Page 80 of The Savage Queen

Aisling had known, had seen how Dagfin had changed since she’d last set eyes on him as a boy. But today, she saw the legacy of his evolution and the esteem he’d won as a result. The fame. Even as Dagfin chose to ignore their ill-masked gossip and reverence, leading four fae knights, the not-so-mortal queen of Annwyn, and a marten in disguise into the pit of their world.

But Aisling’s attention was swiftly stolen by the bloody runes painted across Bludhaven, the bones hanging from rooftops like wind chimes, and the temple at the end of the thoroughfare. A colossal structure adorned with countless statues of winged Aos Sí. The statues swung their blades beside the pointed archways, plucked harps, blew flutes atop the spindly spires, and danced across the stained glass. All chiseled with such lifelike realism as though a single lingering glare could bring them to life. Crowned by the image of a stag bowing to all those who crossed its threshold.

And growing from within was a blood ash. Branches and roots breaking through the stained glass, around the galleries, and along the stone exterior, rising from the roof of the cathedral and to the grumbling clouds overhead.

Chanting roared from its inside and slithered through Bludhaven’s passages, its song wholly unsettling.

“This looks as good a place as any,” Gilrel said, carrying her tail so the sea of mortals didn’t trample it. She gestured to one of the many inns pressed between smoking hospices.

“Abhaile” was written across a creaking sign just above its threshold. A fae word, Aisling conjectured.

They entered.

The roar of the town faded into the twang of the bard plucking at his lute and the drunkards singing along, washing over Aisling as she stepped onto the sticky ale-stained floorboards. Soft, golden firelight flickering beneath eight or so wooden beams, carrying the weight of what Aisling imagined were rooms for stay.

Filverel approached the bar, whispering beneath his breath to the mortal who stood behind it. Aisling studied their interaction. To Aisling, who saw beyond Lir’s glamour, Filverel was a pale opal surrounded by common highland stones. Another testament to the Sidhe’s glory, made blinding by the fae king standing beside her. A dark jewel inside this mortal, dusty cavity. Glittering with all the lethality she’d dreamt of over the past several months.

“You should eat,” Lir said to Aisling, starting for one of the various tables spread throughout the inn’s first floor. In a cobwebbed corner ofAbhaile, the dark cloaked the one he chose.

Galad and Gilrel followed Lir while Peitho approached the bar alongside Filverel.

Aisling hung back, Dagfin a step behind, finding in himself the motivation to join Lir.

“It’s dangerous to be walkin’ round these parts dressed such as yourself.” A man stepped between Aisling and Lir’s table, bulbous eyes devouring her unapologetically. He smelled of bitter ales and body odor, boots caked in mud, and had a facemarred by both an unfavorable life and indulgent drink. Poorly drawn fae markings etched beneath his skin.

Indeed, only Dagfin’s Roktan cloak prevented her from being entirely bare to the ravenous winter. Whatever Sidhe blood flowed freely within her warmed her bones enough and if a faint whisper of the cold threatened to chill her, Aisling simply summoned her fires beneath her skin. Nevertheless, glamoured by Lir, these druids saw only a woman in a weathered dress and cloak, stumbling into their tavern.

“It’s no concern of yours,” Dagfin said from behind Aisling, his voice taut with calculated anger.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to ye,” the man said, stepping nearer to Aisling. “I was talkin’ to the lady.”

Aisling simpered, thedraiochtprickling at her fingertips.

“A choice you’ll regret if you don’t clear my path.”

The man revealed a collection of yellowed teeth. “So the lady has fangs. Why don’t you come and sit a while, I’ll warm ye?—”

The man’s eyes went wide. The words seemingly caught in his throat. Aisling glanced over her shoulder at Dagfin, but his daggers were still sheathed. Only his shoulders hiked in anger.

The man gagged, face red and horrified. And Aisling knew. Knew before the first vines slithered from his mouth, suffocating him from the inside and crawling to the light to boast their victory. Just as Lir had done to Ciar before Dagfin and Peitho’s failed union.

Lir, seemingly bored, shoved past the man to return for Aisling. The druid, knocked off balance, tumbled into a nearby table drawing the attention of the tavern.

Lir pressed his gloved hand to the small of Aisling’s back, gently guiding her to their table.

Dagfin hesitated, torn between following Aisling or helping the druid. A punishable crime but, in Dagfin’s eyes, not by death, Aisling knew.

“Remind me not to let you out of my sight again,” Lir said, even as the man collapsed againstAbhaile’s floor, thorny tendrils wet with mortal blood as he heaved the last of Lir’s magic.

“I’m not your hunt,” Aisling said, still glancing at the man over her shoulder.

“Don’t look,” Lir said.

“You’re killing him.”

“The art of the kill is often a practice of managing guilt. And after a few hundred times, it grows easy until nothing is felt at all.”

“You’re wicked.”

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