The Worth Series: Complete Collection

by Lyra Evans

  “On the count of three,” Lucia said. “And don’t forget to take a deep breath before stepping through!” Oliver opened his mouth to ask why, but she’d already begun counting. “One, two, three!”

  Taking a sharp, panicked breath, Oliver stepped through the portal alongside Rory. There was a compression, like the weight of worlds squeezing him from every angle and direction, and then it released. Oliver nearly made the mistake of inhaling in relief, but the onslaught of reality stopped him. He coughed a few bubbles, eyes blurred and stinging, and he began to flail and push upward.

  The portal came out under water, in the ocean, if the stinging in his eyes was anything to go by. He spluttered and kicked hard for the surface of the water, breaking through in a flurry of splashing and sprays. A cough and a gasp tore through him as he blinked away the salt water to try and anchor himself in a specific location.

  Rory and her parents emerged next, soaked but calm. None of them flailed or spewed out seawater like Oliver. Chest tightening, Oliver searched around for Connor. He waited and waited, his heartbeat growing increasingly fast and uneven. A second passed, then another. Was he still down there? Had he not made it through the portal? What happened if he hadn’t stepped at exactly the right moment? Would he just be stuck in Logan’s Court, or would he only half transition? And what would that mean?

  But a moment later, the surface of the water broke, and Connor emerged with a wild shake of his head, sending a fan of drops spinning out at everyone around him. He coughed and sucked down air, screwing his eyes tightly shut. Oliver swam over to him. He curled a hand around Connor’s back, trying to help keep him afloat if he was struggling, but Connor shook his head.

  “I’m all right,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Just took my breath a half-second late.” He coughed again. The kohl he’d painted around his eyes had washed away, dripping from his face in black-tinged droplets. The bearskin cloak he wore drew down on him, weighing like an actual bear in the water. He struggled slightly to breathe as the cloak pulled on the collar at his neck. Oliver’s cloak was of such a light fabric he barely felt it. Instead of holding Connor, Oliver reached around to pull up the cloak, casting a silent spell on it to make it float.

  “Thanks,” Connor whispered to him, his expression softening slightly. Oliver’s lips quirked a half-smile. His eyes lingered on the collar at Connor’s neck. They should have been bonded by now. Could have been. But the Black Moon was high in the sky now, and their souls were still resolutely two.

  “You could have warned us the portal came out under water,” Oliver shot at Rory, his brows furrowed. Rory blinked at him.

  “I thought everyone knew portals can only be formed through water,” she said. Oliver shook his head, his now sopping hair smacking against his forehead as he did. So much for Rory’s magic hairdo. “Anyway,” she said with an overly perky grin, “we made it. Welcome to Maeve’s Court.”

  Chapter 4

  Maeve’s Court was as different to Logan’s Court as a martini to a cup of coffee. They half-swam, half-walked to the shore, their water-logged clothing weighing them down and drawing them back into the surf. The water was reasonably calm for this time of night, the waves breaking in quiet breaths before smoothing over the sandy beach like a quilt on a bed. The sky above them was a canopy of black and blue watercolours, punctuated only sparsely by stars.

  “What’s wrong with your sky?” Connor asked, his voice tainted with alarm as he dragged the bearskin cloak out of the ocean. Rory pulled a face, laughing.

  “Nothing’s wrong with it,” she said. “Have you never been to the city before?”

  Connor stared at her, expressionless. “Where are the stars?”

  Rory shook her head and began to wring out her mermaid hair. “They’re all still there. It’s just there’s too much light pollution to see them much. You only get to see the brightest ones here.”

  A cloud of horror passed over Connor’s face for a single moment before he reverted back to his inscrutable look. His blond hair hung around his eyes and ears in damp tendrils, and the water sluiced down his pale chest in streams. In the low-light of the night, his pale colouring lent him a surreal glow. He was more beautiful than ever, but Oliver tried to turn his attention elsewhere. They were still being hunted two Courts away.

