Page 114 of The Savage Queen

“This isn’t an enchantment,” Lir continued, placing his palm against the door.

“Samhainspirits,” Aisling gauged. “Are they not a threat?”

“Not typically,” Lir replied. “The spirits ofSamhainare fae-pardoned and allowed to exist in the Other. They bear no ties to this realm, nor do they wish to. They’re chaotic in nature, interested only in entertainment and mischief but this close to Lofgren’s Rise and so potent…yes, they could be a threat.”

Aisling swallowed. Whoever celebrated on the other side of that door was indeed powerful. Pulsing with thedraiochtand rattling the whole of Iod.

“They’ll recognize us ‘non-spirits’ the moment we step through those doors.” Lir cracked his neck, bending it side to side before turning to face Aisling.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them, Aisling could smell the essence of his glamour. Of pine needles, rain-steeped earth, and crisp leaves.

Lir’s leathers had vanished entirely in exchange for a loose-fitted, unbuttoned blouse that unveiled the length of his chiseled abdomen. Trousers belted indecently low while a gold leaf, embroidered jacket held the weight of a pauldron and scaly chainmail shimmering down his left arm. Rose gold chains likethorny vines wrapped around his throat. The complement to the small hoops in his left ear.

Aisling, against her own volition, traced his fae markings with her eyes, creeping up the hard, muscled angles of his abdomen. Her attention inspired a dimpled grin from the fae king that could’ve undone Aisling if she’d lingered a moment longer than necessary. Heat bleeding behind her cheeks as she broke eye contact.

Aisling looked down at herself, discovering a floor length, form-fitting gown of sensual violet. Silk folds, sparkling spider’s lace, and secret-thin panels of sheer chiffon hugged her curves like simmering cauldron teas. The neckline dipped dangerously low, exposing the rapid pace of Aisling’s every breath. Parts of her abdomen, hips, and arms made vulnerable and exposed to Iod’s chill thanks to the sheer panels that sparkled with dew. Droplets scattered across her skirts and jeweled the bluebells braided through her undone hair; their hue, dipped in the memory of amethysts.

Lir’s expression flashed with something unholy, marveling with wicked satisfaction at the gown he’d sewn in his mind then glamoured onto Aisling. A dress fit for a royalSnaidhm. So she resisted the urge to burn, her toes curling.

“This will disguise us well enough,” Lir said, adjusting the rings magicked onto his fingers.

“And what of my mortal scent? Whatever remains of my mortality, the spirits will identify the moment I step through those doors.”

Lir frowned, glancing at the door.

“By now, it’s barely recognizable,” he said. “Although, you’re partially correct. Even a sliver would be enough for the spirits to recognize. And my blood will only mask yours to an extent lest you travel directly beside me the whole way through."

Aisling swallowed, ignoring the fluttering of her stomach as Lir stepped nearer.

“Stay close to me,” he said. “And never leave my side.”

Aisling opened her mouth to speak, but before she could manage a word the door creaked ajar, pushed open by a phantom hand. A ribbon of light spilling into the stone corridor.

An invitation.

Music colored the air in decadent golds, rich emeralds, royal blues, hungry reds, and lush lavenders. The smell and taste of fae buttered rolls, sweet cakes, gelatins, roasted pig, and freshly plucked apples marinated in syrup and baked in artfully kneaded dough, hung in the air.

Aisling squinted, bracing herself against the contrast. The lip of icy highland corridor, a cliff’s edge to the revelry that took place before her. A glittering, rib-vaulted chamber of glowing roses puckering from garlands that coiled around great ashes, sprouting from the marbled floors, dappled in leaves and petals, and winding to the ceilings. Every branch draped with bluebells, wisterias, bushes of bone’s breath and Connemara poppies, cocooning the room in their embrace. A gathering blessed by showers of flowers, braided branches, and ripe fruit begging to be plucked.

Aisling inhaled, brushed by a rogue firefly slipping through the threshold they’d opened. One of hundreds, floating lazily between winged dancers. Countless of them, twirling, spinning, leaping to the drums, the flutes, the fiddles, laughing.

“Care to dance?” Lir asked. Aisling whipped her head in his direction. He offered her his hand, fangs shimmering where his lips curled like a wolf.

Aisling shook her head, her tongue suddenly thick. “It isn’t worth of the risk.”

Lir’s smile broadened. “To walk would risk discovery.”

“You mean to say they haven’t noticed us yet?” Aisling asked, as a gathering of toads crowned by hoops of daisies leapt to the rhythm, hand in hand with mice. The mice’s paws full of soft cheeses stolen from the banquet table.

Bears lounged at the base of trees, the roots of the mightiest oaks their throne, as they huffed on pipes beside giggling phantom nymphs, brushing one another’s hair.

“The veil between here and the Other is thin thanks toSamhainbut not torn entirely. To disrupt a procession of spirits would award us their full attention. And such attention is never recommended.”

Aisling stepped toward him so Lir bowed his head in invitation as the badger, the tortoise, and the fox adjusted their instruments and flipped their sheet music, preparing to begin another song.

“Whatever you do,” he whispered, “don’t stop dancing whilst the music plays.”

Aisling slipped her hand into his, the contact scalding. So, Lir pulled her close, wrapping his other hand around her waist till they stood chest to chest. The thump of his heart accelerating beside her own.

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