Page 44 of Atop the Faerie Throne
His hand goes to his arm, drawing free the snake in a cloud of ink. It’s the width of my thigh, but it blends seamlessly with the darkness as it slithers away from us.
“Come. Espen won’t take long.”
It’s fucking creepy stepping over the paralysed bodies of the warriors. I lived through that venom, and for that reason alone, Iput them out of their misery as we pass. Bree’s snake slithers up his leg, climbing him like a tree as he continues walking until it’s curled around his neck. It pauses to snap its ugly mouth at me, then disappears back into his skin as he breaks into a jog, forcing me to do the same.
“I thought we weren’t trying to catch him,” I grumble.
The púca huffs a half-laugh. “That was before he told his warriors to collapse the exit.”
Fuck.
He takes over the task of keeping us glamoured as the air loses the staleness I associate with being underground. It’s probably my imagination, but the cool, damp breeze feels anticipatory. It carries with it the chirping of insects and a thick humidity that lets me know wherever this comes out, it’s by water.
If Elatha gets on a ship, we’ll never see him again.
We’re sprinting now, less concerned with the idea of being buried alive, and more with the idea of losing him. Bree must have the same concern, because he keeps pace easily.
My father may be fleeing like a coward, but he’s not an idiot. There are at least half a dozen spears waiting for us in the entrance, steel tips glinting in the light of the pale moon.
“I’ve got them,” I mutter, shoving past him and summoning my blades.
Of the two of us, the iron in their weapons will do less damage to me, although I don’t intend to allow them close enough.
Despite the fifty yards separating us, my magic—fuelled by Rose’s power—crosses the distance with ease. The strike is surgically neat, sending heads flying. I half expect their death gurgles and the thud of them collapsing to the ground to give us away, but they’re covered by the sudden boom that shakes the tunnel around us.
Dirt starts to cascade from the walls, and the floor is literally falling away beneath our feet.
Running when the ground keeps moving is fucking hard. We may as well be sprinting in slow motion as chunks of the ceiling begin to fall. The entrance is probably only a few feet away, but it feels like miles.
Our mad dash is rewarded when we burst free in a cloud of dirt and dust… straight into the middle of a Fomorian war camp.
“Bree,” I hiss under my breath. “Please tell me we’re still glamoured.”
“For now,” he replies, just as quietly, leading the two of us away from the wreckage of the tunnel and into the maze of tents. “But we’re outnumbered, and I don’t hear the king.”
He’s right. Elatha has vanished. There are easily two hundred fur-draped tents here, and he could be in any one of them. Worse, the blood-red sails visible on the horizon tell me we’re on the bank of a river. If my father is on one of those ships…
Damn it. He’s slipping away.
I scratch at the palm of my hand, hating the way it aches. Rose is still sending us Danu’s magic, but she feels disconnected, and I can’t help the concern flickering through me. Surely if she’s managed to reach the Goddess, she’s away from iron and safe. So why is my spine prickling with unease?
“We should go,” Bree says. “Rose needs us.”
“If he gets that medallion back to Fellgotha, she’ll be in even more danger.”
As if on cue, a shout goes up behind us. Fuck. I’ll bet they just discovered the bodies.
“Better to face it with the full Guard than waste time here,” Bree argues as the two of us crouch between tents, hiding as a search party rushes past.
Their torches are flocking to the spot where we emerged. In a few minutes, we won’t be able to move without walking into a warrior. Bree’s right, chasing my father now is?—
The ache in my palm turns into a full-blown inferno, sending bolts of pain radiating up my arm. A heartbeat later, Bree’s glamour drops, sliding like water off my skin as he’s distracted by the agony of Rose’s death.
And then, in further proof that Danu and the Ancestors fucking hate me, a warrior catches sight of us and shouts a warning. Before I can do anything to stop him, he lifts his crossbow and fires straight at the púca.
I dive without thinking. Even though the bolt catches me in the abdomen, for some reason the pain hits me in my chest.
My heart cramps and twists, and before either of us can process what’s just happened, my world is consumed by fire.
