Page 24 of The Night Prince

“Are you feeling alright?” His tone is soft, and he touches my cheek. “Is it the fever?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re looking a wee bit sweaty. Perhaps we should get you sat down.” Indignation floods my system, and I shove him. I may as well be trying to move a rock for all the good it does. He arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “What?”

“Don’t tell a woman she looks sweaty!” I shove him again. He doesn’t budge an inch. “I’m sweating because I’ve just hiked up a big bloody mountain!”

He laughs. Loudly. “You should have said something. I would have carried you.”

“I don’t need carrying! I’m not completely fragile, Callum!”

He looks like he’s going to say something, probably obnoxious, judging by the glint in his eye, but his brow furrows. At the same time, that thread of Blake’s life force coils around my soul. I stiffen as it implodes, and ice crackles through my veins.

Blake stands with Lochlan and Arran by the whisky barrel. The wind drags its fingers through his dark hair, and makes his black coat flutter. His expression is careful, casual, but I catch a hint of ice in his eyes.

On the other side of the circle, the blonde priestess in the white dress has her hand curled around the young boy, Alfie’s, arm. She appears to be scolding him, and his bottom lip wobbles as his eyes, big as saucers, fill with tears. The wind carries her voice toward me, as Elsie—his mother—storms across the circle, knocking shoulders with an older gentleman in her haste to get to him.

“... an abomination. Your mother should be ashamed bringing you here. You’re as tainted by darkness as she is, and you have no business—”

The roar in my ears tunes out whatever she says next. I don’t know why she is punishing the little boy, but I won’t stand for it. I have little patience for religious zealots, having been whipped throughout my childhood for my “sins against the Sun Goddess”. I want to be respectful of the Wolves’ culture, but Ican’t stand by and watch a young child be made to feel small by someone who claims to know the will of her goddess.

I stride toward them. “Let go of the child,” I say.

The Moon Priestess’s blue eyes snap toward me, and strands of blonde hair whip her face. There must be something in my expression she doesn’t like, because she releases her grip on his arm. “You’re the Southlands princess, aren’t you? You’re ignorant of our customs. But—”

“Careful.” Callum puts his hand on my shoulder, as if to let me know I have his support. His heat sears my back, but it does little to warm the ice in my veins. I’m unsure whether it’s my anger or Blake’s that makes my body shake.

The priestess points at Alfie. “His mother is tainted. Promised to the God of Night—”

“He is a young child. An innocent,” I say. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” I hold out my hand to him. “It’s okay, Alfie.”

He grasps my fingers with his tiny hand, his black hair in disarray and his cheeks flushed and wet. I pull him toward Callum and me as Elsie shudders to a halt beside us. The wolf blazes in her eyes as she prods her finger in the priestess’s direction. “You stay away from my son.”

“I cannot conduct a ceremony to honor our goddess when a supporter of the God of Night is in attendance—”

“Elsie is no more of an acolyte than any of us here.” Blake’s voice is like a blade as he approaches.

Arran is beside him, and the large man’s arm brushes against me as he grabs Alfie’s collar and tugs. Tears shimmer in the boy’s eyes, until Arran scoops him up and sits him on his broad shoulders.

“Come on, trouble,” he says. “Let’s go count the stones in the circle.” He strides away, and I wonder if he doesn’t want the young boy to witness whatever Blake has planned next.

“Apologize,” says Blake, his tone like silk.

The night has quietened around us, as if Blake’s presence has alerted both clans that something is going on. Elsie’s cheeks redden.

“It’s fine, Blake,” says Elsie. “Don’t you dare cause a scene. Not tonight. You’ll ruin everything. I’d rather be in bed with a book than listen to this bitch drone on all night, anyway.”

Blake keeps his gaze on the priestess. “Apologize,” he repeats.

The priestess glares up at him. “It is forbidden to spill blood on this night.”

“Who said anything about spilling blood?” The corner of his lip curves, and Callum tenses behind me. “I have a hallucinogenic in my infirmary that makes Wolves think their skin is melting from their bones. I have a paralytic that makes one long for death. Do you know what sound a wolf makes when they are deprived of air, again and again and again? I do.”

A chill skitters over my skin that has nothing to do with my anger, nor the iciness in the Northlands air.

“That’s enough, Blake,” says Callum softly. “She’s still a priestess.”

“He’s right, though.” My words come out quietly, as if I can’t quite believe I’m saying them. Every bone in my body is locked, every muscle tight. “She should apologize.”

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