Feral Blood (Bound to the Fae Book 2)

by Eva Chase

  Kellan might have been a bastard, but he did get things done for me. Before our banishment, I had the benefit of Isleen’s cadre alongside mine. I don’t have near as much authority to extend or tasks to lord over as Celia does, but in the arch-lords’ midst, I feel my lack.

  Ambrose leans against the arm of his throne with an expression that suggests he’s suppressing a grimace. More bulldog than wolf in his appearance as a man, he rubs the jowls of his round face. The new flecks of gray in his sparse beard stand out against his tan skin. Topping his head, his cropped bronze-brown curls with their patina-like greenish sheen hold hints of gray too. He fixes his dark, beady eyes on me.

  “You come all the way from the fringes on the day of the full moon, Lord Sylas?” he says flatly. “Shouldn’t you be preparing your pack? Or are you so accustomed to savagery out there that you’ve taken to letting them fend for themselves?”

  August bristles but manages to keep his mouth shut. Good man.

  I ignore Ambrose’s jab, letting my gaze slide from him to Celia to Donovan, acknowledging each with a respectful but not overly deferential bob of my head. “My arch-lords, it’s because of the full moon that I come before you. My cadre-chosen August has made a crucial discovery about the Unseelie’s plans—though one you are perhaps not totally unaware of—and I have brought you the solution to that potential catastrophe as well.”

  Celia’s eyebrows rise to her wispy bangs. A pure ivory-white with a crystalline shimmer, the rest of her hair falls starkly around her narrow, ebony face. If Ambrose could be a bulldog, then she’d be a doe with her steeply sloping nose and heavy-lidded eyes. But her tall frame, though slender, fills out her ankle-length gown with imposingly broad shoulders. No one would mistake her for prey.

  “Well, I think we had better hear this, then. But first I’d want to know precisely how your man made this discovery.”

  August dips his head lower than I did. At my gesture, he speaks. “We were told that it would risk too much for any of you to approve a stealthy foray into Unseelie territory. So my lord gave his approval for me to go on my own, so that you couldn’t be blamed if our plans went awry. But they didn’t. No one saw me except the sentry I captured. I couldn’t get much out of the raven, but he cawed enough to confirm what we suspected and to reveal something even worse.”

  Donovan shifts forward in his throne. Even though the sunlight doesn’t hit him directly, the tufts of his hair seem to dance like flames, brilliant reds and oranges mingling together. His mother’s had the same effect.

  It was her he inherited the throne from, mere months before my disgrace. Her death was brutal and unexpected at the jaws of a pair of chimera she’d gone out to subdue that somehow got the upper hand on her, and the first time I stood before him here, waiting to hear my pack’s fate, he was too green to get much of a word in between Ambrose’s domineering bluster and Celia’s crisp brusqueness. But he caught me on my way down the path to my carriage to apologize and let me know he didn’t agree with the sentence, that if he could make a case for me down the line he would, and I haven’t forgotten that humility.

  Unfortunately, I’m not sure these past several decades have hardened him enough for him to quite hold his own yet. For all his fiery hair and brawny frame, there’s a softness to his jaw and stance that shows through. He hasn’t been through real fire yet. Heart only knows how he’ll be tempered or savaged by the experience when it comes.

  “What happened to this sentry after you questioned him?” he asks.

  August smiles grimly. “I removed his head from his body right there on the border. If he was found, no one would be able to say it wasn’t his own carelessness in coming too close to our side—and he won’t have been able to tell anyone what he gave away to me.”

  Ambrose runs his hand over the plate-mail vest he likes to wear even when he’s not on the battlefield, as if to indicate he views every interaction as a potential threat. The faint metallic clink is vaguely ominous. “And what exactly did he give away?”

  I take over to spare my younger brother the scrutiny our news will provoke. “The Unseelie have learned of our curse—enough to know that we won’t be in any state to defend the border tonight if the wildness takes hold. They mean to attack along the northern stretch where you’ve each stationed one of your cadre-chosen. From their presence, I assume you had some idea that area was of concern.”

