Page 34 of Curse of Darkness
We share a look.
“Cozy,” I repeat.
Finn suddenly moves, slamming an arm in front of me.
“Halt.” An enormous troll steps out from behind the guard gate, one hand coming to rest on the hilt of the ax strapped to its hip. “Who goes there?”
Here goes nothing. I lower my hood, trying not to gag on the stench of the creature. “I am Queen Iskvien of Evernight. And I am here to see the Erlking. He owes me a debt or two.”
The troll stares at me, its brow wrinkling as if he’s trying to work his way through those sentences.
“For fuck’s sake.” Finn pushes forward. “Take us to the Erlking. Now. Or risk his temper.”
That does the trick.
The troll steps out of the way, gesturing us inside. As far as he’s concerned, two strangers aren’t much of a danger when there’s an entire keep of warriors inside.
“Ready?” Finn whispers.
“For anything,” I mutter, one hand falling to rest on my sword hilt.
* * *
The Erlking restson Blaedwyn’s throne, one knee slung over the massive arm.
The banners that hung from the walls the last time we were here—the snarling white wolf that heralded Blaedwyn—are gone. Instead, boughs of holly thicken the lintels, and fat candles weep globules of wax. Enormous trestle tables line the hall, and numerous hobgoblins and sorrows and unseelie caper about, watching as Finn and I stride toward the dais with curious eyes.
“Queen of Evernight,” the Erlking muses as the fiddler draws pause in order to gawk at us. “Welcome to my halls.”
A crown made of antlers sits atop his head. Golden beads wink in the mess of plaits that sweep his long tangle of hair back from his face. But it’s the predatory slope of his cheekbones and the hawkish look in his dark eyes that draws attention.
A brute of a male.
Powerful. Carnal. Dangerous in all the ways that matter.
Even standing before him makes me feel like prey.
“And does this welcome include guest-right?” I ask politely, in the manner of the old ways between seelie and unseelie courts.
“On my word, so be it.” He gestures toward Finn. “Put up thy weapons, hunter. Speak no lie, nor conceit. Break bread with me and drink my wine, and come morning I shall see thee safely on thy way.”
I bow my head. “Let no blood be spilled between us and no song be silenced. We come in peace and seek only the answering of a debt between us.”
The Erlking leans forward, resting both elbows on his knees. “Ah, yes. I promised you a debt in exchange for freeing me from the Hallow. Speak wisely, little one.”
“You promised two,” I point out, turning my wrist to reveal two sets of golden antlers imprinted into my skin.
“That I did.”
The tone of his voice is not inspiring.
It says:Be careful what you ask for.
“Bring wine,” he calls, snapping his fingers. “And platters.”
A half dozen servants spring into action.
I turn to accept a goblet from the servant, and my hand nearly knocks it over when I catch sight of his cat-slit golden eyes and the blunt horns half hidden by his tangled hair. Not fae. Not troll or hobgoblin or sorrow or cast of the unseelie courts at all.
