Page 88 of The Robin on the Oak Throne

“That’s a very…simplified version.” Lorcan sighed like he was suffering. “We say it’s the three S: Self, Spirit, and Sacrifice. The self is our inherent magic. The spirit is time, place, celestial involvement. And the sacrifice is what we give to help power the spell.”

“Okay,” Kierse said. “And what he did went against that?”

“Suffice it to say that drawing on Sansara is generally forbidden except in large ritualistic spells on holy days. And Cillian Ryan drained the tree dry, leaving it crumpled to ash.”

“Fuck,” Kierse whispered.

Ethan had always had a deep devotion for plants. He’d once been devastated when a single leaf had fallen off of a potted plant he was nurturing. She couldn’t imagine the devastation of losing a tree of that magnitude.

“As you can imagine, we moved against him swiftly.”

“But he had the tree magic.”

Lorcan nodded. “He used it to cloak himself anddisappear into Manhattan. No tracking spells worked on him. He was justgone. Which probably explains why the force of the spell on you was so powerful.”

“Do you think he’s still in Manhattan?”

“I heard that someone killed him during the war. I don’t know if the magic wore thin or he trusted the wrong person, but good riddance.”

Kierse sagged at that knowledge. Another dead end. She’d been hoping that if she met Cillian, he might be able to fill in the blanks—not just how and why he’d put the spell on her, but what happened to her parents after. What their plan had been. How the Fae Killer had caught up to them.

A double strikeout.

“I wish that I had more information for you,” he said as they reached the entrance to his headquarters. He pulled the door open and allowed her to enter before him. “I’m sure that you’re anxious to know more about your heritage. I may know more about wisps than anyone still alive, and I would share that knowledge with you.”

It was tempting. Oh so tempting.

“And what’s in it for you?”

His smile widened. “Would you believe me if I said the pleasure of your company?”

“I rarely believe anything you say.”

“Fine. Don’t believe me, but I speak the truth. Wisps and Druids have been connected since the beginning. I would like us to continue to be.” He held out his hand. “Let me show you something.”

And despite herself, she put her hand in his and let him guide her.

They walked down a long hallway until it opened toa magnificent set of double doors, threaded through with a Druid signature—acorns and oak leaves—and a brass handle. She could feel the faint buzz of magic and see the soft golden light that suffused it if she squinted just right. The smell of summer and sunshine radiated from the door as if she had left Brooklyn behind and stumbled into the summer god’s glen of old. This was a sacred place.

Her breath caught, and Lorcan smiled that bright, brilliant smile as he pushed the door open to reveal a glen, bursting with life. Grass and moss covered the ground. Oak trees sprouted at intervals, their branches reaching toward the glass ceiling. Spring flowers were in bloom in a radiant display of violet, indigo, and marigold.

At the far end of the room sat a throne. It was twice the size of a normal human—made for gods, not mere mortals. Carved into being by some long-dead master woodworker, it was constructed out of an ancient oak tree, filigreed with intricate Celtic knots and symbols that wound up from the roots to reach for the sky. It should have felt cold and dead, but it was still alive. Otherworldly magic radiated from it, as it were the source of all power on this earth.

“The Oak Throne,” Lorcan told her reverently.

“Oh,” she whispered, overcome with emotion at the sight. She wiped her eyes, unsure why it moved her to tears.

“It was made for the ruler of the Druids since before the doors were closed.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He studied her, those azure eyes earnest. “It could be yours.”

She jerked back to reality. “Mine?”

“You could live here,” Lorcan said simply. “With me.”

“In Brooklyn,” she said slowly.

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