  Ambrose’s mouth tightens into a sour frown. Celia has tensed as well, but her gaze is more searching than accusing. “The sentry told you all of that?”

  “I pretended I already knew the location of their next attack, and he didn’t deny it,” August says. “Then he mocked me for thinking we’d be able defend our lands while we’re running wild. There was no mistaking his meaning.”

  Donovan lets out a short, rough laugh and shakes his head. “So, it was true after all.”

  They knew our curse had been exposed but doubted it? I turn to him. “How did you come to hear of it?”

  Ambrose shoots Donovan a sharp look, but the younger arch-lord has gained at least enough confidence to make his own choice to answer. “The Unseelie last attacked the morning after the full moon. A few days later, we had a letter appear in the grass here just beyond the border, as if the one who delivered it had slipped through only long enough to set it down. It was a warning that our enemies meant to take advantage of our malady, and where.”

  “It claimed to be a warning,” Ambrose breaks in. “Why would any of the stinking ravens help us? We had to treat it as a potential trap—possibly not even from their side but from some schemer among the Seelie.”

  Donovan’s hand falls to rest on the golden broach fixed to his padded doublet, ornately carved into the shape of a wolf biting its own tail. It’s an heirloom passed on from his mother, and no doubt from her predecessor to her. The tale I’ve heard is that supposedly the family has some secret to transferring a bit of every fallen relative’s spirit into it from their soulstone, keeping all those pieces of their power alive.

  I’ve never encountered any spell by which that effect could be achieved, but I believe the broach has some kind of magic in it. A trusted warrior from my father’s pack once reported he’d seen Donovan’s mother summon a hail of shooting stars by calling on it. Perhaps her son takes some comfort in the thought of having those ancestors with him. Or perhaps he’s dreaming of raining bolts of flame down on his colleague’s grizzled head.

  As I turn over their words, the pieces of the puzzle click into place. “You sent cadre to that section of border to observe and ramp up protections where they could just in case, but you didn’t spread the word—for fear of panic?”

  Celia sinks back in her chair, looking weary. “You’re clearly well-versed enough in warfare to understand, Lord Sylas. Even if we felt sure that the note had come from the winter side, and that therefore at least some of the ravens knew of the curse, there’s little we could do about that with the loss of Lord Aerik’s cure. As to where to bolster our defenses and how, without the ravens potentially catching on and adjusting their plans in response, we have found it difficult to reach a consensus.”

  “It’s good that we know now, though,” Donovan says. “For the rest of the day and evening, we can put all of our power into bolstering our magical defenses along the border even more than usual and securing the nearest towns as well as we can. It may not be enough to hold them back completely—”

  Ambrose’s guffaw is dark. “Those sorry whelps on the front lines will be lucky not to tear each other to pieces once the moon rises.”

  “We’ll pull them back as we did last month and limit our self-destruction as well as we can,” Celia says firmly. “We have to take every step—”

  I clear my throat, interrupting the urgent but unnecessary negotiations so I can begin my own. “You won’t need to. None of the squadrons along any part of the border need to succumb to the curse tonight. We’ve brought the cure.”

  All three of them stare at me in shocked
silence. “Where?” Ambrose demands abruptly.

  “In our carriage, in a spot I’ll lead your pack-kin to if we reach an agreement I’m satisfied with.”

  He draws himself up haughtily, his eyes flashing. “You’d barter over this while the Unseelie forces gather and the full moon is nearly—”

  “Let us hear all he has to say first,” Celia chides. Her brow has furrowed. “How is this possible? We were given to believe that a crucial resource Lord Aerik brought to bear, the one he’s now seeking to obtain more of, could only be found within his domain. We knew he’d expanded his search, but I hadn’t thought he’d shared his methods so freely that his efforts could be usurped.”

  My mouth twists. It’s here that I must reveal Talia’s existence.