  Turning his focus to the city, Oliver sighed. He’d spent some time in Maeve’s Court in the past, and though it was definitely an acquired taste, he tended to enjoy himself there. The beach was flecked with groups of people, mostly teenagers and college students gathered around bonfires with drinks and necklaces and crowns woven of flowers. But up beyond the beach, where the city actually began, the streets were paved and packed with cars. The headlights blinked up and down the streets, shining hoods passing under arched streetlamps made of iron and branching out with lanterns of glittering light like trapped fireflies. The streets were lined with parked cars and people dressed in bright colours and flashy outfits. The entire city hummed and buzzed like a colony of bees, flitting around honeycombs and sharing in their bounty. Every few buildings a door would open to let in a group of excited Fae, exhaling snippets of intense bass and staccato dance rhythms. There was laughter and celebration. Like every party Oliver had ever been to happening at once.

  All the neon signs, the streetlamps, and the car lights made Rory’s remark about light pollution almost an understatement. With all of it combined, it was nearly bright as daylight when they reached the pavement. Oliver glanced at Connor and found him stalk straight and radiating tension. Though he was by far attractive enough to fit in with the lot of these partying Fae, he was miles away from comfortable among them.

  “We need to get you both somewhere safe before the news breaks here,” Lucia said. “And we definitely need to get you away from all the eyes here. You don’t exactly blend in.” She eyed their strange outfits, still soaked through, and their lack of shoes. But Connor’s visible discomfort was the most jarring detail about them.

  “Here,” Oliver said, turning to Connor. He cast a glamour spell on him, binding it to the obsidian stone on Connor’s collar. Then he did the same to himself, exhaling a long, low breath once he did. “Now we’ll appear different to everyone who looks at us. But I can’t maintain this for long.”

  Rory nodded and ushered them along the street, slipping between groups of club-goers and bar-hoppers. Their merriment was frustrating to Oliver, a tight, hot knot forming in his stomach. He set his jaw and pushed through them, focused on maintaining the glamour spells.

  He should have been partying like this now. He should have been at his own bonding party, with Rory and Donna and all of Connor’s pack, dancing and drinking and relishing in his newly bonded mate. The two of them should have been entwined at the base of a tree, pressing against one another and tasting each other for the first time as mates. They should have been thinking of how they would consummate the bond, of how they’d spend the rest of the week relearning each other’s bodies and senses, strengthened and charged by the weaving of their souls.

  Oliver and Connor should have been partying harder than any of these clueless Fae. But instead they were running from their own ceremony, in a land that belonged to neither of them and to which they didn’t belong.

  Because they think Connor is a murderer.

  The idea couldn’t take root in Oliver’s mind, always slipping off the edges of his conception of the world. He couldn’t make it stick. Connor wasn’t a murderer. He just—wasn’t. Though it was true that Oliver had considered him a murder suspect when they first met, it had become clear quite quickly that Connor couldn’t possibly be a murderer. A killer, perhaps, in the right circumstances. So, too, was Oliver. He’d been forced to kill in the line of duty once before. And though he did not relish that memory, he knew it had been necessary.

  But murder was a whole different club scene to killing in self-defense. And Connor was not that kind of person. He wouldn’t kill Logan, his own cousin, in cold blood. Not the Connor Oliver knew
, anyway.

  They passed through street after street of more clubs and bars and restaurants open late. The smell of wine and citrus wafted over Oliver, followed by ripe peaches and fresh strawberries. Then, down another street, fresh-baked cakes and spun sugar. Then another street still was filled with the warm, campfire scent of scotch and fresh-cut wood. Every area had a specialty, catering to a specific kind of indulgence. They passed by a street that was lit in purple and white, curtained in filmy, rainbow-coloured tule, the windows filled with naked bodies in all manner of poses and every costume and pleasure toy anyone could dream of. Then down a different street, Oliver saw bar after bar filled with arcade games and virtual reality booths, where people could disappear into another world, or play out a story, or do almost anything imaginable. The booths were maintained by a combination of Fae-magic and spell-infused gemstones from Nimueh’s Court. Oliver had been to one in the past, but he preferred the real thing to a virtual experience.

