Feral Blood (Bound to the Fae Book 2)

by Eva Chase

  Donovan doesn’t restrain his smile at all. “It is my pleasure to speak for all three of us that we accept your terms,” he says, and a current of magic ripples into his voice. “Hearthshire will be restored to Lord Sylas and his pack. You will be absolved of any wrongdoing in the treason spearheaded by the Thistlegrove pack. And we will stake no direct claim on the human woman who contributes to the cure as long as you continue to provide all who need it with the tonic.”

  He’s barely finished speaking before Ambrose rises with a sharp clinking of his armored vest. “If you’re quite satisfied, let’s have that tonic already. No one should have forgotten that we have a terrible battle ahead of us tonight.”

  I dip my head again in agreement, but even knowing that, my spirits soar. While we have the Unseelie still to contend with, I’ve won the battle my people have been fighting quietly and without complaint for more decades than I like to count.

  All of my pack has gained a sort of freedom today. I’ll snap a thousand ravens’ necks before I let them steal it away again.

  Evening has fallen when August and I gather our warriors near the river. I glance from one of them to the other and then to the heads of the other squadrons nearby, who’ve received their orders—and the word that Lord Sylas has proven his loyalty and can demand the same from them. A few of the warriors offer grim smiles of acknowledgment.

  “You’ve all had your tonic?” I ask my pack-kin, and take in their nods. “Good. If we stick to the strategy discussed, the ravens won’t know what hit them before there are feathers strewn across these fields. Let them see easy prey until they lower their guard—and then they’ll be the ones pleading for mercy.”

  Moving among them, I give them each a bolstering cuff to the shoulder or bump of an elbow. Then I step aside and release my wolf.

  There’s something so perfect about stretching into my beastly form with utter control on a night when so many times before I truly became a beast. The awareness of every muscle and limb prickles through my limber body.

  I wheel to confirm that the rest of my pack-kin have transformed at my lead. At my brisk bark, the squadron scatters, August roaming to the south while I wander north.

  I weave back and forth on an erratic path, shaking my head, snarling at the grass, snapping at any other wolf I cross paths with. Giving every appearance of being lost in wildness. Let the ravens come. Let them see the chaos they expected.

  The sky darkens to black. The round, white face of the moon peers over us. The magical defenses along the border warble, sending increasingly violent shudders through the air. Then they shatter, and hundreds of darkly-feathered bodies swoop through the haze.

  Some circle over us, observing. Others soar farther west toward the nearest towns, where other squadrons and dozens of newly gathered warriors from the nearby packs are waiting to dole out the same fate.

  So many more of us await the Unseelie forces than they’ll have been expecting. But that won’t worry them yet, not while they’re still caught up in glee over our apparent incoherence.

  Anticipation thrums through my veins like the magic of the Heart. Let them come. Let them come and—

  The immense birds drop, transforming into armored, winged men brandishing swords and spears as they descend on us. A few of them are laughing, reveling in how easily they believe they’ll pick us off much as Whitt revels in fairy wine. I allow myself a wolfish grin.

  As one being, the wolves of summer spring to attention and lunge at our foes.

  We pick those unsuspecting feather-brains out of mid-dive and slam them to the earth, claws already gouging, fangs already chomping. Cries and groans echo across the moonlit plains, too late to give each other warning. They fell on us together thinking to slaughter us in one swift strike, and we’ve turned the strike back on them.

  I tear through one attacker’s throat just above the neck of his armor and slash another. There are yelps of wolfish pain in the night, but not as many as the gurgles of our enemies. Everywhere, furred bodies spin and leap and maul, until the grass is splattered scarlet and the earth beneath runs red with raven blood, and the stragglers flee back into the haze.

  Watching them, the metallic tang laced through my mouth, I raise my head toward the moon that’s haunted us for so many years and let loose a howl of victory. One after another, my pack-kin and my brethren match it, until the very wind shakes with the news of our triumph.

  May the ravens hear it all the way in their icy lands and feel a chill of terror in their hearts.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Talia

  As the carriage leaves Oakmeet behind, watching the familiar forestlands, hills, and knobby spires of rock fade into the distance brings a melancholy twinge into my chest.

  I found peace in that place. I figured out—maybe not everything—but a whole lot about who I am now and what I want. And I don’t think Sylas or his pack have any interest in returning to the domain of their disgrace ever again.

  But I can’t regret our departure. I might not be fae, but I can feel the shift in the atmosphere the farther we venture from our former home. A softer warmth flows through the air with every mile we travel closer to the Heart. The vegetation around us grows brighter and more fragrant, filling my lungs with floral sweetness and evergreen tang. Hope lights the faces of both my three lovers and the pack grouped on other carriages in a stream behind ours.

  We’re heading away from the first real home I’ve had in the fae world but toward the one they’ve all missed for so long.

  I’m sitting tucked next to August on one of the moss-cushioned benches, my head resting against his shoulder as his fingers idly play with my hair. While we’re in view of the rest of the pack, I’m still only involved with him. But now and then as Whitt strolls along the length of the carriage, he shoots me sly smiles with a promise of what might come behind closed doors at our destination. Sylas stands at the bow like captain of a ship, but when he returned two mornings ago and announced that the arch-lords had agreed to let him “keep” me, he gathered me in his arms so tightly afterward that the echo of the embrace still tingles through me when I think of it.

