Fae King's Temptation (Court of Bones and Ash Book 1)

by Layla Harper

  Chapter Two

  Kyra

  At 2:00 a.m., I drag my tired body to bed, shuck off my jeans, and pull the covers over my head. Every muscle throbs, my arms especially thanks to closing duty and that stupid Ramos Gin Fizz. But in the end, it was all worth it. Sandy went home early—unnoticed—and I beat Victoria and Rick at their own game. A win-win for the good guys despite the aches and pains I’m sure to feel tomorrow.

  I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face.

  An hour later, I’m startled awake.

  Victoria stumbles into our dorm room, laughing like a hyena and whipping off her party clothes on the way to bed. Miniskirt, bra, Jimmy Choos.

  “What the hell?” I clutch my pillow to my face, which only makes Victoria laugh harder.

  “We’re in the prime of our lives,” she slurs. “You’ve got to live it up, emo girl.”

  Emo girl? So I like sleep. Shoot me.

  “We should hang out more.” She pauses. A pregnant pause. Like the kind that has my nerves on edge because I know whatever she’s about to say will set my blood to boil. I hear the dull thud of a shoe hitting the carpet near the door.

  “We got off on the wrong foot, you and me, but we’ll have to remedy that. Don’t you think that’s a great idea? We’ll hang out. Get to know each other.” She collapses on the bed. “It’ll be fun. You. Me. And Rick.” She belts out another laugh that I’m sure echoes through the walls and screeches down to the other end of the building. “A threesome. Bet I can make your toes curl.”

  I clutch the pillow tighter around my face. This party girl is hell on heels. What started as a Friday-Saturday routine in September is a Thursday-Friday-Saturday-Sunday ritual in November. Complaining to my RA has gotten me nowhere. Victoria is still here, and I’m still shoving earbuds into my ears. And let me tell you, my twelve-dollar Sony’s are no match for her nails-on-Styrofoam shrieks.

  I close my eyes.

  For the next hour, I toss and turn amidst her snores, unable to sleep.

  “Goddammit,” I mutter under my breath, tossing the pillow off my head. My half-naked roommate is sprawled across the narrow twin bed opposite me, dead to the world.

  “So not fair.” I jump off the mattress and shove my legs into the black tights hanging over my desk chair, then grab my sneakers from under the bed. My hand tightens around the rubber sole. I’d love nothing more than to throw my shoe at her stupid blond head.

  Instead, I slide my feet into my sneakers, lace them up, and grab my hoodie. Sighing, I kick aside a pair of Victoria’s dirty sweats curled up in a ball and the Jimmy Choo blocking the exit. I consider slamming the door—hard—but I don’t. As tempting as the idea is, it’s not fair to the students fast asleep in nearby rooms. And Victoria would probably sleep through it anyway.

  On the bright side, if she’s stumbling in this late, maybe my boss will be hungover and not show up to work today. A girl can hope, right?

  Very few people are up at this ungodly hour. I zip up my hoodie, shove my room key into my pocket, and double-check my phone is secure inside my armband before I quietly make my way down the hall. Cold air brushes my face when I push through the doors leading outside. The temperature is cool but unusually warm for November in New England.

  I set off at an easy pace, my mind settling as I take in the beauty of the tree-lined paths. It’s one of the things I love most about Stonehill. In the summer, the college’s 375-acre campus is lush and green, and the paths circling the natural ponds on-site take my breath away. Today, a gentle breeze blows through gold-colored leaves clinging to barren branches, rustling the fallen reds and browns blanketing the lawn.

  I pick up speed, loving the feel of the air stinging my lungs, and follow the bend in the path around Ames Pond. The sky brightens as sunrise approaches. I spot another runner across campus. He and I appear to be the only two crazy people out for a morning run. I delay starting my playlist; the thump thump thump of my feet hitting the pavement fills my ears instead. My breathing is steady and strong, and my mind clears until I’ve all but forgotten my pain-in-the-ass roommate. And my boss.

