Page 126 of Realm of Nightmares
Seven hells.
Tiernan hissed through his teeth as the burning sensation did not ease, as it dulled the magic of his blood to scarcely a whisper. Reaching it would be impossible at this point. He knew this magic, understood its capabilities, and realized there would be no way out. Because he finally recognized the material used to bind him.
Iron.
ChapterThirty-Six
Tiernan’s head pounded, a ceaseless ache that only made thinking even more cumbersome. He was on his side, wrists and ankles bound with iron cuffs. The icy burn of them was relentless, his skin raw and chafed. Magic moved through his blood, a dull thrum. His breaths were sluggish. He tried to swallow, but it felt as though his throat had been stuffed full of parchment and sand—thick and gritty. Disoriented, he kept his eyes closed to gain a better understanding of his surroundings.
The ground was firm and cool, like the earth and not stone. At least he could rule out being locked in a dungeon. His skin was damp, likely covered in a layer of fine mist. Whispers drifted around him, a collection of voices he didn’t recognize. He wasn’t foolish enough to think they were speaking quietly so he could sleep. No, their tones were hushed for a more ominous reason. Like a possible threat. Leaves stirred as a breeze sifted through the branches of nearby trees, carrying the scent of mountains, dying flowers, and the promise of rain.
Peeling one eye open, Tiernan dared to confirm his location.
He was in the Pass of Veils, the one place Parisa’s shroud did not touch. The flaw in her plan, shown to him by the mural in his library.
Except he wasn’t with his legion of warriors, he was there with the trooping fae who’d snatched him from his Court. Which could only mean somehow, they’d figured it out as well.
Across from him, he spied Merrick, unconscious. His cheek was a hideous shade of bluish-green and his white hair was matted with blood. The wound on his head continued to leave a trail of scarlet down his face.
Tiernan counted the seconds between the slow rise and fall of his chest. With every passing moment, another wave of untempered fury rose to the surface inside of him, desperate for release.
A shadow fell over him. “Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence?”
Something solid collided with Tiernan’s chest, and white-hot pain splintered through him, shoving the air from his lungs. There was a sickening crack, the force of the blow causing him to groan, then a wheeze as he struggled to breathe.
His vision swam before refocusing as a face came into view.
Alastar loomed over him. He’d removed his hat and protruding from his head were two curved horns, one gray like ash, the other a burnt black. He was a Puca, same as Fearghal. A master of weaponry. A maker of portals. A shifter.
Lovely.
Tiernan glared up at the bastard. “What the hell do you want?”
“The same thing as you, my lord.” Alastar crouched before him, his distended smile displaying a crooked set of yellowed teeth. “To survive.”
“And you think capturing me will help you do that?” Tiernan winced as his magic, weakened by the iron, slowly mended his broken ribs.
“Oh, I know it will.” Alastar sat on the ground, crossing his legs. “You see, Parisa has put a price on your head. But I have no intention of bringing you to her in exchange for gold.”
Tiernan remained quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.
“Riches are nothing to me and mine. Now that High King Dorian has returned to power, and since you so graciously reinstated his heir to the throne, the Autumn Court is no longer as…enticing.” He gestured around the camp, and Tiernan followed his movements. “My bevy of trooping fae desires freedom above all else.”
Closer to the base of the mountain, a small fire burned, and seated around it was a rather large group of trooping fae. They weren’t all Puca, Tiernan realized. Some were water nymphs; their heads adorned with tiny crowns of shells and river stones, their eyes shining in the dim firelight like radiant opals. Others were woodland dryads, wearing clothing made of leaves and leathery bark, with antlers curling from the tops of their heads like twisted vines. None of them had that same dazed look in their eyes like Vinnia and Vella who’d dangled from the hoops—the two of them were nowhere to be seen.
Tiernan heaved himself up into a sitting position, so he was at eye level with Alastar. “If it’s freedom you seek, you’ve chosen the wrong side.”
Alastar cackled.
“That’s where you’re wrong, High King. You cannot win this war. And I am not foolish enough to stay in a world where my bevy will perish.” He stood, and Tiernan was forced to look up in a silent reminder of who was in charge. “All I have to do is bring you to Parisa alive, and in return she’s promised me and the others safe passage to another continent. A world away from war. From imminent death.”
Now it was Tiernan’s turn to laugh. “What makes you think she’ll hold up her end of the deal? How can you be certain she won’t kill the lot of you once you hand me over?”
There was a moment of hesitation, a pause in Alastar’s conviction. Hands fisted, his eyes turned to slits, and he looked like a snake, ready to strike. “The Dark Queen is always true to her word.”
“There is no Dark Queen,” Tiernan scoffed. “Parisa is nothing but a selfish, spoiled, miserable creature who seeks to control a world through fear. Faeven fell to darkness once, to a sinister, wicked power, and I will not let it happen again. You think she cares what happens to you and your little group of wandering tricksters? She doesn’t. She’s merely using you to get what she wants, as always. Once you give me to her, she’ll kill every last one of you. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she keeps you alive just so you can watch the rest of them die.”
An explosion of pain rippled across Tiernan’s jaw as Alastar’s fist slammed into his face. His head rocked back. Black stars danced across his vision. The distinctively metallic taste of blood coated his tongue. He grinned.