  “Are we trying to go unseen in Maeve’s Court on the busiest night of the year?” Connor asked in an undertone, his eyes sharp and brows furrowed, as he took in the sight of a young woman dressed as a maid with frilly apron happily welcoming a group of young men into the colourful café where she worked.

  “This is actually pretty slow, considering what day it is,” Rory said, turning down a street more sparsely populated. Only a handful of the businesses there were open, the others shuttered for the night, clearly not night-time venues.

  “It’s Wednesday,” Connor said, his voice straining slightly.

  Rory nodded sagely. “Exactly,” she said. “Mid-week break. Everyone needs to let off steam on Wednesday.” After a moment’s pause, she eyed Connor curiously. “You go out on weeknights, don’t you?”

  Connor made a derisive noise. “Of course,” he said. “I’ve got two clubs to operate, not to mention the numerous entertainers I manage. But it’s never,” he waved a hand vaguely behind them, “like this. Only Friday and Saturday nights are this busy.”

  Rory tilted her head and shrugged. “Pity,” she said. “Sounds kind of dull.”

  Connor’s jaw tightened and the muscle in his cheek pulsed. Oliver laughed, despite the situation.

  “Ah, here we are,” Eriol said as they turned one more corner. The street ahead of them was empty but for a sprawling mansion at the end of it. It was only one story tall, but it spread out expansively over the rocky cliff on which it sat, burrowing into the cliff-side that rose up next to it. White stuccoed walls framed large, floor-length windows draped in gauzy curtains. The doorway was cathedral-style, adorned with clear windows in the front. The yard in front of it was groomed with all manner of warm-weather plants. Palm trees and bright-coloured flowers with leafy bushes shaded a stone walkway up to the door. The driveway curved around the side of the house, leading to a separate carport with several automatic doors. “Our home is your home, until you boys can get this all sorted.”

  He led them through the front door, while Oliver eyed Connor next to him. Connor’s expression gave nothing away, but Oliver could tell he was even more uncomfortable now. Something about hiding out in a mansion large enough to be featured in a magazine was not sitting well with him, and Oliver thought he knew what it was. Though Connor’s manor was easily as large as the Birches’ home—in different proportions—the styles of them were as different as it was possible to be. The Birches’ home was all modern and open, full of light and uncomfortably shaped furniture. The back wall of the main living area was entirely windows, looking out onto a secluded cove. The swimming pool was massive and well-lit, even at night, and half of it hovered precariously over the edge of the cliff. Swimming in it made Oliver feel as though he would plummet down to the ocean at any moment.

  It was the antithesis of Logan’s Court, and it just reinforced the fact that Connor had run away from his home. He didn’t belong here, with the partiers and the excesses. He belonged at home, in the woods with his pack, standing up for them and for himself, defending himself against the accusations before him. He belonged where he could find justice for his fallen kin. They both did.

  The knot of anger in Oliver’s stomach began to loosen now they were indoors, but instead of relief, he was flooded instead with disappointment. He’d spent a lot of time here with Rory, welcomed into her family’s home as though he’d always been there. But it no longer felt like home to him. His only real home was with Connor now. In Logan’s Court. Even Nimueh’s Court felt like a distant dream of home to Oliver, though he loved his homeland dearly.

  A dull ache, like being awake for too long, grew in Oliver’s temples. His knees shook, giving way under him until he caught himself on the arm of a square white couch. Connor rushed to him.

  “I’m okay,” Oli said, squeezing Connor’s hand. He met Connor’s worried blue eyes and smiled. “Just worn out from the spells.” He waved the glamour spells away, untethering them to the obsidian stones. His collar, made entirely of the stones, felt warm against his skin, like an overheated computer. But the release of the spell was an instant relief. He took a deep breath and stood straight again.

  “You should rest,” Connor said, his hands still on Oliver. He caressed Oliver’s waist, his palms warm and smooth against Oliver’s skin, beneath the cloak. Oli reached up and unfastened the cape from his collar, laying it aside on the couch. It was so lightweight it was already dry, but Connor’s bearskin cloak was still dripping every few moments. Oliver considered a drying spell, but if he was going to be performing more magic, he needed to eat something.