  About one hundred feet ahead to my left, I spot the Doras Ring, a massive metal sculpture that’s part of the Gateway to the Past traveling exhibition. Some hotshot alum, probably Victoria’s father, pulled some pretty important strings to get the exhibition to make a pit stop here. At the art gallery inside Cushing-Martin Hall is a photo exhibit of various cairns, stone circles, standing stones, and rock carvings originating in Northwest Europe, including the UK. Several archeological pieces unearthed in the British Isles are also on display—a bronze horse, ancient weapons, a circular stone thing that looks like a plate, and pieces of gold jewelry that are attributed to the Celts.

  I find it all quite interesting, especially after reading about the different philosophies concerning the standing stone’s true purpose. Naturally, I eschew any ties to magic, Druids, or bloody sacrifices, more interested in their early governing systems than the myths and legends surrounding these artifacts. And honestly, why would these ancient people go through the expense of dragging and erecting humongous slabs of stone to kill people when they carried swords around all day? No, most likely these ancient megaliths are astronomical, used by early civilizations to mark the rising and setting of the sun and moon during the summer and winter equinoxes. And some were probably used as burial sites.

  Yet for every scientific fact I google, there are ten more claiming these relics are linked to Faerie and swathed in magic. Since the exhibition’s arrival on campus, groups of devotees have swarmed the Doras Ring. Dressed in white cloaks with weird symbols painted onto their skin, they hold hands and chant around the ring well into the night, or at least until campus police escorts them off the property.

  I shake my head, grateful they’re not out at four in the morning, impeding my run. After all these years, you would think society has evolved beyond superstition, yet these believers cling to the idea that magic exists regardless of the facts staring them in the face. Hope swells in their eyes when they stare at the ring, and it swells in the desperate pleas sung in Latin, or Gaelic, or whatever ancient tongue they embrace to awaken a primordial deity.

  To each his own, I guess. I learned a long time ago that praying is useless. I would much rather do something concrete to move my life forward than stand around a metal sculpture singing to gods that don’t exist.

  Approaching the ring, I cross to the other side of the path. The organizers set this particular piece on a stretch of lawn facing the west side of the pond and not by the pavilion outside the gallery with the other exhibits.

  Strange.

  Maybe the display is too large?

  The outer disc is at least twenty-four feet tall and just as wide, comprised of a pewter-colored substance that I assume is metal. A flimsy-looking two-pronged base sits at the bottom to support the sculpture’s weight. A second ring is positioned inside the outer band in such a way that none of the sides touch each other, and centered inside this second hoop is another smaller ring about eight feet in diameter.

  Together, all three rings form a perfectly spaced, floating concentric circle. It must weigh a ton. I pity the poor souls tasked with moving that thing off campus tomorrow.

  Upon closer inspection, I see nothing between the bands. No frames. No invisible wires. No braces.

  That’s…

  Amazing.

  Unable to take my eyes off the exhibit, I slow my pace. In a creepy way, the rings remind me of the Eye of Sauron from The Lord of the Rings, gazing out over the dark water, calling forth all the evil creatures lurking beneath the pond’s surface.

  My skin pebbles.

  Holy crap. I’ve got to stop wigging myself out.

  I grit my teeth and think about altering my normal route. I could bear left and follow the path around the woods, then cross over at the sports complex to avoid running past the damn thing altogether. But I refuse to act like a coward or let my wild imagination influence my
decisions, so I force my feet to move faster.

  Halfway past the center mark, I hear it. A soft, vibrating hum that travels over my body. Frowning, I stop, turn around, and cock my head to search for the sound’s origin.

  The center ring glows.

  Weird.

  Scanning the grass, I look for hidden wires, then raise my gaze to the sky. It’s too early for the sun’s rays to reflect off the pewter surface, and I don’t see any electrical cords attached to the base. Yet the light brightens, bouncing off the metal surface in waves.

  Where is it coming from?

  When I step closer, the hum grows insistent. Urgent. Pulsating like a beating drum. It travels from the ground, across my feet, and spreads up my legs like an invading virus.

  A shadow looms to the right of the base. I squint. The form is male, and he looks like…

  My boss?

