Page 24 of Crown of Roses
The air surrounding her throbbed, dense and heavy. It pulsed with magic, calling to her, whispering her name.
“Wow.” Saoirse perched herself on a nearby rock, and wisps of silver hair floated around her face. “That’s the fanciest boat I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s fae.” Distaste dripped from Casimir’s words.
“Of course it’s fae.” Rowan cut him down with one look. “What else would it be?”
Casimir yanked his hood over his head and grabbed his pack from the sand. “I’d been hoping for something a little more subtle.”
Saoirse adjusted the sword at her waist and slung her pack over one shoulder. “What? A bright orange banner with a three-headed beast doesn’t scream low-key to you?”
Maeve choked on a laugh.
“Hilarious.” Casimir stalked across the sand, kicking up bits of sea glass and shells in his wake.
“Sarcasm suits you, Saoirse.” Rowan cocked a sideways grin and crossed his arms, apparently impressed with the warrior’s jest. “You should do it more often.”
“I can think of other things I’d like to do more often,” Saoirse murmured and Maeve swallowed down another laugh. That one burned.
“Later, Saoirse.” Maeve bumped shoulders with her friend. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
The boat docked near the crescent-shaped shore, with no rope or line. The moment Maeve saw the fae who captained it, her magic swam and coursed through her in a wave of hysteria. She swallowed down her apprehension, scrubbed her damp palms against the smooth fabric of her leggings. When he stepped into the sunlight, she clamped her mouth shut to keep from gasping.
He was glorious.
Rich auburn hair the color of crisp autumn leaves fell in a sharp angle across one side of his face. Tiny gold hoops were pierced all the way up one of his ears, and both were longer than any human ear, distinguished and pointed. A clear mark of a fae. His eyes were emerald green with bursts of gold fanning out from the center. The cleft in his chin was marred by a jagged scar and he towered over all of them, beating even Rowan in height. The brown leather collar of his coat was flipped up and its hem hit well past his knees. The shirt he wore beneath it was partially buttoned and a compass hung around his neck; the chain, a mix of knotted silk and beads. His pants were tapered, tucked into excessively shiny boots, and a belt of bronze and a sash of burgundy were slung around his waist. His sword rested casually by his side, just within reach. Plank after plank unfolded from the boat’s port side, and seamlessly connected the empty deck to the shoreline. Each step he took, each click of his boot against the grainy wood, boasted confidence.
When he smiled, it was slow. Intentional. Dangerous.
Maeve’s blood roared, so loud, she swore he could hear it. She shrank inside of herself, but there was nowhere to hide.
“Well, well.” The fae was standing on the bridge to his ship one minute, and the next, he was right in front of them. His speed set her heart racing. She’d forgotten. Forgotten he was immortal. Forgotten fae were notoriously fast, quicker than any mortal. “What have we here?”
She fully expected him to watch them, to begin circling them like predator to prey. But his gaze was locked on Rowan. A familiarity filled the space surrounding them. Whether or not they were on good terms with each other was another story completely.
“Hello, Aran.” Rowan inclined his head, just barely.
“Rowan.” The fae named Aran glowered, and he closed the distance between them until their faces were mere inches apart. “The last time I saw you, the sky was black, we were covered in blood, and you were running away from death.”
Okay, so not on good terms.
Rowan lifted his arms and displayed the cuffs branding his wrist. “As you can see, not much has changed.”
Aran’s scowl vanished and was replaced with a vicious smile. “Got yourself into some trouble now, have you?”
“No more than you,” Rowan quietly fired back.
Casimir cut between them. He kept one hand firmly planted on the sword at his side, but his gaze was trained on the new fae. “Aran, is it?”
The faerie in question raised an auburn brow.
“Casimir Vawda, Captain of the Guard to the kingdom of Kells.” He gestured to Maeve and Saoirse. “We seek entry into Faeven.”
Aran pressed his lips together and his dark green gaze lingered on Saoirse. Then Maeve. She swallowed the growing knot of panic in the back of her throat. He tossed Rowan a pitying glance. “You really must have fallen out of grace with Parisa, if you’re hanging out with a bunch of mortals.”
“Like I said—” Rowan began, but Maeve was growing impatient with the indirect conversation and the ambiguous jests.
The longer they stood about debating on crossing into Faeven, the more time The Scathing had to spread into Kells. It would take over the cute little shops, suck the life out of the one place she cared about, and destroy everything in its path. Annoyed, and despite her better judgment, Maeve barged right up to Aran and pointed her finger in his chest. “Are you going to take us into Faeven or not?”
