cheek and tilt my head, my body temperature spiking a degree or two despite the cool sea breeze. Yep, the evidence definitely points to my raging hormones as the culprit behind my out-of-control libido. Not magic.
“Virile, aren’t they?”
I jump.
Rowena smiles at me conspiratorially.
Sheesh, I hadn’t even heard her approach.
“An orc in his prime is a sight to behold. It is nothing to be ashamed of. If I were a youngling such as you, I would be enjoying that male all hours of the day and night.” She cocks her head, unabashedly checking Rogar out.
Territorial me wants to gouge out her black eyeballs.
“What?” she says innocently. “Tell me you have not thought about it.”
“Whether I have or haven’t is none of your business.”
Flicking her fingers in the air, she says, “Do not let the interspecies thing worry you.” She edges closer and drops her voice. “Reliable sources tell me you two are very, very, very compatible. Trust me.”
Now my mind is totally in the gutter remembering just how compatible.
Ugh.
“Shouldn’t you be slaying people with your illusions? Or have you filled your blackmail quota for the day? And so soon,” I say sweetly.
She laughs, the melodious sound floating in the air, echoing across the field. “Yes, yes. You are exactly what he needs.”
Before I can shut down this conversation, a horn blares. The two guards at the tower yell. Commotion explodes across the camp.
Rowena sighs. “Well, it would appear winter has arrived.”
Chapter Nine
Rogar
“Drows,” the tower guard yells.
Jatta.
I grab Gauron’s arm. “Take Kyra and find shelter.”
His face reddens, the affront clear.
Gauron is, and always has been, my shield. And now I have removed him from battle to protect a human he suspects is my mate. “My friend, I trust no one with her but you. Speak no further of the wizard. To anyone,” I remind him.
He grunts and stalks over to where Kyra stands beside Rowena, fear bleaching the color from her skin.
“Quietly,” the norn commands, hastening the orderly lines of children moving toward us. Behind me, a building materializes, the illusion dropping like a curtain before my eyes.
“Hurry now.” The third norn with hair as dark as Kyra’s waves the Lithyrians through the opened door. “Take your places. You know what to do.”
“We have adequate weapons, but as you can see”—Rowena fans out a hand to the dozen or so fae left behind—“not enough able-bodied soldiers to wield them. Will you fight for Lithyr, King Rogar?”
What choice do I have? To save my mate, I will cleave through every last drow until my wrath soaks this field in their blood. “You know my answer.”
She considers me, then nods. “Good. We do not have much time. Come with me.”
“Hide until you are called,” I tell Gray through our link. I cannot take any chances. The sight of my warg could reveal my identity to the drows.
He obeys, ambling around the exposed side of the manor until he is out of sight.
Kyra shrugs away from Gauron’s attempts to steer her into the building with the others. “I’m not going anywhere until these kids are safe.” She charges at Rowena. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
“With our illusions weakened, your scent is our greatest liability. Do as your king commands. Inside the tower without delay.”
“Of course,” she replies, defeated. “I… I wasn’t thinking.”
I touch her chin. “Gauron will stay with you. Do not fear.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
“No, it is not.” Her gentle heart frets over the bleak-faced younglings striding into a decrepit tower with downturned mouths. “Put as much distance as you can between yourself and the courtyard.”
“I’ll do what I can. Be careful.” Without another word, she evaporates into the crowd.
I stop Gauron before he follows her in. “If the ancestors call me, promise me you will guard her until she is returned safely to the human plane.”
“You? The spirits will cast your ugly arse out of the Otherworld and back into this cursed realm.”
“Gauron, promise me.” My tone is rough and insistent, but I must have his word. At this moment, nothing is more important than knowing Kyra will survive whatever outcome befalls me.
He goes quiet, and when his eyes lift to mine, I see centuries of friendship and loyalty reflected in the depths of his amber gaze. “My life for hers. My vow, my king.”
Relief clogs my throat to the point that I cannot speak. I nod stiffly, and we clasp hands. With one last look, Gauron departs to protect the female who, with each passing day, means more to me than the air I breathe.
Fingering the potion bottle in my pocket, I bark, “Where’s my shaman, norn?” Aelinor’s magic along with her prowess in battle are tools we ca
nnot afford to waste.
Sersha, the white-haired norn, passes Rowena a cluster of dried twigs and grasses, a tuft of salvia smoking in her other hand.