  Every sinew in my body balks at the thought. I meant to give her as close to a normal life as I could offer, one free of the demands my kind would place on her after everything she’s unwillingly sacrificed for us already. As soon as our rulers know of her existence and the power of her blood, I can’t guarantee any of that.

  But perhaps I never could. How can I give her anything like normal given who she is and how she came to be here? I can still hope to offer freedom and happiness in whatever forms they might take.

  And what Talia insisted on was the freedom to make yet another sacrifice on our behalf. If I deny her that right, wouldn’t I be caging her in yet another way?

  I could speak around the facts of the matter as Aerik did, hold off the discovery, but once it’s clear that he obscured the truth, the arch-lords won’t rest until they have the full story. I’ll only be wasting time better spent ensuring her protection.

  I drag in a breath. “Aerik misled you. The only resource necessary to the cure has not been used up but has… relocated itself to reside in my domain, of its own free will. As I feel is for the best, given the treatment it received in Aerik’s ‘care’.”

  August stirs beside me, his stance tensing at just that vague mention of Talia’s abuse.

  Ambrose jerks his hand through the air in an impatient gesture. “By all that is dust, what are you nattering about? Speak plainly, or we can cut right past the speaking part.”

  To taking the cure by force, he means. My hackles rise, but I keep my voice even. “The only substance necessary to stave off or reverse the wildness is the blood of a specific human woman. From what I’ve gathered, Aerik kept her existence secret from all but his two cadre-chosen, hiding her away in the most wretched of prisons for all of the years he produced his cure, giving her only enough sustenance to continue that existence. When she came to us, she was near-starved, battered and scarred, and permanently disfigured from the wounds they inflicted on her.”

  Ambrose sputters, as if the idea that he’s been inadvertently drinking human blood to cure his ills disgusts him beyond speech. Celia and Donovan still look bewildered, but Celia is composed enough to speak. “A human woman? And how did you discover this? How did she end up among your pack?”

  On the journey here, I thought carefully over how I could present the story within the bounds of truth but without admitting to any crime. The Heart might lash out at me visibly if I attempted to lie in its very presence.

  “They must have grown careless,” I say. “One day she was able to unlock her cage to make her escape. We found her not knowing at first what she was capable of, only seeing a being in distress. Once we understood how she’d fit into Aerik’s plans—and having seen how he’d treated her—it seemed unwise to return her. He was abusing a valuable resource. We felt it wiser to nurture such a prize.”

  Speaking of Talia as a thing to be used rather than a person makes my stomach clench, but it’s the language the arch-lords will expect in these circumstances. Celia nods, a thin furrow creasing her high forehead. “Have you taken any steps to determine what it is about this human that produces such a powerful effect in her blood?”

  “I’ve made many attempts—tested her skin and hair and her blood itself by the most obvious methods and others besides. I’ve been unable to detect any factor in her heritage or physical makeup that would create such an effect. I would pursue additional avenues given the chance, but for the moment other matters needed my attention more urgently.”

  Perhaps when this is over, if we can reach an agreement that keeps Talia out of danger, I’ll be able to pursue those answers farther afield with Talia’s blessing. Keeping her and my brethren uninjured comes before any of that.

  Ambrose clearly found even my practical phrasing in regards to Talia too lenient. He’s still stewing over my earlier explanation. “A human who can cure us all—and you’ve been worrying about her comfort. What of the rest of us?”

  It takes even more effort than before to smooth the edge from my voice. “The rest of us can partake of the tonic we’ve made using her blood as need be. It’s only effective if consumed while the blood is relatively fresh. Surely you wouldn’t suggest we neglect what we’ve come to rely on so much, even if it’s a human?”

  “I’d suggest that the human had best come into our own custody so we can monitor her and her contributions to our people as we see fit,” Ambrose replies.

  Exactly as I feared, without a moment’s grace. My fangs itch in my gums. I’ve enjoyed the idea of ripping Ambrose’s throat out from the moment decades ago when he chuckled as he showed me the tattered flesh that was all that remained of my soul-twined mate when his warriors were done with her. Now I’ll add his ribs and his intestines to the list of body parts I’d enjoy seeing violently extracted.