  It can’t be.

  Oh wait, he’s probably heading to the dorm to continue last night’s festivities with my roommate.

  So why is he standing here?

  Gaze locked on me, Rick raises his arms in the air, lips moving like a preacher in the middle of a sermon.

  What the hell?

  He smiles, an evil, sinister smile that curdles the water in my stomach. And before I can form another coherent thought, before I can backtrack and do the sensible thing—run—an invisible force grips my body and clamps me in place.

  Then a flashing white light blinds me.

  Chapter Three

  Rogar

  Smoke rises from the charred abode to my right. I kick over the body of a raider, rage filling my veins. “How many breached the ward?”

  “Ten,” Gauron, my second-in-command, answers. “Nomads from Wyldeland. Goblin by the looks of what remained of the corpses.”

  Unease dampens the anger clouding my thoughts. The Throng had retreated to the Mines of Ingen Mar after the Reckoning. Given our proximity to their border, goblin raids are infrequent but expected. The decimation of an entire orc village is not.

  Gauron sniffs the air.

  I smell it too. The reek of forbidden magic.

  I resist the urge to run a hand over my face. As king, my people look to me for guidance. What they need to see this day is my anger. My resolve. My thirst for vengeance on their behalf. Not the fear our past has returned to haunt us.

  My men aid those who survived the attack into the few homes that escaped the fires. Bodies are strewn along the dirt path, limbs cleaved. The scent of charred flesh hangs thick in the humid air. Along the sidelines, the young watch my guards work, clinging to their mothers’ skirts with fearful eyes and sooty cheeks. Wails reach my ears from other parts of the village, the scene likely no different from the one laid out before me.

  Every bone in my body cries out against the atrocity.

  I clench my jaw, hard. “Gather the survivors. Bring them to the stronghold. Our people will be cared for until we can begin rebuilding their homes.”

  A villager sitting on the cobblestoned footpath bordering the road tugs my pant leg.

  I crouch and wipe the tears from her wrinkled cheek.

  “My Matuk fought bravely, my lord,” she says, her voice hoarse.

  Picturing the young warrior in my mind, I can see him standing fierce and proud, eager to fight for the clan after completing his trials.

  I pound my fist against my heart. “He died well. The Horde honors his spirit.”

  She clasps my hand tightly. “Avenge our people. Do not let my son’s death be in vain.”

  “You have my oath,” I say, bowing my head in respect for all she has lost.

  A child edges from the dark alley between the smoking structure. A boy of ten or eleven, tall, wide-shouldered, lip caught between his teeth as he bravely fights the tears shining in his eyes.

  “Come here,” I signal to him.

  Despite the terror he must feel, the youth straightens his shoulders and meets my gaze as he approaches.

  “What is your name?”

  He bows his head. “Othin.”

  “Are you alone, Othin?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Come closer.” When the boy nears me, I lower myself until I am at eye level with him. “I have an important task, one only a brave warrior can fulfill. Are you strong and courageous, Othin? Will you answer Drengskador’s call?”

  Othin kneels, bows his head, and fists his hand over his heart. “For the Horde. For Drengskador.”

  Ignoring the heaviness spreading through my chest, I nod. Unlike the majority of my people, I am cursed of royal blood. I will never sire a boy like this one, not without finding my càirdeil—my fated mate—a legacy that died along with my ancestors during the Reckoning.

  “Rise, young Othin. I proclaim you protector of House Matuk. You will assist Lady Dura to the stronghold.”

  The boy springs to his feet to assist the old woman off the stone path.

  She clasps my hand in her bony grip. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

  Gauron watches the older woman and child navigate the path to the stronghold. “He will make a fine warrior one day.”

  My throat goes tight. “That he will.”

  “My king.” A member of my guard holds a goblin by the scruff of his neck. He lifts the creature in the air, causing its feet to kick out wildly beneath him. “This one’s alive.”

  I growl at the defiance I see in the goblin’s eyes.

  Gauron holds me back. “Easy now.”

