“What is it?” I asked.
The Roane woman stepped forward, reaching out to touch Patrick’s elbow. “Her confusion is sincere,” she said. Her voice was low and melodic, her accent half-Irish, half-something sharper. “She doesn’t know.”
“I told you she didn’t know,” muttered Connor, a little too loudly.
Patrick shot Connor a sharp look before returning his attention to me. “I didn’t want to risk opening it—not when we didn’t know what it was. We took it to the Asrai, who scried for the contents.”
“And?”
“It’s Dean’s finger.” Patrick’s voice broke as he continued, “They cut off his finger, October. What else are they doing to him? Why haven’t you found him yet? You were supposed to be bringing him home.”
Oh, oak and ash. I stared at Patrick, who looked back at me with the wounded expression of a parent betrayed, and in that moment—that single, horrible moment—I knew that it wouldn’t matter if I stopped the war. We were all of us already losing.
TWENTY-FIVE
“THE ASRAI SAY THEY CAN FEEL pain when they look into the box,” said Patrick, dull misery surrounding every word. “They say it’s likely he was still alive when it was removed.”
Quentin made a small, dismayed sound. I didn’t blame him. A gnawing anger was uncurling in the pit of my stomach. How dare they? Whoever was helping Raysel with this—Dugan or someone else—how dare they? Children are the most precious thing Faerie has. Cutting pieces off of them to make a point is beyond wrong. As far as I’m concerned, it’s actively evil.
“I . . . Oberon’s bones, Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to find your sons, I swear.” I shook my head, trying to shake away the idea of someone doing something like that to a child. “Why did you bring it here?”
“I asked him to,” said Connor. I turned to stare at him. “I reminded him of who your mother is, and what you can do. You can do it, can’t you?”
“Why can’t he?” asked Raj.
“Raj!” I said. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t understand—”
To my surprise, Patrick actually laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, and there was no humor behind it, but it was laughter. “He’s Cait Sidhe. He doesn’t need to understand, now, does he? That’s been the rule since time immemorial. I can’t do it myself, young squire, because my blood magic was never that strong, and I’ve spent too long in the water. What power I had has been long since diluted, and all that’s left for me is illusions.”
“Oh,” said Raj. Then: “So you really want her to . . . ?”
“They want me to ride Dean’s blood,” I said.
Raj made a disgusted face. “Ew. Isn’t that dangerous? And icky?”
I took a shaky breath. “I’m not sure that matters.”
Connor was right. Daoine Sidhe can use even a small amount of blood to ride the memories and experiences of the person it was drawn from. My mother and I—the Dóchas Sidhe—make them look like amateurs. Blood clings to flesh, no matter how carefully it’s been drained; even the fae who drink the stuff can’t completely remove it from a body. More importantly, I could confirm that Dean was alive when his finger was cut off.
Maybe I could even use it to find the underground room that smelled of spices. The one where a Selkie died, and a war truly began. Raj was right, too—blood magic is dangerous for me. I have power, but very little training, and the only woman who could train me is insane. And none of that mattered anymore. This might be the only way to stop the war.
This might be the only way to bring Gillian home.
“I said I’d do whatever I could,” I said. I stood again, stepping down from the dais. Quentin and Raj moved to follow me. I gestured for them to stay where they were. There were things they didn’t need to see.
Patrick stared at me for a moment, like he still wasn’t quite willing to let himself believe. Then his composure slipped, just enough to let me see the rawness beneath it. “They have my children,” he said. “I don’t care about war. I don’t care what we have to do to get them back. They could be hurt worse next time, they could be—”
“Whoever it is has my daughter, too, and they’re alive.” The certainty in my voice stunned the entire room into silence. I kept my eyes on Patrick. “I called the night-haunts to me. They hadn’t seen your sons. The night-haunts hadn’t seen them. Wherever your boys are, they’re alive.”
