Page 33 of The Mortal Queen

It was too late. Even if she were to run, it already knew she was here. Her presence could no longer be denied even if Lir had glamoured her.

A great force flung Aisling to the side. The queen flew, landing further into the forest on a cushion of leaves and rolling until she collided against a pine. As quickly as she was capable, Aisling staggered to her feet. A brief inspection suggested she suffered no broken bones, fractured limbs, sprained joints, or otherwise serious injuries. Unless the adrenaline was doing a fine job of subsiding the pain.

At the lip of the woods, Lir wrestled the wolf, a knot of vines and shadows.

The beast pinned the fae king, limiting access to his twin blades, its muzzle chomping at the tip of the fae king’s nose. Nevertheless, Lir managed to free one arm, pushing back the hound’s jaws with roots he’d freshly summoned. Roots the creature shredded when they threatened to burst its windpipe, forcing Lir to peer down its gaping throat until he could fling the creature off himself. Strength the fae king made appear effortless. The wolf collided against the sharp edge of a boulder, lending Aisling clear sight of the beast for the first time since Lir had attacked.

Before she could think twice, Aisling drew Iarbonel’s dagger from her corset, tossing the blade as hard as she was capable. To her surprise, the dagger found its target, sticking the beast below its rib cage, a pitiful whimper echoing into the forest.

But it was far from vanquished, instead, reminded of Aisling’s potency nearby. For although the wolf couldn’t see her, its nose would be guide enough.

The beast abandoned Lir where he stood paces away, racing instead for the woman. More interested in satiating its appetite than encountering its inevitable demise at the hands of the fae king.

Aisling picked up her feet, heavy beneath the pressure of Lir’s glamour, and ran. She leapt over stones, across logs, through icy streams, weaving through the labyrinth. Aisling had never ventured this far into the forest. It was a vast maze of chittering trees, each craning to get a good look at the mortal woman dashing for her life. Aisling felt their sighs, the groans of their primeval bodies waking to the sound of her feet brushing the undergrowth. In other circumstances, Aisling would’ve enjoyed losing herself in the woodland. A realm of feral enchantment, the antithesis to her father’s stone and iron world. But, as it was now, fear charged her. Nourished her race through the feywilds.

The mortal queen ran quickly but her predator was quicker, nipping at her heels with increased fervor. As though the chase rendered it more esurient, more desperate, more capable of ‘seeing’ her with its nose and appetite than its eyes ever could.

Close enough now, the creature nipped at Aisling’s legs, sending the mortal queen tumbling against spidery roots and unforgiving stones. The world was a blur of black, brown, wet and cold, as Aisling slid through slush on the forest floor. She clamored to her knees as the wolf sprang for her arm.

Aisling screamed. She’d never felt pain like this before. Never endured anything worse than scratches, scrapes, and bruises. Now, red flowed freely from the wound, dying the sleeve of her emerald gown. A throbbing, blistering pain that, despite Aisling clutching the tender flesh, worsened as the seconds passed. But the monster wasn’t finished. The wolf padded nearer to Aisling, savoring the frenzied beat of her heart, the sweat beading against her pale skin, the smell of her blood, and the excited trembling of her hands and knees. After all, she couldn’t fight the creature. Couldn’t outrun it.

Help, she said wordlessly, recognizing the futility of such a cry. Flames of panic and anger scalding her from the inside out.

Thewolf leaned back on its haunches, preparing to lunge forward. And just as it did, a small, black creature snapped between its eyes.

A snake. Not just any snake. The sable serpent that had guided Aisling through Castle Annwyn, or at the very least the same breed.

It stiffened its neck, belly tightening before striking the monster’s eyes. And although this obsidian friend could do little more than deter the hound, the distraction was lifesaving for it afforded Aisling a breath. A single exhalation before a weight tackled the wolf to the ground, skewering its chest to the dirt with a thick, razor-edged branch.

In a flash, Lir was atop the creature, driving a stake into the ghostly spine of the hound. It released a blood-curdling cry. Enough for Aisling’s skin to crawl, but the mortal queen was unable to pry her eyes from the violence, the puddling beneath the monster’s now-limp corpse, the meaty sound of punctured flesh, Lir’s eyes void of any morsel of humanity. For in this moment, there was none of the whimsy of the Aos Sí in his expression. It was all barbaric. All savage, come to claim its kill and relish in its death.

The demon still twitched so Lir grabbed the hound’s head.

“Close your eyes,” Lir said, his voice an otherworldly growl. But Aisling ignored him, forcing herself to witness this death. A silent agreement sealed between Aisling and Lir as the fae king nodded, twisting the neck of the beast. Aisling’s ears popped in time to hear the crack of the wolf’s bones.

The glamour was done. The demon collapsed, heaving one last wicked puff. And its fiery, ruby eyes simmered into nothing more than glassy, black coals.

The next several hours were a blur.

Lir climbed off the corpse, white rage possessing his features, eyes capable of devouring anything and everything they beheld with the wild breath of the wood. The next moment, Aisling and the fae king were surrounded by Aos Sí, the music and lights of theSnaidhmflashing forcibly.

Lir, having carried her from the forest, his hands sticky with her blood, handed her to Galad. They spoke their Rún angrily, voices rising over the commotion, the confusion. Then suddenly, Aisling was in her chambers, busily fussed over by Gilrel, her magpies, and several other nameless creatures Aisling had yet to meet: two hares, an otter, a fox, and a particularly scrupulous hedgehog.

They stripped the queen of her gown and bathed her, washing the mud, dirt, and blood from her hair and skin. But Aisling felt fine. In fact, the pain hadn’t settled until the following morning. And when she awoke, the ache in her arm was unbearable, despite the bite wound cleaned and wrapped tightly, bandages replaced every so often.

Several of her fingers were purpled and swollen while her hands and feet were riddled with flesh wounds. Aisling hadn’t recalled receiving those.

“You’re in shock,mo Lúra,” Gilrel said, accepting a teapot from a flock of magpies hovering beside her. “What do you remember?”

To the best of her ability, Aisling chronicled the night to her chambermaid. The images flashed across her mind, recoiling as if having been burned by the memory alone. The sound of the hound’s baleful growl vibrating through her body still.

“The Cú Scáth,” Gilrel interrupted her tale. Aisling wasn’t familiar with its name. How could she be? Clann Neimedh had never once mentioned the Unseelie. They were either blissfully unawareorthey’d pretended they were. Aisling couldn’t decide which was worse. Either way, she neededto write to Nemed and clear this all away. Rid herself of the burden of this knowledge.

Once she finished reciting the memory in its entirety, Gilrel frowned. The room was silent. Even the doors to the balcony had been firmly shut, shunning the morning breeze, the songbirds, the badger that crawled in to feed on Aisling’s scraps from time to time. And whichever maids had come to assist Gilrel the night prior were nowhere to be seen, perhaps already having returned to their usual responsibilities throughout the castle.

“You’re fortunate yourcaerawas there, otherwise…” Gilrel trailed off but Aisling knew the implication. She’d be dead, half-digested within the belly of that foul beast by now.

But despite her shock, the horror of the memories, Aisling found herself strangely exhilarated. Aisling had scarcely spoken the words to herself, guiltily keeping them at bay. Even so, the queen had never endured anything half so exciting in all her life, confined to the walls of Tilren lest her and Dagfin escape. But now, she’d felt it for herself, experienced it herself.

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