Behind her, a scowling Aelinor emerges from the manor, her lithe body wrapped in a peasant’s cloak. A hunter’s cap hides her lustrous locks and elven ears. She hands me the sword in her grip. “It’s nowhere near your preference, my king, but it’ll do.”
I grunt in thanks and sheathe the sword.
As we follow Rowena to the nearest hut, one of the guards, a hooved lesser, reaches her. She dips one of the stalks in the flame, and once it begins to smoke, she hands it to Aelinor. “Make yourself useful, shaman. What is it, Atraneous?”
The faun tips his head. “They are soon upon us, my lady. Your orders?”
“Give them the usual greeting.” Rowena strides with purpose to the next hut, the guard keeping pace beside her. “State your business, blah, blah, blah, and then wait for my command before opening the gates. Do not engage them.”
“As you wish.” The guard nods and hurries back to the watchtower.
Around me, the remaining Lithyrians, males and females alike, move into the huts left vacant by their compatriots hidden inside the building now recloaked by illusion.
“You will find weapons hidden in each shanty,” Rowena says, stooping to stroke the nearest fire with one of the dried stalks in her hand. “Knives, mainly. A few swords. What we managed to bring with us from Lithyr.” Once satisfied, she breaks the stem in half, drops the scorched piece into the flame, and moves on to the next refuge.
The fragrant smoke reaches my nose.
“If we had a wind mage, this would not be necessary.” She hurries to the campfire and repeats the same routine. “What do you know of the slave mark?”
“Very little, I admit.” I catch sight of Aelinor and Sersha smoking the areas closest to the manor where Kyra’s scent is strongest. “I know it triggered the Hunt and binds the human to me.”
“The breach triggered the Hunt, not the slave mark.” She smirks at my expression. “Did not know that, did you? All magic, especially dark magic, has a unique signature. Your ancestors knew this. They were quite clever, as smugglers are wrought to be.”
“Your point?”
She kicks dirt into the next fire, the hut empty. “Court enforcers used detection spells to track down slaves, but a skilled mage could skirt the issue. Your ancestors, being the resourceful pirates they were, paid handsomely to embed a bit of cloaking magic into the brand. To detect the slave mark, the Furious Army must be within a certain range of your human.”
“How close?”
She shrugs. “This I do not know.”
“Will Waur lead the Wild Hunt?” Waur, the high queen’s general and advisor, is—was?—the most feared and venerated warrior in all of fae history. When I had served in the high queen’s army quelling the rebellion, tales of his heroics during the Reckoning, where he single-handedly led the Furious Army’s victorious charge against Myrkur and his shadow lords, drove our marches and filled our spirits with tenacity and valor.
Yet, in all that time, I never once laid eyes on the esteemed general.
Nor has anyone I know.
Holding on to a branch, Rowena shoves the remaining stalks beneath the bedding tucked away in the last hut. Her brows pull taut. “In recent years, there has been very little spoken of Waur, or the Hunt.”
Voices carry from the guard tower.
“Our time draws to a close.” My muscles bunch, anxious to face my destiny. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“There will be a war mage in their company.” She catches a signal from the tower and nods. Two fae at the gates begin hoisting the chains, lifting the heavy grate from the ground.
Rowena pulls an amulet from her pocket and fits the cord around her neck. She dips the pendant inside her dress as her form morphs to that of a female orc. She smiles. Her wide lips slip over sharp fangs, her red locks turn a stain lighter than my own shade, and her pale ivory skin becomes gray.
“I’m beautiful, am I not?” she says with a wink. “Admit it. I have taken your breath away.”
I do not know what to say in response to such an outrageous remark.
Running a hand over her gauzy skirts, she scans the courtyard, her usual confidence dissipating in the face of the widening gate. I sense her uncertainty. She has cause for alarm. We all do. If Kyra or the wizard girl is discovered, we will be charged with high treason against the united fae courts of Alfhemir.
That is if we survive capture.
She flicks her wrist at me. “Go. Blend in with the denizens and try to make yourself, well”—her fingers flutter midair—“less.”
Beneath the chorus of groaning and squeaking chains, I make my way to an empty hut to figure out what “less” means.
“How do you plan to get us out of this one, my king?” Aelinor lowers herself to the ground and digs her fingers into the dirt by my feet. Using magic, she draws the terrain away, a small puddle of water bubbling to the surface. Scooping a bit of the mud, she rubs a thin layer over her exposed skin.
My lips twitch.
“Don’t.” She narrows her eyes and points a slim finger. “Not a word to Gauron. I plan on jumping into the nearest pond the minute we’ve slain these drows.”
