by Layla Harper
There is no good outcome. The only way out of this mess is if by some miracle of the ancestors the drows do not scent Kyra and then willingly exit the premises. Unlike the goblins, the Furious Army will not punish the innocent. The old code binds them to the administration of justice as deemed rightful by the queen, nothing more.
The taller of the two elves passes me, rounding my hut, noting the cedar droppings on the ground and the sharp tip of the carved wood. I catch the blur of a marking on the side of his neck, peeking below the edge of his helmet.
A tattoo?
Or a rune?
Instinct tells me it is more. A fons virtuitis. A rare rune rumored to replenish a mage’s power. Like the norns, when heavily expended, a war mage’s magic depletes. Only time and rest can restore him or her to their natural state.
Unless runed.
He is the one.
My hand clenches.
The second elf kicks my boot, gesturing for me to move with a hand.
I stand aside and give him access to the hut, keeping my hands visible. This elf’s skin appears free of markings, and from the wind he’s called into the hut, I can safely rule out summer as his court of origin. This leaves spring, autumn, or winter.
Now to discover which.
I reach for the cedar branch. Before I can straighten my back, the elf’s fingers are clasped around my wrist in a crushing hold.
Brown eyes.
I release my grip, the cedar falling, and because the maneuver gained me the outcome I desired, I avert my eyes.
“Stoking the fire.” My brows arch to the flame.
I feel the heat of his gaze slide over my face. Only the thought of Kyra’s escape keeps the growl locked in my throat. Clawing at the chains binding him, the predatory beast inside me howls and demands justice, horrified at the submissive pose I present to the brown-eyed autumn creature he wants to break in half with his teeth.
The elf shoves me and throws the cedar to the side, missing the fire, then steps around my hunched frame to continue his inspection of the next hut.
Furtively, I search the bodies moving along the field until I find the mage. Despite inroads made to overcome the hatred of the past, no blooded summer elf worth his mettle would partner to fight alongside a member of either the autumn or winter courts. I would bet my best dagger that this one also hails from autumn.
Thank the ancestors.
I reach out to Rowena, then Aelinor, imparting what I discovered as carefully as possible. Lithyrians amble about to the sidelines, tension thrumming in their limbs as the riders continue their inspection. The war mage is within my sights. I keep low, becoming less, never making direct eye contact yet aware of his every move. I need to be within range the moment this all goes south.
More drows infiltrate the camp, their objective clear. Their ability to differentiate smells is second to ours. I pray the smoke diffused Kyra’s precious essence, but I am not a male to hold out for hope.
Time passes, and slowly the drows make their way to the front of the courtyard. Several traverse the cloaked building. The air thickens, strangling breaths and stiffening limbs. My hand itches for the weight of the sword at my back. The battle is close.
I can smell it.
In her orc disguise, Rowena stirs a spoon in a large cauldron, spices scenting the air. But she is anything but relaxed. Signals pass from her to Gerd to the faun I recognized earlier.
Near the manor’s entrance, a drow goes stiff. His chin lifts. His chest rises. Holds.
Adrenaline fires my blood, the liquid racing through my veins in a loud whoosh.
I wait.
And watch.
When the drow’s chest deflates, his chin dips. His head turns left, gaze sweeping across the expanse with a distinct target in mind.
Sword in hand, I am charging before the drow can connect to the mage. The element of surprise is on my side. Leaping, I thrust my sword through the mage’s neck, the blade sliding between the unguarded space between helmet and armor. My body crashes into his, knocking us both onto the hard terrain.
He whispers a gurgled word.
Pain explodes through my organs, my limbs, searing through layers of skin and muscle and cartilage. With a cry, I saw my blade through flesh and bone and tendon until the light in his autumn eyes wanes and the pain racking my body subsides.
Breathing hard, I shove off the dead mage, jump to my feet, and wipe the sweat dripping into my eyes. Chaos erupts all around, the courtyard a blur of bodies, sounds, drows, boars, and the roar of two leonine beasts.
“Gray. I need you.”
Aelinor strains under the force of her magic. From beneath the turf, roots tear through dirt and grass, snaking through the air to wrap around the neck of one massive lion. A Lithyrian loses his life to the jaws of the second. The faun leaps, swinging dual swords in a dire clash against two drows. And holding hands in the center of the courtyard, Orc-Rowena and a nymph I believe is Sersha chant while three drows fall to their knees, screaming in terror.
We are in the thick of battle when the ground shakes. The sound of approaching hooves rings in my ears.
Suns above, what now?
Gray narrowly misses being impaled by the tusks of a loose boar. I spin to confront my next foe, the fight fierce, but my attention jumps beyond the male whose life draws to a close and settles on the uncloaked building whose doors are being rammed by the elf and the two night court hunters.
Kyra.
I must get to her.
Two days’ worth of suppressed rage erupts. My transformation to my warrior form is instantaneous and blindingly painful, but I funnel that agony into one goal.
Clearing a path to Kyra.
Out of nowhere, a horn sounds. I pause, momentarily shocked to see the blue-and-gold banner of the approaching army.
My heart seizes in my chest.
