Page 9 of Crown of Roses
“It’s true, Your Majesty. They weren’t supposed to exist anymore.” Saoirse moved through the crowd, and Maeve found herself jostled to the front, right along with her. “Could they have come back somehow?”
“It certainly appears that way.” Casimir folded his arms, daring anyone to cross him.
“Back from the Sluagh?” Roth barked. “What utter nonsense.”
Maeve hated to admit it, but Roth was right. It was impossible for any soul to return from the Sluagh. It was not an eternal paradise, like Maghmell. Nor was it Ether, the home of the Wild Hunt, a realm of the in-between for those whose fates were not yet determined. No, the Sluagh was a punishment. A binding for the vilest and most evil of souls for all eternity. A relentless purgatory.
Dark fae.
The words repeated in Maeve’s mind, coated her with a foulness she didn’t understand.
“I have reason to believe the dark fae have returned, and there is no telling if or when they will strike again.” Carman pushed up from her throne and everyone standing before her edged backward. A ripple of fear caught on the wind and drifted through the space. “But, we must be prepared. Captain?” She turned to face Casimir, and he snapped to attention. “How many casualties did Kells suffer tonight?”
“Thirty-two civilian deaths. Four soldier deaths. Seventeen injuries.” His jaw was set, the rest of his face barely visible beneath the hood of his cloak.
Carman’s brows deepened into a scowl. “I want extra guards posted around the city center with The Scathing completely blocked off from the public view. They do not need to constantly be reminded of the unfortunate atrocities of tonight.”
Lord Whorton angled himself closer to the dais, but Roth stepped forward, blocking him from advancing any further. “And what of the rest of the city, Your Majesty?”
Her head whipped toward him and her black gaze glittered like onyx. “What of it?”
He shifted his overtly round belly, and when he squinted, his wart jiggled. “We have it on good authority there were dark fae lingering within the city walls. Some of them had been living among us for quite some time, setting up shops, working alongside our people, glamouring themselves as though they were one of us.”
Disgust fell from his words, and Maeve’s thoughts circled back to Madam Dansha. To the fortune teller who’d fallen to ash at the strike of her blade. To the dark fae who’d been living inside Kells, who’d been masquerading as a human, using glamour to disguise their true form. Maeve shuddered in spite of herself. She hated the fae, hated how she’d been cursed with their toxic blood magic, and hated how they’d destroyed her city. Her home.
“Those dark fae are not a priority for Kells at the moment.” Her throat worked furiously, as though she was trying to swallow down the rest of her words. “The ones who dared to live inside our kingdom had done so peacefully up until tonight, and we will deal with them when the time comes. But right now, The Scathing is our largest threat.”
“Because it’s alive,” Maeve muttered under her breath.
Every set of eyes in the room cut to her. Silence descended upon the marble walls and even the wind died. Tension hung in the air. Thick and hot.
“What?” Carman stalked over, her dress slinking and moving around her like a waterfall of liquid silver. Fury was etched into the pale crevices of her skin, but she maintained an eerie sense of calm. She spoke again, her penetrating gaze focused on Maeve. “What did you say?”
Maeve steeled her will. She would not cower. She would not bend. Not beneath her mother’s harsh accusations. Not beneath the promise of her birthright. With her shoulders rolled back, and fully aware of everyone watching her, she nudged her way through the crowd until she faced her mother head on. A few gazes dipped to the silver cuffs branding her wrists, but she refused to hide them. “The Scathing,” she repeated, “is alive. I saw it moving.”
Breathing. Pulsing. Thriving.
None of which she would mention out loud for fear of her life.
“Maeve speaks the truth, Your Majesty,” Casimir confirmed, coming to her rescue, and Carman’s anger ebbed. The wrath subsided. Her features smoothed. “The Scathing is alive and it is moving, gradually stealing over the ground, and leaving a path of rot and decay in its wake. It will destroy all of Kells, and other kingdoms within Veterra, unless we can find a way to destroy it first.”
Murmurs and collective gasps echoed through the expansive chamber. The Scathing was a plague upon the lands. A scourge. A sickness from an unknown source. It had to be stopped.
“But how?” Saoirse asked. She tossed her braid of moonlight-colored hair over one shoulder, and more than one of the men in the room eyed her with interest. Some of their gazes lingered longer than they ought. “How can we fight an enemy when we know nothing of its origin or how to defeat it?”
Maeve’s blood pulsed in her veins, a low thrum, and the world around her shimmered again. It was as though a veil of gossamer had been draped across her vision. But then Maeve blinked and it vanished completely. Her balance wavered, and she lost her footing, stumbling into Saoirse
“You okay?” she whispered.
Maeve nodded, ready to answer, but the words died on her tongue. Her throat wouldn’t work. Her chest was tight, and she couldn’t catch her breath.
“We know there are certain materials that can prove fatal to any fae, dark or otherwise.” Casimir’s clear voice cut through the quiet, cut through the rise of panic bubbling up inside of her. Though she couldn’t see his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood, she knew he watched her. She knew he spoke of the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Perhaps these same materials—”
“The Scathing is not a fae.” A male voice slid into the night air and it coated Maeve’s skin like ice. The hairs along the back of her neck prickled. Then a figure, a man she hadn’t seen earlier, emerged from the shadows.
His hair was teal, the color of the Gaelsong Sea, where the water was darkest. Where the sunlight never touched. It was short, messy, and swept over one eye. He wore a black shirt that gaped open at the neck, revealing jagged scars across his tanned chest. His gray pants were loose, his boots worn and scuffed, but he edged forward with swagger. The kind of movement belonging to a man who knew his worth. Except…he was not a man.
Every mortal soul within the room instinctively recoiled.