“Then let us hope the ancestors take pity upon you.” The gates are nearly open. The massive tusks of a wild boar glimmer beneath the reflective rays of our dual suns. “Take the front. I will defend the rear.”
“For the Horde.” Aelinor clamps a fist over her heart.
My skin tingles in anticipation of the coming battle. “For the Horde.”
I lower myself onto the bench, the fire’s heat wafting to my face. With dagger in hand, I drag the blade against the grain, small pieces of the cedar’s bark falling to the ground between my feet. From this angle, I have purview of the gates and the entrance to the invisible building. I rub the scented wood over my tunic and hands, then begin the work of whittling the wood, my attention focused on the gate.
Rowena waits a safe distance from the entrance. To her left, Gerd stacks thick logs against the curtain wall. The effort serves no purpose, at least none that I can determine, unless…
Behind him, Aelinor and two other fae drive nails into a framed wall. Perhaps the troll pretends to assist in the edifice’s construction? Although, with his brute size and strength, he could easily wield the logs like a bat, turning a seemingly harmless object into a deadly weapon. And if that is the case, I sincerely hope I survive to commend him on a job well done.
Three riders enter the premises.
The hammering ceases. The slow scrape of my dagger drags against the wood, sounding in the tense silence. Several Lithyrians move to reposition their hidden weapons.
The leader, an older drow male astride a wild boar, slows and takes measure of the courtyard with shrewd, practiced eyes. His two companions, dark-skinned hunters with stout brows and the wraithlike form of the night court, flank him on either side upon leonine beasts capable of clawing half the fae here in one sharp swipe.
My hand falters over the wood.
The remaining squad members hold to their positions outside the gate. I cannot see how many in total, but the count exceeds ten. Already they outnumber our fifteen.
And that does not include their animals.
Jatta.
“Once was not enough for you?” Rowena bellows, angrily waving a hand around her. She is posturing, buying us time. The Lithyrians cease their actions. A few grip weapons behind their backs. “I suppose we have a body or two left for slaughter.”
The riders exchange a look.
The leader dismounts. “Are you accusing the Furious Army, the agents of the Wild Hunt, of purporting unnecessary destruction to your borough?”
“Accusing? No, no, there’s no accusing. There is only fact. Goblins rode under the banner of the Wild Hunt in search of a human they claim escaped into our realm, and when they did no
t find what they were looking for, they set fire to the village. Destroyed our homes. Our markets. Our places of worship. I am not accusing the Furious Army of anything. I am merely recounting your actions. So I ask again, are you back for more?”
The drow’s eyes tunnel into Rowena. “No unit of ours destroyed your borough, but since you’ve already opened yourself to inspection once, you won’t mind being searched again. Only this time, the consequences may be less pleasant.”
Judgment swathed in threat.
The insult is not lost upon a single Lithyrian, who now bend to their leader in anticipation of the silent command to fight.
More riders enter the fray, all male, their animals left with the other soldiers. A group of six drows splits off to the left, followed by four more to the right. A pair of elves strides to the center of the courtyard. With their eyes hidden behind the standard army helmet, I cannot tell from which court they hail. By the ancestors, let it be any court but summer. Fire from one elf is bad, but two? That elevates the stakes to a level I do not want to consider.
Astride a number of different mounts yet united in the black armor common to them all, the remainder of the drow’s squad sits in silence beyond the gate. Somehow, we must lure them inside. Rider. Beast. All must be sealed within these walls. None can escape. A feat I cannot yet wrap my mind around.
I drop the wood to the ground. My gut tells me this is a reconnaissance squad, and what Rowena divulged earlier only confirms my hunch. The detection spell must be implemented within close range. Any good general would send out smaller units to cover more ground, thus triangulating a possible location.
Who amongst them is the war mage?
He will be the first to meet my blade. If not, we risk him communicating his findings—our guilt—to his commanding officer.
With discretion, I search the warriors. Identical uniforms. Identical helmets. Different mounts. Different weapons. The magic would make him stronger. He would be wiser. More alert. More dexterous. More attuned to his surroundings.
The leader and the two night court hunters watch the army work from the courtyard’s entrance. Could the mage be one of the elves? He’d already have access to magic, and if he hailed from summer or winter, stronger elemental magic. Both spring and autumn take from the other two courts, carrying the ability to wield all four elements. The only downside is diminished strength, which they more than make up for with the capacity to draw on four elements instead of one.
