Page 167 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
With more effort than it should take, I direct a whisper of sound to Drystan.
“She put something in Rose’s wine. Glamour me.”
Amber eyes fix on me, concern barely hidden in their depths. Shit. He really needs to get control of his power. It’s too hot in here. My mouth is drier than the desert.
Whatever poison she used has every joint in my body aching, and the erection straining against my laces feels raw and swollen. I could’ve done without that particular symptom.
I woodenly raise my own fork to my lips, trying to ignore it.
Whatever this is, I can tough it out. Hopefully Rose won’t even realise how bad it is, as long as I don’t draw from her.
Sweat trickles down my neck, followed swiftly by the sensation of a glamour folding over me.
Forty-Nine
Rhoswyn
“Don’t react,” Mab cautions. “But your púca has been dosed with something.”
Don’t react? Is she serious? I knew my goblet was empty, but I didn’t think Hawkith would actually try to poison me.
It’s all I can do not to turn my incredulous gaze on my grandmother, where she’s floating beside me.
“Are you feeling okay, Nicnevin?” Hawkith asks.
“As well as anyone can when their mother-by-mating starts talking about raising their child for them.” Fury rips at my heart, but I don’t let it show.
I’m more worried about Bree. He looks outwardly fine, but I’m fairly certain that’s a glamour because he hasn’t touched his tattoos once in the last few minutes.
“It would be my honour to raise my grandchild,” Hawkith purrs as Bree’s hand on my thigh goes limp. “And you needn’t worry about the rest of your Guard getting in the way. I’ve got potions prepared to keep them from interfering.”
She has? “I’m not interested in your offer.” I stand, protectiveness surging through me. “But I’d like to know what exactly you put in my wine.”
“Just a little something to help things along.” She stands as well, and Drystan follows. “No, you stay here, son. The under fae and I will leave you two alone.”
Her servers are already fleeing the room, abandoning their posts with a hushed urgency that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise.
What. Has. She. Done?
“Not so fast,” I snap, my hand slipping into Mab’s.
Hawkith backs away, offering me a small bow. “I insist. We don’t have long, you see. Come, púca.”
“What are you up to, Mother?” Drystan steps after her.
“What Cedwyn would never have the balls to,” Hawkith raises her chin delicately. “King Elatha has no use for our court. As long as we pay tribute to him, he’ll let us be.”
The floor falls out from beneath me as I realise what she’s saying. “You betrayed us to the Fomorians.”
“No. I betrayed you.” Hawkith shrugs, still backing towards the door and clicking her fingers in a gesture for Bree—who still hasn’t gotten up—to follow. “As soon as the fever the wine induces is over, you’ll birth the heir of winter, and then I’ll hand you over. Finally, an Iceblyd will sit on the throne.” She switches her gaze to Drystan. “Don’t ruin this. You understand how important?—”
She dies in the next breath. Her head falls from her shoulders in a flash of quicksilver. It rolls across the floor, coming to a stop at her son’s feet. Her face fixed in that smug, bold smirk as her knees crumple and her body collapses behind her.
All of the candles, lit by her magic, go out at once, leaving only the light coming from the open doorway. It frames Cedwyn in a bluish halo. The king is breathing raggedly, his eyeswidening as he drops the sword which just took Hawkith’s head. It smashes to the ground, losing its shape and becoming little more than a bloody metallic puddle with a silver hilt glinting from within.
“No.” He looks down at his trembling hands like he doesn’t recognise them, then up at me. “I… I killed her. Ikilledmy mate.”
A rotting madness creeps into those grey eyes, blotting out the light in them almost completely.