  “I haven’t stated my conditions.” I slide my gaze from him to the more moderate two of the arch-lords. “I have enough vials of the tonic for every warrior along the border and more besides so you can summon additional forces from the nearby domains. Given the dire peril we face tonight, I don’t think my terms are particularly extreme.

  “My pack has remained in our banishment to the fringes for several decades now while offering nothing but full loyalty to you and to the Heart. Not one of us so banished was ever found to have played a role in the treason we were sanctioned for. Despite our dwindled numbers, we have fought alongside every other pack at the border. My cadre-chosen risked his life and our honor on your behalf to confirm the Unseelie threat, and we uncovered the true nature of the tonic and have revealed it to you.”

  “More than we can say of Aerik, I’ll admit,” Donovan says with a quirk of his eyebrows that feels promising.

  “Indeed. And he received many rewards for what he did offer. You didn’t demand control over his operations when you believed them unmovable.” I lift my jaw, my spine stretching to emphasize my height. “I request that I and my pack recover our claim over the domain of Hearthshire. That we be absolved of any continuing suspicion of treachery. And that we be allowed to continue to watch over the human woman as we have seen fit, unless it should conspire that we are no longer able to arrange the cure while she’s in our care.”

  I can’t fulfill any promise to Talia without my pack’s standing restored. The arch-lords could never justify leaving a being so valuable in the hands of a lord they still officially distrust. Every piece of my demand hinges together.

  Ambrose snorts, but Donovan gives a careful nod at the same time. Between them, Celia steeples her hands on her lap, her expression impenetrable.

  “You request very much, Lord Sylas,” she says. “But you also offer a lot. You would risk our people in insisting on these terms?”

  I focus my attention solely on her. I don’t need Ambrose’s agreement. I’ve already won Donovan over, and if I have Celia, their votes will outweigh his. But I don’t think I’ve convinced her yet.

  “I have faith that the arch-lords will see justice carried out, and I must serve the needs of my pack as well as all my brethren. What kind of lord would I be if I didn’t speak for them while I can?”

  “Hmm.” Her gaze drifts away from me, going distant. Uneasiness winds through my gut. Have I made all the case I can?


  A filmy image forms before my deadened eye: a memory of a time long past when I stood before her. The echo of her past self bolts upright from her throne, her hands fisted at her sides, and makes a declaration my mystical vision can’t give voice to but that I can read from her lips. We must respect the Heart and all its tenets!

  The image wisps away, but it leaves a solid sense of certainty in its wake. I do know how to appeal to her sensibilities.

  “And if I may add,” I say, low and steady, “I ask for nothing more but to see the principles of the Heart carried out. There is no balance in consigning a pack who would serve you well to the fringes. There is no harmony in wrenching a living, feeling being from the one home in years where she’s been treated with compassion.”

  Celia’s eyes flick back to me. She sits up straighter. I’m not sure I’ve swayed her—or that I haven’t pushed too far.

  “This is too great a matter to put to a vote in an instant,” she says. “I say we deliberate—quickly, given the circumstances. Unless my fellow arch-lords object, I ask that you and your cadre-chosen retreat outside until you are summoned.”

  Neither Ambrose nor Donovan raises an objection, although Ambrose’s face has turned even sourer. I bob my head alongside August’s deeper bow, and we escort ourselves out of the Bastion.

  The brilliant sun beaming over us provides little comfort. August shifts his weight from foot to foot restlessly. “What will we do if they—”

  I hold up my hand. “Let the decision come as it will. I’ll handle it either way.”

  It can’t be more than a quarter of an hour, but when a man of Donovan’s cadre pokes his head from the doorway and calls us back in, I feel as though I’ve been standing there for days. My heart doesn’t lift until we step into the audience room and I catch the trace of a smile lingering on Celia’s lips. Ambrose is scowling, but he keeps his mouth shut.