Page 48 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
Her warmth counters the icy embrace of the river, and I encourage her to lock her legs around my waist, keeping her steady as I angle myself to shield her from the current and then press my lips against hers in a tight seal.
Having my rock-hard dick trapped against her is not helping me focus on forcing my air into her lungs, but I manage, silently promising my body that I’ll bury myself inside her at the nearest opportunity.
I have to, anyway; the stupid kelpie is washing off her dust. Stupid horse. Briefly, I consider stabbing it for the insult before I dismiss the impulse.
Rose’s eyes blink open, locking with mine for a second before she looks down and goes utterly still.
I cock my head, watching carefully for her reaction.
Beneath us, along the riverbed, are the pearly bones of the kelpies’ other riders, scattered like jewels among the mud and fragments of black shale. Pretty, but if Rose disagrees, our ride might not take it well, and even I would struggle to blink from a kelpie’s grasp.
I’ll have to chop off my hand if Rose pisses off the bitey pony, and the blood would be wasted in the river.
The kelpie picks up speed, and I suck in air as we tumble over a waterfall, blinking water out of my eyes as I catch sight of the others ahead. Behind us, the Fomorian’s cursing is barely audible over the roar of water before we’re plunged back down, and Rose is back to clinging to me for dear life.
The entire trip takes minutes at most, shaving days or maybe even weeks off our journey, but it’s long enough for her to start shaking.
Perhaps I should gift her a kelpie head for her birthday. I’m still wondering about the logistics of trapping one to kill it when it drags us from the water and onto the muddy banks of the Silfeyn. The moment our feet touch land, the magic attaching us to the sodden mane releases, and we collapse on the ground.
The kelpies whinny, then bow low once before taking off back into the river.
My mate coughs up murky water, and I rub her back soothingly.
“Next time can we just blink?” she asks me seriously, her watery violet eyes meeting mine.
Well, no. Cressida knows my tricks. She and her mates wear enchanted cuffs to stop me blinking straight to them. She became a little paranoid when the oath broke my vow of obedience, but only very stupid redcaps bother holding grudges over a puny little thing like three thousand years of forced servitude.
“You know, riding a kelpie without being eaten or bargaining away your soul is actually considered a rare honour,” I tell her, shoving to my feet and offering out my hand to help her up. “That was comparatively gentle compared to what they do to their victims.”
“If that was gentle—” Caed hops on one leg as he empties water—ooh he caught a bonus fishy—from his boot. “I don’t want to see those things in a bad fucking mood.”
“Are you okay?” Wolfie is crouched by Rose, ignoring his own sodden state in favour of pushing the wet strands of hair from her face.
We’re all waiting for her answer. The púca’s ears flick away water and then swivel to face her, and even the dullahan pauses his fussing over his horse as Rose tries to find words.
“Were those…? Did they kill…?” she stammers, then shakes her head. “What am I saying? Of course, the fanged horses eat people?—”
“Mostly idiots,” I interject. “It’s a good thing. Every time they eat someone, the average intelligence of your subjects increases.”
No one wants to be queen of the dumb and stupid. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to cheer Rose, but she turns her head and pins an empty spot with a look.
“You’re right,” she says, probably to one of her ghosts. “I—” Her breath shudders, and my hat morphs into a large, dry, hooded poncho to warm her.
It takes her a second, maybe longer, but she shakes her hair back and looks around at the darkening bank with calm eyes.
“Where to now?”
As if they were waiting for her to speak, four fae slip out from between the trees, offering her shallow bows. Their leather armour is worn, but well cared for, and the male at the front steps forward, removing his helm as he goes.
Eugen. Great. I wonder if Cressida is still letting him strut about like a peacock rather than getting involved with any real fighting.
“Lady Nicnevin.” He offers a second bow. “Our Queen has ordered us to escort you to her camp—” He catches sight of Prae and Caed.
The soldiers raise their weapons, but none of the Guard do the same. Rose waits for one of her males to say something before huffing out a breath.
“Lower your swords. They’re with us.”
None of them comply, and I cock my head to one side. Stabbing the bad-mouthed blue idiot is fine, but ignoring an order from their high queen?
