by Box Set
“Did any of them come out alive? I haven’t seen a single one …”
Oh no oh no oh no. This can’t be happening. How many people are dead? Where is Tora? Ryn? Flint? Where are all the people I care about?
A blinding flash of white light fills the wrecked clearing. I throw my hand across my eyes until the light diminishes. When I look again, I see the Seelie Queen dressed in silver armor, stalking across the rubble. “WHAT is going on here?” she shrieks.
“My lady.” One of her guards runs after her. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous. There might be—”
“I want to know what is going on,” she shouts. She stops and circles on the spot, staring down at the guardians who have come forward to kneel before her. “I want to know how this Guild could be stupid enough to call a meeting of almost every Council member from every Guild and then get itself blown up.”
Cold laughter greets her words. I look for the source of the sound and see a woman sauntering toward the Queen. A shiver passes through my body as I recognize her.
Angelica.
No longer wailing and desperate. No longer trapped in the center of her own labyrinth. She holds her head high, looking down on everyone as she swishes her long black and silver hair over her shoulder. And in that instant, I realize why I thought the Seelie Queen looked so familiar when I met her.
“Hello, Mother,” Angelica says as she comes to a halt. “Did you miss me?”
Mother.
“Like I’d miss an ugly spot on a white gown,” the Queen sneers. “And do not call me ‘mother.’ You are not my child.”
Whispers of ‘runaway daughter’ surround me as people realize what’s going on. The Queen’s guards point their weapons at Angelica, but none of them make a move. I suppose hurting a Seelie princess doesn’t exactly come naturally to them.
“Not your child?” Angelica repeats. “I suppose it’s hardly surprising, then, that I was far happier at the Guild than I ever was at your stuffy palace.” The Queen’s eyebrows twitch a fraction. “Oh, didn’t you know?” Angelica asks, her voice full of exaggerated surprise. “How shocking. I spent over a decade at the Creepy Hollow Guild, and you didn’t even know about it.”
“They obviously managed to teach you nothing,” the Queen spits, “since you appear to be consorting with the enemy now. What are you doing with the Unseelie Court?”
Angelica lets out an exaggerated sigh. “You see, Mother, this actually has nothing to do with the Unseelie Court. It has everything to do with my son.”
Confusion and anger war in the Queen’s eyes.
“That’s right,” Angelica says. “Your grandson. A prince of the Seelie Court—”
“A traitor just like you,” the Queen growls.
“Your own flesh and blood! He is in possession of the lost halfling Tharros’ power, and there is no one in the world who can defeat him now. He is the one who will strip you of everything you have. The Unseelie Palace lies in ruin, and the Seelie Palace is being destroyed as we speak. The Guilds are all under attack. When daylight breaks, there will be no difference between Seelie and Unseelie. There will be only those who are for my son and those who are against him.”
Nate. What have you done?
“And as for how this Guild could be stupid enough to get itself blown up,” Angelica continues. “One of your guardians very kindly sent an enchanted bomb device into the Council meeting. And that same guardian then told us the meeting was taking place tonight. It was all very easy after that.”
Is she talking about me? No. Please, no. Please don’t let all of this be my fault. How will I ever face anyone again?
My eyes comb the clearing in desperation. I still don’t see Ryn or Tora. I have to find them. I can’t think about all this damage and destruction. I can’t think about how it’s all my fault.
Find them.
My stylus is still clutched in my hand. I bend forward and write on the ground. I slip into the darkness just as the first rain drops begin to fall. I head to the gargan tree first. Perhaps Ryn is there waiting for me. Perhaps that part of the forest is still and quiet and has no idea what’s happening in the distance.
But something is wrong. When I exit the faerie paths, I find myself falling through the air. A scream escapes me as I attempt to open another path in the moving air. I can’t. I drop toward the ground, managing to slow my fall at the last second. I hover above the ground for a moment before dropping the last few inches of the way. I push myself up and spring to my feet.
Destruction.
The gargan tree—one of the most ancient and majestic trees in the whole forest—has fallen. It’s burned and smoking and fallen. It took most of the surrounding trees down with it. Everything is dead here.
Dead.
Nate did this. He destroyed my most favorite place in the whole of Creepy Hollow. I clench my fists and let out a wordless scream. On and on and on until I have no breath left. “How could you do this?” I shriek into the slowly pattering rain. “I hate you!”
Tears join the raindrops trickling down my face. I run through the faerie paths to Ryn’s home. What I find there makes my tears fall faster. It’s destroyed, torn open, just like the other faerie homes I can see through the broken trees as I twist to look around me. I search through the wreckage, but there’s no one here.
I go to Tora’s home, and I’m greeted by the same sight. And again, no one here.
The only place left to go is my own house. Maybe Ryn and Tora went there to look for me. And Filigree! I have to rescue Filigree!
I prepare myself for destruction, but the sight of my ruined home is still enough to make me feel like something has just been ripped from my chest. Nausea invades my stomach.
My home is gone.
“Ryn!” I shout. “Tora! Filigree!” There’s no answer.