  “No time,” Oliver said, reaching up to untie the bearskin cape from Connor’s collar. Connor let him do it, eyes scouring Oliver’s face. It was the first sustained emotion Oliver had seen on Connor’s face since hearing about Logan. He opened his mouth to apologize, to offer his condolences, to gather Connor in and comfort him, but he didn’t get the chance.

  “He’s right, I’m afraid,” Rory said, reappearing completely dry and wearing new clothes. She was dressed in her most sedate, relaxed outfit—a pair of watermelon-patterned leggings and an oversized, slouchy tank top with the words ya Fae me? written across the front. “The news just broke. It’s everywhere. I’ve already posted to all my social media accounts and published an auto-updating article to The Banshee’s website, but I had to wait until someone else did it first. I’m going to have to go in to the scene soon.” She slipped a few of the green candies from her pocket and placed them on a side table by the couch. “In case you need to contact anyone. These are the best way.” She hesitated, her eyes travelling between Oliver and Connor. “I’m sorry this happened to you. To both of you. On your bonding day…” She sighed and bowed her head to Connor. “And I’m very, very sorry for what happened to Logan. Oak and Ash and Fir will bow beneath the weight of his loss, and sprout anew from the seed of his soul.” It was a traditional Fae blessing for the grieving and bereft, but Oliver hadn’t heard it since his parents’ funerals. It struck him hard, whipping the wind from his chest, and brought back the terrible memories of standing alone, a headstone on one side, a casket on the other.

  Connor swallowed hard and nodded shallowly.

  “What can we do now then?” Oliver asked, wondering when Captain Marks would get through to them with an update. They hadn’t heard from Donna either, and Oliver was anxious. He knew they hadn’t been that long, that little would have been accomplished yet besides detaining anyone they thought might have information. That was probably why Donna hadn’t contacted them at all. And Captain Marks was probably overseeing most of the investigation, acting as though everything was business as usual.

  “Not much, until we hear from Captain Marks or Donna,” Rory said, shaking her head. “And that might be a while yet. It’s only been about an hour since we left the clearing.”

  Connor’s attention snapped to her, his eyes suddenly clear. “Yes,” he said. “That portal was certainly very convenient. Care to tell me why it was still functional when all the portals were ord
ered closed off at the signing of the Treaty?”

  Rory grinned uncomfortably. “Well, they were,” she said slowly, “technically. I mean, to most people they are. Werewolves can’t use them to get to Maeve’s Court accidentally, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Only it obviously wasn’t.

  “No,” Connor said quietly. “Not that. The other thing.”

  Rory shifted slightly. “Most Fae can’t use them either,” she admitted. “Officially, they are closed. You don’t have hordes of Fae wandering willy-nilly into Logan’s Court unchecked, I promise you. But closing off a portal forever is—kinda difficult. It would have meant destroying the entry-exit point of the portal. In both kingdoms. So they would have had to blast off parts of Logan’s Court and annihilate chunks of the reef around Maeve’s Court, devastating the natural ecosystem of the ocean in the process.” She shrugged. “So instead, they just blocked off the portals and told everyone they were gone. Most people don’t know how to make a portal, let alone destroy one, so they didn’t bat an eye.”

  Connor leaned in slowly, arching his head to the side slightly. He looked somehow larger than he was. “And how is it you and your family knew to use them then?”

  At this, Rory actually beamed. “Oh, well, we’re connected to everyone in Maeve’s Court,” she said with a shrug. “My mom is actually Maeve’s best friend, so. Yeah. We kind of get special treatment. Tell me all you want about how it’s unfair or deceitful or how it flies in the face of the Treaty, but I will then gleefully remind you both that that portal saved your asses not thirty minutes ago, so perhaps thanks are in order, yeah?”

  Connor pulled back, his expression closing again, his eyes a turbulent ocean storm speaking of nothing and everything. “Of course,” he said, nodding his head. “My apologies. I am deeply grateful for what you and your family have done for Oliver and I. It was a great risk, and I just hope one day I can repay you for it.”