A new quality crept into Patrick’s expression: hope. It was painful to see, because it illustrated how bleak he’d looked, and how bleak I knew I still looked. He had hope for his sons, and I was running out of hope for my daughter. Rayseline had reason to keep Dean and Peter alive, at least for now. I couldn’t come up with any good reasons for her to spare Gillian.
“Could they . . .” He licked his lips. “Could the night-haunts have lied?”
“Night-haunts don’t lie,” said May, her voice loud in the hush. We all turned to look at her. She tipped her chin up, very slightly, and looked me in the eyes as she said, “The night-haunts never lie. They could, if they wanted to, but they don’t really see the point. The truth is so much more dangerous than a lie.”
I blinked at her for a moment before shaking my head and looking back to Patrick. “There you go,” I said. “The night-haunts didn’t lie.”
“They’re alive,” said Patrick, sounding stunned. One of the Merrow burst into tears, burying his face against the shoulder of the Selkie next to him. It was a moment of private elation. I should have looked away. There wasn’t time.
“Now we just need to make sure they stay that way,” I said. The room’s air of relief faded, cold reality intruding on their momentary joy. They didn’t like it. That was okay, because neither did I.
Patrick nodded, glancing at Connor. “Connor was right to bring us to you. He has my thanks.”
Connor stared at him, visibly trying to frame a response.
Patrick ignored him, turning his attention to the box, instead. He tapped all four corners with his thumb before kissing his forefinger and touching the latch. The gold ring dissolved into mist, leaving the air smelling of steel as the chains fell to dangle uselessly. Patrick held the box out to me. “I was raised in the land Courts. I remember your mother.”
“I’m just a changeling,” I cautioned. “I’m not in her league.”
“I’ve heard the stories—Connor alone tells enough to give your skills away, and you invoke the Luidaeg when you give your references. Even my wife likes you, as much as she likes anyone.” He smiled slightly. “You’re a lot of things, but ‘just a changeling’ isn’t one of them.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said, and reached for the box, only to jerk my hands away as soon as I touched it. I could feel Dean’s blood through the wood, still as connected to Faerie as when it was running through his veins. There was a time when I could have held the finger in my hand and not felt anything, and now I could hear the blood calling me through sealed, enchanted wood. Just one more thing to thank my mother for.
Slowly, more prepared this time, I grasped the box again. For a moment, I thought Patrick wasn’t going to let me take it from him. Then he sighed, unlocking his fingers. “Find them?” It was closer to a plea than a request, filled with a parent’s need to have his heart returned. I’ve heard that tone in a lot of voices, including my own.
“I’ll do what I can,” I repeated. I wanted to make wild promises and swear that it would all be okay, but I couldn’t do that to him.
“Thank you,” he said, voice solemn. “Thank you so much.”
“Thank you” is a binding contract in Faerie. For once, I didn’t flinch when I heard it. “You’re welcome,” I said, and glanced around the Undersea delegation. Connor knew what came next. He blanched. None of the others seemed to have a clue. Shaking my head, I turned back to Patrick.
“You know what it takes for me to get answers from this,” I said.
Patrick nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“I can do it here, or I can
leave you here while I take care of things. It’s up to you. I won’t make you watch.”
“I need to see,” said Patrick. “I appreciate you trying to spare me, but—”
“I understand. I’d feel the same. But do your people need to see this?” He paled. I continued, “Let’s take the third option. They stay here, and you come with me.”
He hesitated before nodding, slowly. The Roane woman gave his arm another reassuring pat.
“There, there, my lovely one. She’ll steer you sure enough. Just never let her near the silver. Line of thieves, hers is, and they’d rob even royalty blind.” She turned a mad, serene smile on me. “I know you’ve not stolen half a heartbeat from a stolen child as yet, but you will, given time. You will.”
I frowned. “May?”
“Yes?”
“Take care of the delegation. Quentin and Raj can help with the refreshments. Your Grace, if you’ll come with me?” I didn’t wait for an answer before turning on my heel and walking toward the hall. The box was starting to vibrate in my hands. The blood knew I was there; it wanted to be heard.