I climb over the mess that was my kitchen. The table no longer has any legs, and I’m about to step over it when I notice a sharp knife embedded in its surface. The knife is holding a piece of paper to the table. A folded piece of paper.
My blood burns like fire as fury courses through me. Was it not enough for Nate—Draven—to rip my whole world away from me? Did he also have to leave a damn note rubbing it in my face?
I yank the knife out of the table and unfold the paper. My heart almost stops at the sight of Ryn’s handwriting—and then it breaks all over again as I read his words. There are a lot of them, but I can only focus on one sentence: Don’t try to find me. I squeeze tears from my eyes as I shove the note into my pocket. “You promised you wouldn’t leave,” I whisper. “You promised.”
It’s then that I hear a faint voice. Tora. Calling my name. I swivel around, searching desperately. “Tora?” I call. I hear her voice again. I jump off the ruins and run around the side of the mess. There she is, pinned down by a tree that landed across her abdomen. A tree with splintered branches and bark and—oh, dear Seelie Queen, I don’t even want to look at the damage because I know instinctively that it’s too much for even a faerie to recover from.
“Tora!” I run to her side and take hold of her hand. “Oh crap oh crap oh crap.” I have to try and heal her. Even if my brain tells me it isn’t possible, I still have to try. “I can move the tree,” I say, getting ready to lift it with magic.
“No.” She touches my arm to stop me. “It won’t help. My magic,” she gasps. “It isn’t … strong enough to …”
It isn’t strong enough to heal her. That’s what she wants to say. But I have magic that can heal her, I realize. The eternity necklace. If she wears it she can’t die, right? I climb the rubble of my house faster than anything I’ve ever climbed before. I find my bed. My bedside table. The drawer has been knocked out and is lying next to splinters of my desk. I search through the contents for the eternity necklace.
It’s gone.
“No!” I shout. Why is it gone? It was here when I left, less than an hour ago. I search all around the drawer, but there’s no necklace to be found anywh
ere.
I run back down to Tora. I lift the top half of her body and hold her on my lap, letting my magic seep into her wherever our skin is touching. “Please don’t die,” I sob. “Please don’t die, please don’t die.”
“Are my legs … still there?” she manages to ask. “I can’t … feel …”
I lean over her and let my tears fall onto her chest. “I’m so sorry, Tora. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
“Remember … I …” Her words die on her lips as life vanishes from her eyes.
I clutch her hands tightly, desperately. I can’t breathe. Where is the air? Why can’t I breathe? Bright spots of light dance before my eyes. I let go of Tora’s hands and fall back onto the ground. And suddenly there’s a release, and I’m sucking great breaths of air into my lungs.
Not that I deserve it. I should be the one lying dead on the ground, not Tora. I stand up. I walk blindly over the wreckage of my house. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I plan to do. All I know is that I don’t want to think. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to be here.
I collapse onto the highest point of my destroyed home and hold my head in my hands as I cry. I can’t fix this. I can’t make up for it. I don’t even know how I can live knowing that she died because of me.
My hands drop to my sides, and one of them comes to rest on a pile of glass. The contents of my emergency kit, scattered and broken. My trembling fingers sift through the items that managed to survive and linger on one of the vials. I pick it up. Forget, says the label.
That’s what I want. I want to forget everything that’s happened. I want to forget that it’s my fault.
I unscrew the top.
I lift it to my mouth.
I close my eyes and pour it down my throat.
Thirty-Four
I awake in a small, dimly lit room with a ceiling that feels too close. I roll onto my side, rubbing my scratchy eyes. The room is bare except for a chair and a small table. On the table sits a lantern with a candle flickering inside.
“Oh, you’re awake, dear. How lovely.” Someone short comes into the room. Someone with grey hair and wearing a long dress. She bends over me, and I see black eyes in a face covered with fine, reptilian-like scales.
Reptiscilla, my brain tells me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
She smiles down at me. “Someone who decided not to leave you out there in the wreckage.”
“The wreckage?” I repeat. I’m still trying to make sense of where I am, how I got here, and what happened before I fell asleep. I’m coming up blank.
“The wreckage of the forest. It was torn apart by an evil faerie.” She shakes her head in disapproval. “Draven, they say his name is.”
“Draven?” Never heard of him.
“And what is your name, dear?”
My name. That’s an easy question. And I have the answer. It’s right here on the tip of my— “Violet,” I say, relieved the name came to me.
“And?”
“And what?”
“What else do you remember?”
What do I remember? Now that one’s a little harder. I search my fuzzy head, then shake it. “To be honest,” I say, “not much.”
* * *
Violet’s story continues in The Faerie War.
But first, turn the page for bonus scenes from The Faerie Prince!
Bonus Scene
RYN
* * *
Leaving the Harts’ house in the middle of what was undoubtedly the most important assignment of his training years was probably against Guild rules. But Ryn had always seen rules as something to be bent and molded to his own particular purposes.
Besides, it was a boring assignment.
Dirt crunched beneath his boots as he strode along the Underground tunnel. It was dimly lit by the occasional glow-bug, and smelled of wet earth and elder-pipe smoke.
“Are we close?” Ryn asked Lena, the tall elf walking beside him. She was most likely the source of the smoke smell; he’d seen her with an elder-pipe on several occasions.