  We skirt the edge of a valley where a river of lavender-purple water courses, and then weave through ruddy rocks that jut like fingers from grass fine as spider webbing. When another forest looms up ahead, Sylas steps back to sink on the bench across from August and me.

  “That’s the edge of our domain,” he says, tipping his head toward the trees. As we speed toward them, my heart starts to swell with awe. Closer up, it’s obvious that they’re twice as large as the grandest ordinary trees I’ve ever seen: trunks as thick as turrets, leaves so broad I could lie on one without an inch of me slipping over the edge.

  “Did no one take over your land while you were banished?” I ask. He hasn’t mentioned us displacing another pack.

  He shakes his head. “It seems neither of the two new lords who set off to form separate packs were bold enough to stake a claim, and none of those who already had their own domains were inclined to relocate to this one.” He gives me a rare wide smile. “I like to think they all knew I’d be back before too long.”

  “If there had been any squatters, the arch-lords would simply have had to find them a new territory,” Whitt says. “The summer lands are hardly choked with packs. We do enjoy plenty of room to roam around.”

  He looks pleased in a more relaxed sort of way than is usual for him too. I snuggle closer to August, anticipation tickling through me. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  Sylas casts his gaze toward the bow again. “Very soon.”

  The carriages soar between the magnificent trees. They’re gliding along too quickly for me to make out many details, but I think I see a flowery vine slithering across one trunk like a snake—or maybe it’s a snake that’s doing a very good imitation of a vine—and a cliffside that glints like wet copper. Then the trees part to form a sort of avenue toward two of the immense pines, spaced some twenty feet apart with t
heir upper branches reaching out and lacing through one another overhead to form a natural gateway.

  Passing through that gateway, I get my first glimpse of Hearthshire’s keep. Except it isn’t a keep—somehow I assumed it would be, although Sylas has referred to it as a castle at least once.

  It looks quite a bit like the building we left behind in Oakmeet: a cluster of polished trunks grown so close together they merged into one being. But the structure stands at least twice as broad and tall as the keep did. A few of the trunks rise higher into actual turrets, and the leafless branches that sprout all across the roof twist into forms that echo the true-name marks tattooed on the fae’s bodies.

  Patches of moss cling to the smooth wood, and spindly vines crisscross the outer walls, winding in and out of the windows. Wild vegetation has similarly consumed the houses clustered around the sides and back of the castle—more of them than I can easily count. Over fifty, if I had to guess. A pang shoots through my chest at the thought of how much of his former pack Sylas has lost since they called this place home.

  When I look at the fae lord, his face is practically glowing, his gaze fixed on his castle. “There it is,” he murmurs.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, awed as much by the joy shining through him as by the building itself.

  His gaze jerks to me, and his smile turns slightly sheepish, as if he’s embarrassed to have shown his elation so openly. “It’ll be spectacular when we’ve had time to get everything in order. The forest has crept in on the castle grounds. No doubt weeds have swallowed the gardens. But there is plenty of time for that.”

  August lets out a sigh of relief. “It’s good to be home.”

  Sylas has talked about his family and their pack as if it was separate from his own, but for the first time full understanding sinks in. “You didn’t inherit this domain. You built everything here from scratch on your own.”

  “With the help of my pack,” Sylas says. “But yes. My father continues to lord over Thundervale. It’s not unusual for true-blooded fae to strike out on their own rather than sticking around hoping their elders will meet an early end to give them space to carve their own mark.”

  I know his feelings about his family are much more complicated than his dry remark would imply. The last thing I want to do in this moment of celebration is push him to think about why he left his very first home. So I don’t ask anything more, just drink in the sights and sounds and scents as the carriages come to rest at the foot of the castle.

  Sylas climbs out first and swivels to face his pack. I spot Harper nearly falling over the side of her carriage, her eyes wider than ever.

  “If you wish to keep your old house, consider it yours,” Sylas says. “If you’d rather swap for one now abandoned, by all means. No squabbles, please. We have plenty to go around. Anyone who requires help whipping them back into shape, don’t hesitate to call on me or my cadre. We’ll have Hearthshire good as ever in no time.”

  Leaving the carriages holding our luggage behind for now, he strides toward the castle. August helps me out, Whitt right behind me, and the three of us follow the fae lord into his beloved home.

  The entrance room reminds me of Oakmeet’s too, only the ceiling is a little higher and the room a little longer, and no orbs remain to add light to the space. The leaves on the vines that creep across the walls quiver at Sylas’s passing as if even they recognize his authority.

  Beyond the entrance room, Sylas turns from the hall into a doorway at his left. We follow, and all at once I see how this domain got its name.

  Faded rugs scatter the floor between plump sofas and chairs that have crumpled with the passage of time. They’re all arranged to face a stone hearth so massive I could step inside it without fear of bumping my head. I think maybe even Sylas could fit in it comfortably.

