Page 95 of Realm of Nightmares
Maeve glanced up at the towering branches overhead, and a strangled cry ripped from the back of her throat.
Hanging in the crooked limbs, his face leached of color and his insides shredded open, was a male fae. Golden hair streaked with blood stuck to his forehead. Arms pinned to his sides, he angled his head, and one of the gangly branches pierced his neck, biting into the rotting flesh. His beautiful face contorted in pain and his eyes, a mirror image of her own, locked onto her. He grinned and more of the tar-like substance oozed out of his mouth.
“Little wild one.” His words were garbled. Slurred.
Shay.
Maeve screamed.
Whirling around, she came face to face with another body. Except this one didn’t have a head. Bone and tendons protruded from the neck and the body, clad in dark crimson and gold armor, convulsed. Spasmed. Twitched as though it hadn’t yet realized its head had been severed.
Fear slicked her skin and her magic, barely more than a murmur, bubbled with panic. Hot bile coated the back of Maeve’s throat and she staggered backward, stumbling over a rock. But when her gaze landed on the ground, she realized it wasn’t a rock at all. It was the head of a decapitated warrior. A lovely face with empty eyes stared up at her, mouth gaping open, black blood seeping from her lips.
“No.”
Maeve shook her head violently.
“No!”
She bolted away from the horrific images, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. She forced herself to run, to flee. Diamarvh. She had to get to Diamarvh. She plunged farther into the dark heart of the forest, praying to the goddess, to any god who would listen, to free her from this realm of nightmares. Bones snapped beneath her boots and with each crack, another wail pealed from some wrenching hole inside of her.
But the Spine wasn’t done with her yet.
This time, a body was sprawled at her feet.
Maeve staggered to a stop, unable to look away.
This death she recognized, but not from her mind. From her heart. From her soul. Lying peacefully on the forest floor and looking as though asleep was the most beautiful female Maeve had ever seen. Golden pink hair spread out around her like a pillow and her skin was a soft, still-flushed ivory. She wore a crown of gilded leaves embedded with sparkling rubies and a satin gown the color of an autumn sunrise. Long lashes cast shadows across her high cheekbones and though her eyes were closed, Maeve knew the truth of their color—a pale gray green, like a mist rolling in off the Lismore Marin.A face she should know through any stretch of time.
The High Queen of Autumn, Fianna Ruhdneah.
And a dagger pierced her heart. The blade was an iridescent black, a testament it had been dipped in nightshade. But worse, she knew the owner of the weapon. She’d seen it almost daily as a child and had trained against its swift aim.
Anguish and torment, unlike anything she had ever known, tore through her, stealing her breath and carving out her soul. The force of the agony broke her, shattered her, and she fell to her knees, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Pain seized her, sorrow ruined her. Tears slid down her cheeks, hot and fast, a cruel lamenting she couldn’t control. She grieved for her mother, for the one she couldn’t remember, for the voice she would never hear. Despair hollowed her out, leaving her empty and alone. It would’ve been less painful to have the god of death rip her magic from her. She would’ve begged him to cleave her heart from her chest if it meant she’d never have to suffer such an affliction.
Maeve reached out, grazed her knuckles lightly across her mother’s cheeks, half expecting them to be warm.
Her flesh was ice.
Shoving to her feet, Maeve shook her head.
“It’s not real,” she cried, running further into the mass of trees and growth. “Not real.”
But it was too late. Her mind had betrayed her. The woods were volatile, the adorable creatures from before had fled, leaving her to face the horrors alone. There was no more birdsong, no more pretty imitations of a safe faerie forest.
The Stygian Spine had turned against her.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
The whiskey did nothing to ease Tiernan’s headache.
Saoirse continued to issue verbal threats to Casimir, all while glaring at him and mimicking the motion of slitting his throat. Dorian’s wrath was barely contained beneath a thin veil of diplomacy while Aran tried and failed to talk about anything except the fact that he’d gone to Maghmell. Merrick, however, had cracked a joke that left Brynn and Aeralie howling with laughter. And Lir…well he maintained a firm grip on Saoirse’s upper arm to ensure she didn’t make good on her slew of unsavory promises.
Ceridwen was the only one who looked relatively calm. She sat next to Tiernan, stirring her tea and humming to herself.
Tiernan lifted his glass of whiskey, giving it a swirl. “Saoirse.”
She jerked around in her seat to face him, tossing her braid back behind her. “My lord?”