“Yes.”
“And would it perhaps be wise to approach in silence?” He eyed the metallic bangles clinking around Lena’s wrists as she swung her arms at her sides.
“No.” She gave him a look before running her hand purposely through her dark, matted locks, making her bangles jingle louder. “They’ll know we’re coming anyway.”
Ryn suppressed a smile as he pointed his gaze forward once more. Lena had always enjoyed annoying him. It was one of the things he liked about her. That and the fact that she was rarely overcome by any form of emotion. She was the adopted daughter of the man who owned Poisyn, and Ryn had known her since he’d first ventured Underground at age fourteen. He didn’t see her all that often, and the two of them weren’t exactly close—Lena wasn’t the BFF type—but she was a font of knowledge when it came to Undergrounders and their dealings. She’d provided Ryn with useful information a number of times.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said. “The bottom of the singing well is Grima’s territory. He keeps it guarded at all times.”
“Good. Then I’ll have somebody to question.”
Lena laughed. “One of these days, Ryn, you’re going to get yourself killed. And then I might actually miss you.”
“Lena.” Mock surprise colored Ryn’s voice. “I had no idea you cared so much.”
“I don’t.” Bangles clinked together as she flipped her hair over her shoulder. “But I do care about that brandy from the human realm you like to bring me every now and then.”
“I see. It’s all about the brandy.”
“Of course.”
Lena directed him through another few tunnels before coming to a stop at a fork. The faint echo of a song reached Ryn’s ears. “Take the tunnel on the right,” Lena said. It isn’t far after that. You shouldn’t have any problem finding it on your own, and no doubt you’ll be relieved to be free of my jangling jewelry.”
Ryn faced her and held out his hand. “Thanks again.”
Her lips curved into a smile as she shook his hand. “Any time.”
Ryn continued on his own. The echoing song grew louder, and it wasn’t long before the tunnel brightened with the glow of orange firelight. He rounded a curve and found himself at the entrance to a brightly lit cave guarded by two faerie men built like ogres.
The men snapped to attention the moment they saw Ryn, moving together to block the cave entrance while clenching their meaty fists. Behind them, Ryn could make out a circular pool covered by a shimmering silver net. Above the net, in the ceiling of the cave, was a circular hole: the bottom of the singing well.
“You must be lost,” the man on the right said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.
“No, I’m exactly where I need to be,” Ryn said. He folded his arms over his chest. “I’m looking for something.”
“Yeah, you and every other idiot who shows up here,” the second man said. He pulled a knife from a sheath at his waist, a move that was most likely meant to be threatening. Ryn was unperturbed.
“I dropped something down the singing well a while ago. I need to get it back.”
“Anything that falls down the singing well belongs to Grima,” Knife-Man said. “Everyone knows that.”
“Oh. Well, I think we might have a problem then.”
The man on the right slowly ground his fist into the palm of his other hand. “I think we might.”
“Tell me,” Ryn said. “Does Grima remember everything that falls down the singing well?”
“Of course,” Knife-Man said. “And so do we.”
“Perfect. You should be able to help me then. I’m looking for a gold key on a gold chain. The top of the key has a pair of outspread wings.”
Knife-Man narrowed his eyes. “You obviously weren’t listening when I told you it all belongs to Grima.”
“So … that’s a no?” Ryn asked. “You don’t remember i
t?”
With surprising swiftness, the man pounced on Ryn, spun him around, and held the knife to his neck. “Never seen it,” the man snarled.
Ryn’s every instinct screamed at him to fight back, but he didn’t yet have the information he’d come for. He needed to hold himself back just a little longer. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Now why don’t you turn around and scurry back to the hole you came from before I slice your throat open. Whatever jewelry you’ve lost, I can assure you it isn’t worth risking your life for.”
Probably not. In fact, the necklace wasn’t worth much to Ryn at all. But it was of great importance to Violet, and for that reason alone, he had to get it back. Throwing her necklace down the singing well was one of the most vindictive things he’d ever done, and it was about time he made things right with her. “Are you absolutely sure?” he pressed. “I definitely threw it down here. It was about eight years ago.”
The man’s grip loosened as he threw his head back and guffawed. “Eight years ago? This was Branx’s territory back then. Greedy bastard was only in it for the money. Nothing like the collector Grima is. I’m sure your precious trinket has been sold and resold many times over since then. You’ll never see it again.”
Branx. Finally, a piece of information Ryn could use.
Time to go.
He shoved his elbow into Knife-Man’s stomach before tearing free of his grip. The deep-voiced man swung his fist, but Ryn dodged easily out of the way. He spun around—just in time to receive a kick to the face from Knife-Man.
He stumbled backwards, furious pain throbbing across his cheekbone. “The face?” he groaned. “Really?”
“It’s about to get a whole lot worse,” Knife-Man snarled.
“You’re right about that.” Ryn swept one hand through the air, sending a shower of sparks that turned into furious, pecking birds toward the men. As they swatted at the glittering beaks and fire-tipped wings, Ryn dropped to one knee, pulled his stylus from his boot, and wrote a door to the faerie paths on the ground.
