Page 70 of The Witch Queen

“It’s hers,” she says with the practiced coolness I’ve come to expect.

“Laurel,” I say softly, taking a step toward her.

She holds up a hand. “Don’t. I need to stay in control right now.” I halt mid-stride. Her eyes are predatory, resembling the giant feline she keeps as a pet. “Nemesia warned me of a mole on the Council of Advisors before she left. Someone passing information to the rebels. It’s why I haven’t told them about working with you to infiltrate the rebels.” The confession, though something we’d already guessed thanks to Silene’s intelligent observation, still shocks me. Not that she has a mole, but that she’s actually revealing it to me. She finally trusts me enough to share. The situation dampens the satisfaction I feel.

“There haven’t been any leaks since she left, have there?” I ask her slowly.

“No,” she says, voice steely. “But she told me not to trust any of them, not to share any information…” Her voice quakes for just an instant, but then her features harden as she expertly pushes down her emotions. “It was to keep her own involvement secret. If I wasn’t sharing anything important, it meant I wouldn’t question why more leaks weren’t happening.”

“It could be a mistake, Krantz could be deceiving us somehow,” I say, trying to find any reason her best friend has not betrayed her.

But Laurel only shakes her head. “No, it all adds up. She was the mole all along.” Her voice shakes. “She desperately wanted to go to Velmara, and she convinced me it was to find information to help Thayaria, to help me… She insisted she go alone, pretending it was because she didn’t want to put anyone else at risk. But it was to hide what she was really doing there. She went to Velmara to aid the rebels, not to aid me.” Her voice cracks, and she finally displays emotion, tears welling in her eyes.

“Laurel, please,” I say again, pleading with her for what, I don’t even know. She suddenly collapses to the ground, and I can no longer keep my resolve to stay away. I cross the room in two strides, then sink to the floor with her. She’s clenching and unclenching her fists, clearly trying to fight the emotion building up inside of her.

“We should go somewhere else… my magic…” she whispers.

“Shhh,” I soothe. “You won’t lose control. You’re not going to hurt anyone.” I wrap my arms around her, and that’s the last thing she needs to let go. She sobs into my chest, gripping my shirt so tightly I think she might rip it off me. Stroking her hair, I kiss the top of her head, shocking myself at the intimacy of the gesture. But once I’ve done it, I can’t stop, placing light and gentle kisses into her hair, across her forehead. She doesn’t stop me, doesn’t protest. Just continues crying, holding on to me like I’m the last person she has left in the world.

We stay like that for several moments. I slowly stroke her hair, her back, but stay silent, offering comfort but giving her space to process. When she finally stops crying, she immediately stiffens and jumps out of my arms, putting distance between us again. I want to sigh, but I keep it in. Now is not the time to think about the constant dance she does between vulnerability and standoffishness. I feel her absence deeply, and a small part of me cracks apart at her refusal to let me help her. I stand, but keep my distance, unsure how to help.

“I want to spar,” she says resolutely. “Will you spar with me in the training room?”

I nod. “Lead the way.” In this moment, I’ll agree to anything she asks of me. I only wish I knew what was going on inside of her head. She aersteps us to the training room that’s now become a sanctuary for me, as it’s one of the few places I get to interact with her regularly.

“Weaponsandlight,” she grunts as she walks to the weapons rack. I start to protest, but she only repeats herself, aether lacing her voice. “Weapons and light.” I select a short sword, while she picks up a dagger. We walk to the middle of the room and both conjure our light weapons of choice. “I want to go full out,” she says somberly. “No holding back. Spar with me like you spar with Fionn. I have a weapon. I’ll be capable.”

I hesitate, not sure it’s wise with her current emotional state. But then she murmurs the wordpleasewith so much vulnerability and raw pleading, and I can’t deny her. I nod, and before I’ve finished the gesture, she leaps toward me, swinging her light sword with a ferocity I haven’t seen from her yet. Her dagger whips toward my face, and I have to dodge to keep from being hit in the eye with it.

I smirk. “Bring it on, witchling.”