Patrick followed me down the hall to the room where I’d gone to summon the night-haunts. It was the only space I could be sure we’d have entirely to ourselves, and there was something fitting, somehow, in going there to ride the blood of someone I desperately hoped was still alive.
He didn’t say anything about the furniture cluttering the hall. That was a definite point in his favor. He did, however, look deeply discomforted when I led him into the solarium and closed the door. Maybe he was just now realizing the reality of what I was about to do.
I walked to the center of the room and sat, cross-legged, in the circle of blood I’d drawn there earlier. If Patrick wondered why I had a circle of blood ready and waiting, he had the good manners not to ask. The vibrations from the box were getting stronger. The blood wanted my attention, and I had to either give in or get it away from me. I glanced back to Patrick, watching him sit across from me. He winced when he bent his knees. Then, meeting my eyes, he nodded.
I opened the box.
The interior was cushioned in dark blue velvet, with Dean’s severed finger resting in the middle like a macabre parody of a woman’s finest jewels. I looked up at Patrick one last time.
“You really don’t have to be here for this,” I said quietly.
“Yes, I do,” he said.
I hesitated before reaching into the box, scooping up the finger. It was almost obscenely light, and the blood was nearly screaming now that it was so close to me. I gave Patrick a final glance, and turned my attention to the task at hand.
Dean’s finger had been severed at the joint without splintering the bone. I could analytically respect that—it would have made it easier to stop the bleeding—even as I wanted to kill the people responsible. Closing my eyes, I raised the finger’s severed end to my lips, and drank.
TWENTY-SIX
THE RED VEIL OF DEAN’S memories crashed down on me almost instantly, stronger than I expected. I struggled against them automatically before I realized they weren’t trying to overwhelm me; they were just there, open, welcoming me in. Blood magic had never been this easy.
I took a breath, and let myself fall into someone else’s skin.
Everything hurts. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Nothing is supposed to hurt like this. Even dying shouldn’t hurt like this. I raise my head, squinting through the tears I won’t let them see me shed. It’s dark. The floor is cold, and the straw that covers it isn’t enough to fight the chill. It smells like something died here a long time ago, the stink barely disguised by the distant scents of spices I don’t know the names of.
“He’s alive,” I said, pulling myself far enough out of the memories to speak. “They’re not keeping him in the water.” If Patrick responded, I didn’t hear it. The blood surged over me again, and I was gone.
“Are you scared now, little prince of the sea?” It’s a woman’s voice, sweet as honey and toxic as cyanide.
I knew who belonged to that voice. Dean didn’t, but I did.
I tuck my head down, feigning sleep. Anything would be better than facing her again. “Oh, sleeping? Lost in pretty dreams of home, of freedom, and of family?” A hand grabs my hair and jerks my head up. “Don’t be stupid.”
Her hair is red, like blood coral, and her eyes are gold. Her ears rise to tapered points under the twined braids on the sides of her head, blunter than they’d be if she were pure Daoine Sidhe, but still as sharp as mine. There’s a sharpened sickle in the hand not snarled through my hair.
I gritted my teeth. The red film of memory broke slightly, cleared away by my anger. No matter how much I knew Raysel was involved, it still hurt like hell to see her there, torturing an innocent. How could she have fallen this far? Then the red haze closed over me again, and nothing mattered but Dean’s borrowed fear.
I go rigid, trying not to look at the sickle. I will not cry is the thought the blood remembers. “Let me go before my parents find you,” I say, forcing a bravado that isn’t really there.
She smiles. “Oh, you silly little thing, don’t you know? Your parents will find you. We’ll leave you for them a piece at a time, like bread crumbs leading children out of the woods. We don’t need you both alive. One will do nicely for what’s needed.”
“Where’s my brother?”
