Page 90 of The Longing

“No.” The very, very bad smile spreads further over Fenrother’s face.

He has no intention of returning my knickers, in this case, a big lacy maternity pair the wardrobe has been producing recently. Comfortable and pretty, they’re also clearly a magnet for my Wyrm. I am partially released as he fondles the fabric and his eyes go distant.

Fenrother remains my shadow in the castle unless he’s out hunting. However I know he has somewhere in our home where he keeps all my knickers, and I’ve yet to find it. Fenrother is absolutely looking forward to the day I do, even encouraging it.

But he won’t tell me where it is.

“The best gift I could have got for the day of my birth is you,” Fenrother says, placing his huge hand over my stomach.

“You’re very sweet,” I say, melting a little under his touch.

“I thought I tasted of salt.” Fenrother grins.

“If you’re going to be like this all night, I will be eating on my own,” I scold him.

It has the entirely opposite effect than I planned. I find myself lifted into the air and snuggled against his chest, despite my squeals of protest and carried to the table.

“I should mate you here and now, feast on you alone,” he growls.

“You did that last night.” I giggle. “And I don’t think the Duegar will ever recover.”

Fenrother growls/snarls/purrs into my neck. He doesn’t care in the slightest. He does what he wants.

And I am finally free.

ALICE

The moth-man, or Bluecap, Linton, lurks in the shadows of the great hall. I won’t lie—he makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable with his red eyes and velvet wings. Moving so silently he seems to be the master of the jumpscare.

As for the shaggy Barghest, he might exude a level of violence I didn’t think possible. He paces, his dark fur seemingly pulling in the light. No wonder people believe he is a harbinger of death as Fenrother has told me.

“What do you mean you haven’t seen the Brag?” Fenrother growls, putting himself between me and the other two.

“Not since the battle at Faerie hills,” Linton says, his voice dark and soft like a dagger in a velvet case. He is truly terrifying.

“I was too…busy.” The Barghest, Reavely, growls, heading towards the fire in the great hall, his claws clacking on the stone surface. “Killing Faerie,” he adds, as if that’s necessary.

Fenrother is as big as he can be without changing into his Wyrm form. I get the impression he’s grateful to these two monsters for their help, but he’d very much rather they were not in our castle.

Reavely snatches a chicken from the spit and consumes it noisily, and possibly messier than Fenrother, which I hadn’t thought possible.

“The last I saw of him, he was going back into the flames,” Linton says, emerging into the sunlight from the stained glass window. He blinks as if he dislikes it but then slightly opens his wings, as if warming them.

These two, along with Warden, have to be the strangest creatures I’ve come across yet.

“He went back into the fire?” Fenrother growls.

“He wanted his revenge on the Faerie.” Reavely shrugs, wiping grease from his muzzle. “He either got it or he didn’t.”

Fenrother growls under his breath. For all he said he doesn’t have friends, this motley collection of creatures seems to be close enough to him.

Close enough he’s let them into the castle and offered them food. Something Reavely is taking full advantage of.

“What about the Shellycoat?” Linton asks.

“What Shellycoat?” Fenrother growls. “Those things are worse trouble than you lot put together. They side with the Faerie most of the time.”

“That’s because they get their powers from eating them,” Reavely says with his mouth full. “Not that I’d trust them any more than I trust a Bluecap.” He looks over at Linton. “No offence.”

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