Laurel

The mythical mating bond between fae is nothing more than a story, a tale woven to satisfy the romantic tendencies of fae and mortals alike. And yet, its staying power throughout history tells us that there is something to be learned from these tales. Love, the kind that is destined and often tragic, excites the mind. But those who fall prey to believing in these myths will find themselves heartbroken, unsatisfied with the life they’ve been given.

The Legends of the Fae, Volume III

I spar with Thorne, weaving in and out of his reach, the light and metal responding to my every thought. I’m so angry, so devastated, and that makes it easier for me to channel larger amounts of aether. In this moment, I don’t care what happens if I lose control, so I press forward with every ounce of magical and physical prowess I possess. Laurel is no longer here, all that remains is the aether that courses through my veins.

Thorne matches me blow for blow. At first, he goes easy on me, but when it’s clear I’ll slice him in half if he falters, he pivots into full intensity. If either of us slips up, we could seriously injure the other. There’s a thrill in it that makes my blood heat and my center thrum with need. I let it wash over me, drowning out the sorrow and soul-deep grief I’m running from.

Thorne grunts as he swings his short sword down toward my head. I block the blow with a shield of light, then throw him off me. This dance we’re in sets me on fire and I lose myself in the flow of it. We thrust in and away from one another in a measured rhythm. Sweat drips down my back, but I ignore it. There’s only me and Thorne, and the magic that lights the room around us. I’m so honed in on the pulsing beat of the spar that I have no idea how much time passes. It could be hours, minutes, or days. All my focus is on Thorne and staying in this moment with him.

He jabs his short sword toward my stomach. I pivot to dodge it, but he’s able to spin himself behind me. A dagger of light presses against my throat, and Thorne tuts in my ear.

“This is exactly what tricked you last time, witchling,” he whispers, pulling me closer to him. The vibration of his voice sends shivers down my spine. I feel every inch of him pressed against me, and his labored pants heat the nape of my neck. It‘s similar to the night of the Solstice dinner, when I decided to give in to the aching need I feel around him before Silene, of all people, interrupted us. I want to press my backside against him and arch my back so my face is closer to his. Just like that night, I’m desperate to let the heat between us play out, consequences be damned. But I won’t—can’t—let him get under my skin, not right now. So I stomp on his foot, then whirl away, sending another dagger from the weapons rack hurtling toward his too handsome face, but he blocks it with ease. “I know you can do better than that,” he taunts me, eyes sparkling with mischief and thrill. If I looked in a mirror, I’m certain my eyes would match his.

“Just giving you a little break, princeling,” I taunt with a husky and breathy lilt to my voice that I’ve never heard before.

He advances on me, so quick I struggle to block each blow as they come hurtling toward me. Light sizzles across his skin, bathing him in an otherworldly glow that sends my blood racing through my veins. He glistens with the lightest sheen of sweat. His cheek bones look like daggers, and his biceps bulge with each movement. I swipe my short sword but can’t follow through with the movement because of my screaming muscles. I’m tiring, but his stamina has been honed from centuries of practice with Fionn. I think he’s going to swipe with a long sword made of light, so I block that, but he slices across my upper arm with his short sword instead. I can’t block the movement in time, and blood drips out of the wound.

“Fuck, that hurt,” I say, dropping my weapons and placing my hand across my arm.

I expect a biting retort from him, a tease about the tiny cut, but he’s silent. I look up from my bleeding arm and his pupils have dilated. Two inky black orbs with just a sliver of olive green around them stare back at me with an intensity that makes me squirm. His nostrils flare and his face locks in an expression of shock and awe. He drops to the ground on both knees and places one hand over his heart.

“Laurel,” he whispers my name like a prayer, like it’s the last word he’ll ever utter.

“What the fuck? Does my blood smell or something?” He looks up at me, eyes glistening with tears and confusion. I’m totally at a loss. “It’s okay, it’ll heal. The sting’s already gone,” I say to console him. I didn’t mean to make him so upset with my outburst of pain. My fae healing abilities are already closing the wound together, though blood still drips down my arm.

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