Page 42 of A Sword of Ice
He looked like he wanted to close the distance between them, maybe kiss her again, but she knew his stare might have been equal parts curiosity because that’s what she was feeling, too.
“Here we are,” Shula announced, staring up at the abandoned building. She went through first, tapping a four-note tune against the door and stepping inside when it opened.
Julius gestured forward. “You first.”
Iona stepped inside fearlessly, Julius walking in after her, and once the doors closed, she scanned the room and at the curious faces staring at her.
Her gaze went down the line of Fae males. Shula and Iona were the only females among six men, each more different than the last.
There was a man in the far corner of the room with black hair that was braided down to his waist, coppery-brown skin and golden-bronze eyes that slanted just a bit at the edges. There was something almost feline and predatory about the Fae as he took her in from head to toe, as if he were searching for her secrets with a single glance.
The next Fae was, in a word,pretty.The kind of pretty that was too perfect, too refined, and made her want to smash her fist into his face, skew him up and make him look normal. Sandy colored hair, bright eyes, and a smirking smile that would have charmed a snake greeted her. Perhaps the only imperfect thing about him was the dimple on his chin, but even that seemed endearing in a frustrating way.
After him, there was another one, almost as big as Julius but not quite as tall or muscular. Looming in stature, he had a thick beard that did nothing to hide the scars bisecting across his olive-tone face. There was a black cat perched on his shoulder that Iona automatically knew was his familiar. The Fae’s two different colored eyes—one white, one black—glared at her for a brief second before going straight to Shula and softened there.
Leading the pack of Fae were two males. One with white hair that hung down to his shoulders in sharp sheets like blades, black eyes, and a grave, judging expression. He was as pale as a corpse, dressed in all black and holding a dagger tightly in his hand. She noticed the way it discreetly pointed in her direction, the tenseness of his body, as if he was readying himself to throw it at any sign of brusque movements.
Julius must have noticed, too, because he let out a low, possessive warning growl.
Iona rolled her eyes and shot him a glare before turning to the final male of the group.
A male she recognized immediately. From the slashing, sharp lines of his face, to the shaved sides of his head and the long hair pulled into a bun at the top.
He wore no crown, not like he had the last time she’d seen him, but she would have recognized him even without one on.
No one could ever misplace Valerio Ashera, crown Prince of the Seelie Court.
“Your Highness.” Iona dropped down on one knee; an action borne from years of instinct that apparently was still ingrained in her every action.
It didn’t matter that the Resistance had disbanded, had been lost to her for years now. She still had respect for the prince of Tir na Faie, and she would show it.
“Rise,” Prince Valerio said with something in his voice that sounded a lot like amusement.
She stood, staring at him with wide eyes. She heard the chuckles of the other males around him, saw the way Shula’s brows pulled together on an almost confused frown.
Iona tilted her chin. “I thought you were dead.”
Valerio’s dark eyes danced with mirth. “Many think that,” he whispered. “But as you can see, I am alive.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes flicked over the small group of them again, brows tugging tightly over her eyes, lips pressed in the thinnest of lines. The scents of each person intermingled through her nostrils. Some sharp, some discreet, some like Julius’ comforted her senses. She caught whiffs of confections; of chocolate and the richness of wine. Of the familiarity of steel and foreign scents that tickled her nostrils and made her want to sneeze. “There were whispers that the entire royal family had died.”
Valerio observed her, and she knew he was trying to place her, and she knew he wouldn’t remember. It was confirmed with his next words. “I am sorry, I do not remember you. Have we met before?”
Iona shot him a smirk. “In a manner of speaking.” She stepped deeper into the room and looked around. They’d made the place their temporary home. Shields and swords were propped up in the corner of fine make, though scratched with use. Bags that bulged with supplies were neatly stacked side by side against the rusted wall.
She remembered the days, back when they were fighting to take back what was theirs, of camping across the different courts in the Feylands. Apparently, they were doing that even now.
“I was part of the original Resistance in the wars against the humans one-hundred and two years ago.” She looked at his face as she said this, noting the surprise in his expression.
“I am grateful for your service,” he replied.
“Are you?” Iona stepped close, not close enough to touch when she knew the white-haired Fae must have been his protector, if the way he wielded the dagger was of any indication. She didn’t want to find it buried in her chest if she got too close to the prince. “It didn’t feel that way when a lot of us were left to die.”
Prince Valerio blinked, the only outward sign of surprise he’d show, she figured. “Were you there when—”
“When the Seelie Court fell? Yes. And when we evacuated to the boats.”
She remembered the chaos of that time. When the air was dense with rusted iron and ashwood, burning through lungs. When Fae warriors had been ordered to grab citizens and flee. Not to the Unseelie Courts, where the humans hadn’t been able to conquer, and whose hostility was innately known, but to the boats.