Winter has arrived.
If they join the Furious Army, we are lost. Any chance of surviving this bloodfest, gone.
Princess Daenestra jumps from her horse and cleaves through two soldiers. “King Rogar,” she yells over an armored shoulder. Ducking, she thrusts her sword into the belly of a bewildered drow. “Seems we have arrived in time to save your arse. My sister will be pleased.”
Chapter Ten
Kyra
The floor shudders. The force of the thunderous blows against the door sends shock waves through the walls, rattling dust and debris from the ceiling to the floor. It’s only a matter of time before Ilearis’s wards fail and the Furious Army barges into an empty room.
When the illusion dropped, the children were ushered into a chamber built beneath the tower. It’s where they’re hiding, clustered in a dark and dank underground room, awaiting the order to scramble into the tunnel connecting this building to the Forest of Night.
Turns out this isn’t the first time the disavowed have been driven off their land. The only difference between then and now?
Me.
And the Wild Hunt.
I’ve never felt more helpless in all my life than I do at this moment, standing alone in a stone room, inhuman cries filtering around me like ghosts, under the watchful eye of an orc who’d like nothing more than to run through the door to defend his king.
Another howl shatters the silence.
“They’re dying out there.” I move across the floor.
Gauron grabs my arm.
“It’s me they want. I can end this.”
“There is no ending this. They’ve scented you. They know what you are. Where you are.”
I yank my arm. “And they’re slaughtering everyone in the process to get to me. Let me turn myself in. I can stop this.”
He stabs his fingers in his hair. “Whether you martyr yourself or not, the outcome is the same. The law is clear.”
The law?
“I don’t know your laws, remember?” I point to my face and raise my brows. “Human?”
His hand drops from his head to his hip. “Harboring an out
law is an act of treason. Unless the squad is neutralized—and by neutralized, I mean every last soldier killed—we’ll be arrested and hanged.”
My mouth drops. “A death sentence?” The words swell with significance. “You knew this and still came?” I stumble back. “God. Oh God. The kids.” I search his face. “They won’t hang the kids, right?”
He doesn’t respond, the answer evident in his clenching jaw and the utter venom piercing his amber eyes.
My hand clamps over my mouth.
How can this be happening?
I stumble until my back hits the wall. Bile rushes up my throat. “Why didn’t he tell me? So even if I manage to run away, the army will still…”
I see the little violet-eyed girl’s face and instinctively squeeze my eyes shut to force the atrocity from my mind. My throat burns. Shaking my head, I answer my own question, the words tasting bitter. “None of it matters because of the scent. Even if they don’t see me, they know. They already know. And they’ll track everyone else.”
The fire in my throat morphs into hot lava. My eyes settle on the weapons hung on the opposite wall. I run, grab the bow with one hand, the quiver in the other, and charge up the narrow stairs.
“Kyra,” Gauron calls after me.
“Tell them to run. They should have left already.” I huff in between words, Gauron’s footsteps fast behind me. “If they leave now, they’ll have a running chance.” Maybe the mist can hide them in the forest.
My elbows scrape against the tight walls. Reaching the top, I get five feet in before Gauron grabs my arm and whirls me around. “Where do you think you’re going? We need to be ready to escape as soon as the order comes through. Do you understand me?”
“I’m not going to sit around and let those assholes kill innocent children. They know I’m here. Illusion or no illusion.” I wrench the amulet off. “I can’t undo my scent. I can’t change what I am.” My eyes take in the small room. Thick panes of glass cover the windows lining the far wall. “But I can help. That, I can do.”
He releases my arm and takes a jerky step aside.
I shove the amulet in my pocket and make my way to the windows, jogging along the wall until I spot the one with the best view to the courtyard. The glass is secure and as thick as it looks. To be able to shoot from this distance, I need to break it.
Gauron shoulders me aside, then shoves his fist through, blood smearing his knuckles. He uses the hilt of his sword to remove the sharp bits until the window is cleared.
“Don’t spear my king,” he says gruffly.
What am I doing?
Yeah, I can shoot, but I’m no expert archer. I got lucky before in the forest. This… this could get tricky.
Feeling his gaze on my face, I glance up and nod. “I’ll try not to.”
The scene below is gruesome. I can’t distinguish who is who from the constant rush of movement. A massive catlike creature is wrapped in fibrous vines. I’ll bet that’s Aelinor’s doing, but where is she? Her silver-blond hair is AWOL. A bloody Gray launches into the side of an attacking boar. An elven woman battles a drow dressed in black armor, her movements graceful and deadly, her shiny ice-blue armor a sharp contrast to the obsidian the drow wears.
“Who is that?”
The female pivots and swings her massive sword, the blade slicing through the drow’s neck. Gasping, I jerk away from the window, the fae berries threatening to make a reappearance.
Gauron leans over my shoulder and peers outside. The grimness in his expression slowly changes to confusion, then hope. “Princess Daenestra of winter.”
“Winter?” The same hope springs to life in my voice. “They’re fighting for us?”
“It would appear so. The Furious Army bears the black armor. Your arrows will not pierce it.”
