Page 139 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
He turns on me with a resigned, warning glare.
“My mother,” he mutters, dragging me behind him as a rider on a white horse emerges from the fog.
Forty-One
Rhoswyn
Hawkith Iceblyd is beautiful.
I thought, given her actions, that some of her cunning and guile might show on her face, but instead, she’s the living embodiment of icy elegance.
Her black lace skirt swishes prettily as she dismounts, drawing attention to the high slits at her thighs and the golden skin of her exposed abdomen. She’s wearing practically nothing, despite the cold, and I can’t tell if that’s because her fire magic keeps her warm, or because she’s wearing a glamour for the sake of appearances. Her red bustier leaves her shoulders and the upper swells of her breasts completely bare, but for the collar of rubies around her throat. She’s not a dullahan, so the necklace is an affectation, just like the matching circlet she’s wrapped into her straight blonde hair.
The entire ensemble looks ridiculous in comparison to our heavy furs, and I shiver as she eyes the corpse at Lore’s feet with the coldest amber eyes I’ve ever seen.
Drystan’s eyes are molten, like living flames. Watching them swirl with his emotions is something I’ve grown to love. In contrast, Hawkith’s remind me of fossils and ancient dead things.
In any other, less cherubic face, I could see them as the eyes of a killer who used her fever to con a child out of the most powerful male in the court. But her soft cheeks and button nose make her seem incapable of harm.
If I were still in the mortal realm, ignorant of the fae, I’d think she was one of Reverend Michael’s angels.
“Your Majesty,” she says, dropping to one knee in the deep snow. “I’m glad you’re safe. King Cedwyn sent a dozen bounty hunters after you. The fog must have slowed many of them down, but more could arrive at any moment.”
Goddess, the fog was Faerie protecting me, even when I didn’t know it was happening. I say a silent prayer of thanks to Danu.
“A dozen, you say?” Lore twirls his hat through the gaping wound with a grin. “How fortunate. Any chance we could lose the fog, pet? I like it when they know they should be running.”
The teeth-filled grin he levels my way is nothing short of predatory, and I find myself pitying my would-be kidnappers.
I honestly have no idea how my influence over the weather works, but he doesn’t seem to care. He leans down to press a deep, scorching kiss to my waiting lips before he blinks away to reap carnage and death on my enemies.
“Return to camp.” Drystan doesn’t acknowledge his mother beyond offering her a stiff nod. “Jaromir, shift and help Lore sniff out the others.”
He takes my arm and sweeps me away before I can say anything, perhaps concerned that I’ll do something stupid like thank his mother. He doesn’t need to worry. I’m wiping any andall expressions of gratitude from my vocabulary when dealing with his family.
“Son, aren’t you going to introduce us?” Hawkith’s voice is cordial, but empty, as she easily keeps pace with us. A glance shows that the hem of her dress is actually on fire, melting the snow and easing her way.
“Nicnevin Rhoswyn, Lady Hawkith Iceblyd.” Drystan’s words are just as curt. Just as soulless.
It feels like a slap in the face. Like he’s shut a part of himself away. Rationally, I know it’s probably a defensive measure, but that doesn’t make it sting less.
Out of curiosity, I relax my vision, looking for Hawkith’s aura, but there’s nothing there. She’s shielding it. Drystan is too.
The campfire’s warmth is welcome, but Hawkith’s displeasure at seeing Prae and Caed isn’t.
“Fomorians!” Her sword is out and pointed in their direction.
“My mate, Caed”—I don’t miss the way Drystan’s hand tightens on my arm at the introduction—“and his cousin, Prae,” I interrupt, hoping to nip the subject in the bud quickly. “I take it you’ve met Prince Gryffin, Prae’s mate?”
It still feels odd to introduce Gryffin as such, given the mess that was their bonding, but I’ve asked Prae a hundred times if she wants me to send him away. Her answer is always the same—she can’t make him suffer if he’s in exile.
Not that the sounds coming from their sleeping bag sound much like suffering to me… but I’m going to continue to pretend I haven’t heard them… or seen them sneaking off in the night… or sneaking kisses at the back of the group while we’re riding.
The Autumn Court prince nods once in greeting, placing himself between her and Prae like the world’s least subtle shield.
“This will not lend you credibility with Cedwyn,” Hawkith cautions. “Unless you plan on instigating changes in his court.”
“Mother.” Drystan’s snapped word earns him a bland smile.