“That’s up to you. Behave, do as I tell you, die like the little nobleman you are, and your brother will be fine. You’ll be a hero for keeping him alive. Make too much fuss, and . . .” She draws the blunt side of the sickle across her throat in a gesture both graphic and direct. “He’s the one fit to inherit, isn’t he? The golden child. Such a pity when the more valuable son has to die.”
I love my brother. That only fuels my fear. “I won’t fight you.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” Her smile grows wider, until it shows the sharp tips of her incisors. “Such a brave little boy. So noble.” She raises the sickle, and I look away. I know what comes next, I know I can’t escape it, but oh, Maeve, I don’t want to see, I don’t want to feel that blade come down—
The pain of the sickle biting into Dean’s hand was enough to snap me out of the spell. I slammed back into my own skin so hard that it was like hitting the water after a badly-botched dive. It didn’t hurt. “Hurt” was too small a word. It burned.
The fragments of my shattered spell hung in the air around us, reeking of cut grass and copper. The finger dropped from my hand, rolling away. It wasn’t just a bit of discarded meat and bone anymore—I remembered it as part of my body. It would take time for the memory of being Dean to fade, and until then, it was my finger on the floor.
Turning my head, I bent as far to the side as I could, and threw up.
Patrick didn’t move. His eyes were saucer-wide in his pale face, and his hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles gone white from the pressure. “Did it work?” he asked.
I wiped my mouth with one shaking hand as I turned back to him, barely managing to keep from snapping, No, I threw up because I realized what I was putting in my mouth. Dean’s love for his parents had been almost as prominent in his mind as his love for his brother. Patrick didn’t deserve to hear something like that.
“It worked.” I wiped my mouth again, only spreading the sticky taste of blood. My head was pounding. I hadn’t had a headache this bad since Amandine shifted the balance of my blood. Apparently, I still had limits. That wasn’t as reassuring as I’d expected.
“Is he . . .” Patrick stopped mid-sentence, and just looked at me.
“He was alive when the finger was taken. They’re keeping him in a stone room, above water. There’s straw on the floor, but the stone is rough, like it wasn’t milled or worked at all.” I shook my head. “There was no iron in the air. Whoever has him, it’s not the Queen. I’ve been in her dungeon, and the iron is everywhere down there.”
Patrick nodded. I could see the hunger in his eyes, the burning need to know everything ther
e was to know about the place his son was being held. I didn’t blame him. I just wished that Dean had been held in the same room as Gillian, so that I could have some reassurance of my own. “Is he hurt?”
“Other than the missing finger? I think they used at least one knock-down spell on him. He’s in a lot of pain, but there are no other serious injuries.”
“Was Peter there?”
“No. I’m sorry. He was alone.”
“Did you see who was holding him?”
I lowered my hand, looking up. He stared back with eyes that were suddenly cold and implacable, filled with a deep fury that I was glad wasn’t directed at me.
“It was Rayseline,” I said. Picking up the finger, I put it gently back into the box. That made me feel a little better. “She can’t be working alone, but she’s the one who . . .” Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say “cut off your son’s finger.” “. . . hurt him,” I finished lamely.
Patrick’s expression darkened further, something I hadn’t been sure was possible. “That little bitch will regret the day of her birth by the time I’m finished with her,” he growled, in a voice like waves crashing against the shore.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost a child here, Patrick,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Rayseline has my daughter, too. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t agree to go in swinging. I’d like half a chance in hell of getting Gillian back alive.”
The darkness parted, replaced by a grimace of apology. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Most people do.” I handed him the box before I stood, wiping my hands against my jeans. It wasn’t enough to wipe away the feel of phantom blood. Very little ever is. “I’m scared as hell about what they might be doing to her. Her father was human.”
“Ah,” said Patrick, sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t know how to defend herself. I never had the chance to teach her.” Something about that bothered me. Patrick wouldn’t have known Gillian existed if I hadn’t told him. She was never a part of my life in Faerie. Rayseline knew that she existed, had even met her before, but . . . how did she know where to find her?
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