Okay. That makes sense.
I focus on the soldiers. They’re heavily shielded. I bite my lip and consider my options.
“Can you strike the hands or knees? It would be a difficult shot, yes?”
Yeah. Really difficult considering all the moving parts involved. “I can hit center mass pretty well, but…”
As if he can sense my need to assuage some of the guilt, he points to the wild boar ramming its head against the curtain wall. “Take out the animals. They can’t return to the Hunt riderless. Can you do that?”
Squinting at the other boar thrashing his tusks at Gray, I say, “Yeah, I can do that.”
I pull up to the window, get into position, and let the first arrow fly.
* * *
Hours later, the slaughter comes to an end. I’d run out of arrows shortly after I started shooting, but I couldn’t leave, so I remain glued to the window, staring out into the courtyard, willing our side to survive while sneaking in the occasional petition to ensure all our bases are covered. I’m not one who prays, but if there’s the slightest chance a fae god is listening, then please, please, please, let Rogar, Aelinor, and the Lithyrians walk off that field alive.
And free.
I see tons of ice-blue armor but not many disavowed. Rowena—at least I think it’s her based on the gauzy blue dress stained with blood—bends over someone who’s stationary on the ground. Black-armored bodies litter the once green grass. As my gaze darts from one pair of feet to another, my feelings volley between relief and guilt with each “Not Rogar, not Rogar, not Rogar,” I whisper.
Leaning over the sill, I slide my hands along the stone wall on either side of the broken window, using it to support my weight as I inspect the courtyard closest to this part of the building.
My heart stutters.
Rogar stands directly below my window, drilling me with an “If you die now, I’ll kill you myself” vibe.
My feet beat a path to the stairs before my brain catches up. When I reach the first floor, I jump out of the way. The Lithyrian children file into the big room, some joining friends already seated on the floor while others loiter near the hatch to the underground chamber. I can’t fault their vigilance. I’d be ready to bolt too.
The double doors open wide. And there he is. Bigger than I remember. Hands clawed. Fangs visible. In whatever form he takes, my body reacts the same way it always does. My breath stalls, my heart flutters in my chest, and my nerve endings zing to life.
The wild look in his eyes shoves me back a step or two.
And then he’s moving across the floor like a freight train.
I should be scared. I should honest to God be running out the door, but my knees give out. He scoops me in his arms and holds me tight against his chest, dashing up the stairs soundlessly. One floor. Two. Three.
Shit, there’s a fourth?
An addictive scent wafts off his skin. I curl my fingers into his tunic and inhale. The logical part of my brain knows there’s something wrong. He spent the last three hours in a fight to the death. He’s covered in gore. He should stink. I should be repulsed, not suddenly high on whatever fragrance I’m sniffing like an addict.
Mid mind ramble, Rogar sets me down.
Coming out of the fog, I look into those glowing crimson eyes and say the only thing I can. “I was so scared you wouldn’t come back.”
A growl rumbles from his chest.
His eyes flash brighter. Really bright. Like demon in the night bright.
Oh shit.
There’s a green tinge to his skin, and of all the things that should be going through my mind, what twists its way to the forefront is “Holy crap! The Incredible Hulk is an orc.”
Rogar prowls forward, one giant step after another, his big body herding me until hard stone presses against my back. One clawed hand braces the wall above my shoulder, then the other, boxing me in between thick, ropey arms. He dips his head and fits his nose into the side of my neck. The spot where my carotid artery performs an out-of-this-world gymnastic feat. He inhales slowly, his erection pressing against my stomach.
I moan.
God, do I moan.
My fingers dig into his arms. Air rushes in
and out of my mouth. I’m wet. So freaking wet.
He swallows and then sucks in a breath, followed by another and another, the frequency mirroring my own labored breathing.
Can you die from sexual overstimulation?
Because I’m on the verge. So on the verge.
“Are you okay?” The words come out strangled and hoarse, my tongue clicking from the Sahara that is my mouth.
Rogar doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t do anything but inhale my scent, his hot breath licking my skin.
When he finally pulls away, I notice he’s shifted back into his normal form. He straightens but we’re still touching. Chest to chest, one massive shoulder corralling me into place. Rogar’s right hand drops from the wall and finds my cheek, eyes dropping to follow the path his fingers trace against my skin.
He leans in.
Holy freaking suck the air out of my lungs right now.
“You did well, female,” he says softly. “You did well.”
He caresses my cheek for what feels like an eternity, stroking the fire in my core to an all-time high. How can something so sweet feel so good? So hot. I’m about to internally combust when he stops.
I open my eyes.
He’s gone.
What the hell just happened?
“Wait,” I yell, running after him. “Come back.” He’s at the stairwell, his back to me. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you hurt? Are you okay?” I don’t wait for him to reply, just guide his arm until he’s facing me. He’s covered in blood, but there’s more. Gouges, scrapes, lacerations, and puncture wounds. Some still bleed whereas others have begun healing.
My eyes tear. Yes, he’s a supernatural, but the amount of trauma he endured…
“I must tend to the dead. And the injured.”
“Let me help—”
