Page 20 of Prince of Night and Storm
You called me.
Realms. Light bursts behind my eyes and I grit my teeth, willing the jagged migraine to slink away. Not now. Not now.
Darkan? Where's your damn advice now?
Silence.
Prince Renaud's head angles toward me, so slowly I wonder if he's relearning how to use his damn neck. He surveys me,unblinking, then dismisses me. Lurching to my feet, I stumble forward a step, then collapse back to my knees.
This is not how I want to meet my enemy.
“Your Highness.” The male mage bows, the female silent.
“Depart.” The word slithers through the air. Renaud's lips don't move.
The High Fae bow again and leave the field. They do so quickly, without arguing. There’s information to pull out of that.
The Prince's remote, wintry gaze travels over the clearing. A silent percussion of power rams strength and energy into my body. I arch my back, biting through my lip to stifle a scream.
Moments later, the burn evaporates. I push to my feet and flex my injured but functional hand, wrapping an arm around ribs that ache under light, invisible pressure akin to a stabilizing wrap. The scratches on my face and hand stop bleeding, even the blood from my bitten lip. It's as if my wounds have ceased to affect me, in stasis though not healed.
The gleeful stabbing in my temples eases. Just enough for my temper to reemerge, but not enough for strength to quite control it. All over the field, Fae rise and fighting breaks out once more.
“Cease,” the Prince says, voice quiet but distinct. At least to my ears.
“Retreat,” I rasp, frustrated. My people are trying to obey, but they have to defend themselves.
Several warriors on both sides don't get the memo. The fighting surges to life. Perhaps the Montagues assume their HighLord's presence is approval.
Numair and Juliette stagger toward me, intercepted by enemy combatants. A Montague warrior darts toward me and cries out when he meets Juliette's throwing star, slumping to the ground dead.
“Cease.”
The word slices through the air. The Prince flinches, a barely perceptible motion except I am hyper-aware of him.
This time the punch of power brings pain without stabilization. Pain as punishment. I drop to the ground in agony, digging my nails into the earth to keep from screaming. A split second later the pain cuts off, though I think only for me. My arms tremble as I check them, the skin undamaged.
“Enough.” His voice sounds almost normal, as if every time he speaks he relearns how to string together his words like a big boy.
Almost normal. It's softer, and I'm not entirely sure I imagine a feather stroke of strain. As if—as if he has woken too soon, and this display of power drains him faster than he'd planned.
This time when the pain fades away, no one moves. I curl on my side, my blurred vision creeping into focus.
Black shoes approach my line of sight, the Old One's steps silent. Moonlight filters through shades of emerald, incongruent with air crisp like a winter morning. My breath frosts, a dot of sweat dripping over my temple.
The shoes stop in front of me, soft leather boots, and I gather enough strength to roll onto my back so at least I can stare up at him.
Into blue, blue eyes.
“Prince,” I say, biting off the word like a curse, the drip drip drip of pain wearing down boundaries. I stare at him, tense and unblinking, watching his face for any tell, any opportunity to get out of this alive. “How unexpected to meet you here. Your nap was eventful.”
Chapter
Eight
AERINNE, OF THE PRINCE
By any other name would smell as sweet.