  If it were any other male touching my arm, I would kill him. However, Gauron is more than my advisor. He is my brother in all but blood, next in line to the throne of Drengskador.

  I brush his hand aside. “Worry not, old friend. My anger is under control.”

  He releases me but does not look convinced.

  “Doubting your king’s ability to lead?”

  “Of course not.” A corner of Gauron’s mouth ticks up. “Just fishing for a promotion.”

  “Ah.” We make our way to the enemy. “Is that what you call this sudden coddling?”

  “Beats polishing your boots, my lord.”

  I hide my amusement and focus on the being struggling against my guard’s restraint. Bloodied and angry, the goblin continues to fight. His clothes are torn and dirty, and his muscular body shows signs of hunger. Although his kind are strong, he is no match for my guards. At five feet tall, all of my soldiers tower over him.

  He is lucky to be alive, yet he glares at us with contempt.

  With disgust.

  We were allies once. Why the hatred? Because our race chose to diverge from our barbaric ways? I shake my head. In the three centuries I have ruled, orcs have learned to be pragmatic in our dealings with our fae neighbors. It has not been easy. The primal drive for violence is a living part of us. Even now, as I stand here, the urge to destroy thunders in my blood.

  The same bloodlust smolders in the eyes of my men.

  I ball my hands to keep from smashing my fists into the goblin’s arrogant face. Breathing deep, I scan the courtyard. For three hundred years, the four kingdoms have watched us from afar. They lie in wait, anticipating the day I succumb to the bloodlust that once ruled my ancestors. They wait for the return of a time when orcs killed and conquered, not for honor, not for the Horde, but because we were slaves to Myrkur and the forbidden magic he had used to enslave my race. They wait to finish what they were unable to accomplish during the Reckoning—the total annihilation of the Horde and all she stands for.

  I unclench my fists. For as long as I live and breathe, that day will never come to pass. Never again will an orc be enslaved by magic. Not on my watch.

  The goblin spits at my feet.

  Khao, my third-in-command and the warrior restraining the creature, releases his hold. The wretch falls to the ground.

  “What have we here?” I shove my boot into the center of the male’s chest, and push back, pressing down until his green skin pales. “A goblin in Drengskador. Will wonders never cease?
”

  “Orc swine,” the goblin yells.

  Khao’s nostrils flare. He raises his war hammer, but at the shake of my head, he lowers his arm and steps back to join the other warriors forming my guard.

  I turn my attention to the body beneath my boot. “Now, is that the way to talk to a king? What are you doing on my land? Lie to me, goblin, and you will wish you had died with your brethren.”

  A choked laugh escapes the creature’s throat. “It is you… who will die, imposter.”

  I unburden more of my weight upon his ribs until I hear the crack.

  The goblin gasps. His lungs are heaving for air. “The true”—he sputters—“king will”—another gasp—“sit on the throne.” His crazed eyes blaze. “All of Alfhemir will bow. Long live—”

  I will get nothing from this wretch.

  I unsheathe my sword and slice his throat before he can finish his treasonous sentence. Snarling, I wipe the black blood drenching my blade on his stomach, my grip around the hilt bleaching the color from my knuckles.

  Eyeing the dead goblin, Gauron crosses his arms over his chest, a muscle ticking along his jaw. “He was either deranged or we have a serious problem on our hands.”

  “What else is new?” I signal a member of my guard, Lukk, one of my fastest riders. “Notify King Tyerim of the attack on Drengskador. Trust no one, neither friend nor foe.” I gesture to the corpse. “And beware of the shadows.”

  Lukk bows and immediately mounts his warg.

  I turn to Gauron. “If the goblins mean to breed mistrust between us and the other kingdoms, then best the elves hear of the threat from me.” The blood has yet to dry on the peace treaty signed between Drengskador and the Winter Court. I will be damned if I let some deceiver destroy all I have worked to accomplish, all my people have sacrificed to behold. And if Tyerim and his winter cronies are behind this attack, then my message will be loud and clear.

  “We will have to fortify the boundary wards,” Gauron says.

  “Agreed. Send for the mage immediately. We have no time to waste.”