  Sylas speaks a low word, and flames spring up from the hearth’s base. The smell of warmed wood and scorched stone fills the air. We step closer to the warbling fire, drawing together as we do.

  Sylas motions me in front of him, placing one hand on my shoulder and teasing the other into my hair before kissing the back of my head. August slips his hand around mine. Whitt hangs back for just a moment before I glance toward him. When he ambles over to join us, I tuck my other hand around his elbow.

  We stay there basking in the hearth’s heat for several minutes in comfortable silence. I should probably tell them that they can get on with all the cleaning and organizing they obviously need to do—and help them with it—but I’m so content I can’t quite bring myself to say the words. My three fae men don’t appear to be in any hurry to break the spell of the moment either.

  We made it here, all of us together. Standing there between them, not a single part of me doubts that this is where I’m meant to be.

  Out of nowhere, a loud knocking reverberates from the entrance room. Sylas makes a vexed sound but eases away from me toward the hall.

  “No rest for our glorious leader,” Whitt remarks. “Let’s see what trouble the pack has managed to get themselves into already.”

  It isn’t our pack, though. Sylas opens the door to reveal an unfamiliar woman in a trim blue jacket and trousers, hemmed with gold. She dips her head, hands a piece of rolled paper to Sylas, and says, “With regards from Arch-Lord Ambrose.”

  Apparently she hasn’t been instructed to wait for a response. She marches back across the lawn to where a graceful white horse is waiting, leaps into its saddle, and has it cantering away before Sylas has even finished unrolling the letter.

  Ambrose. He’s the arch-lord who’s been harshest on Sylas, who blames him for what his mate did, who he was the most worried about objecting to his requests. As I wait for Sylas to read, my body stiffens. At the fae lord’s snarl, I flinch.

  He shreds the paper into scraps so swiftly I never even see his claws emerge and flings the bits aside. A dark cloud has rolled over the joy that shone in his face. August tenses beside me.

  Whitt offers a sickly-looking smile. “I take it he wasn’t simply offering happy tidings.”

  Sylas’s hands flex by his thighs. “It may not be anything. But it’s probably what I think it is. I should have known better. That mangy prick.”

  “What did he say?” I venture.

  “He ‘requests’ I call on him in three days’ time. Which in arch-lord terms is a demand.” Sylas swivels toward us, his unscarred eye so somber the iris has turned nearly black as it settles on me. “And he insists that I bring you with me.”

  Whitt spits out a scathing curse. “I thought the deal was settled.”

  “Perhaps it is. Perhaps I should be more generous in my assumptions, and he only wants to have a look at Talia. But knowing Ambrose, he’ll try to weasel around the wording of our agreement and take her into his custody.” Sylas’s frown deepens. He touches my cheek. “I will not let that happen.”

  August’s arms bulge as if he’s preparing to charge all the way to the arch-lord’s domain and pummel him, but I can’t speak or move at all. Sylas’s words resonate through me, stirring up the last question I want to consider.

  Ambrose is an arch-lord, the highest authority in the entire fae world. If he intends to take me… how can any of these men possibly stop him?

  * * *

  What evil scheme does Arch-Lord Ambrose have in the works—and will Talia and her wolfish lovers be able to overcome it? Find out in Kings of Moonlight, the third book in the Bound to the Fae series. Get Kings of Moonlight now!

  Want access to early cover reveals, exclusive teasers, and more? Join Eva’s reader group, the Minions of Magic!

  Next in the Bound to the Fae series

  Kings of Moonlight (Bound to the Fae #3)

  My power could unite the summer fae... or tear them utterly apart.

  The truth is out. The whole Seelie realm now knows that the cure for their full moon curse lies in my blood.

  I thought the gamble of revealing that secret would put only my safety on the line. But when one of th
e arch-lords sets his sights on me, it soon becomes clear there's so much more at stake.

  Claiming me is just one piece in a play for control over all Seelie kind. How can honorable men like my new lovers fight back when our enemies are willing to stoop so low? To save me and his pack, the lord who rescued me may have to turn into the thing he hates most.

  With awful secrets unearthed and betrayals among our own, can I find a way to be my lovers' strength in this storm—or will I become their fatal weakness?

  Get it now!

  Dragon’s Guard excerpt

  Did you know I have another reverse harem paranormal romance series full of alpha shifters, a heroine discovering her powers, and mysteries to unravel? Here’s a sneak peek inside the first book, Dragon’s Guard.

  The last dragon shifter meets her four hot alpha mates—and life is about to get dangerous.

  DRAGON’S GUARD

  1

  Ren

  “Are you waiting for someone, honey?” the bartender asked.

  It was a reasonable question, considering that I’d been perched on one of the leather-cushioned seats at the bar for ten minutes without ordering anything. If the place had been any busier, he’d probably have pushed me a lot sooner. But there was only one other patron down the counter from me, a grizzled dude who was glued to his beer and the burble of the football game, and a handful of people scattered around the wooden tables in the rest of the room.

  I’d picked this bar for exactly that reason. If she came, it’d be somewhere low key, not too noisy or crowded. At least, that had felt like the right idea. It wasn’t as if she’d shown up anyway.