Page 71 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

“She knew them from the mortal realm, and they taught her to speak Fae.” Kitarni ignores me, sipping at her drink as she stares into the fountain. “But why three? Why not four? Why not more than that?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” I insist. “I would’ve seen spirits.”

It’s part of my job.

But I have been distracted recently, and spirits are excellent at hiding when they want to. I know that better than most.

Kitarni frowns, abandoning the fountain as she heads towards me and the door I’m guarding.

“I don’t doubt that you would’ve, Lord Huntsman.” She ignores the way I turn to stone at her casual use of my title, continuing, “Talk to her about them before you dismiss the idea. We need to figure it out. Fast.”

How the fuck does she know?

I move aside and she pushes open the door that leads to the room where Rose is still recovering. Kitarni looks down at the sleeping Nicnevin with a pensive expression on her face, stroking a leafy branch behind her ear as she thinks.

“She needs to hone her magic if she wants to stand a chance against the likes of Eero and Cressida,” the high priestess says, and Jaro finally drags his eyes away from Rose to look at us. “Cedwyn and Aiyana will test her too.”

“We can protect her,” he grumbles, shifting until his elbows are resting on his knees. “It would be far easier if she would just do as we asked…”

The shifter has taken the seat in the corner of the airy bedroom, though he’s really far too big for it. The wickerwork sags alarmingly beneath him, and I wonder dimly if there’s some troll far back in his family tree that might account for his size.

Watching him with Rose is comical. She barely reaches his pectorals.

On the bed, curled up on her side in a fetal position, is our trouble maker. She’s pale, but otherwise healthy. She just drained herself by using so much power so quickly. It shouldn’t have happened, but because she wasn’t trained on how to take from the Goddess in a calm, measured way, she ended up shutting the connection too early and started draining her own energy.

At least when she’s drained like this, I can properly study her without her aura threatening to blind me.

Beside her—as far away from her as we can put him—is her púca. Even then, the difference between them is startling. Our Nicnevin has hair like rose gold, and her skin is soft and unblemished, whereas he is so heavily tattooed you can barely see his true skin beneath. As I watch, one of the numerous inked knives slithers over his arm to reposition itself across his ribs. The bold black art matches his inky hair and bold lashes.

Goddess, he’s thin. I never thought a fae could be so emaciated and still live. It’s clear they weren’t feeding him, and he had a few lingering symptoms of iron poisoning, which Kitarni quickly took care of.

That fae were using that metal on other fae is disgusting.

He wakes as we enter, but without stretching or yawning. His body remains completely still as his eyes snap open.

I’ve seen people wake that way before; like they’re afraid of other people knowing they’re no longer asleep.

“You’re awake,” I note.

At the same time, Kitarni asks: “How are you feeling?”

His bright green eyes focus on me, lighting with recognition after a few seconds before switching to her.

“Better.” His voice is wrecked. Hoarse, whispery, and rough.

I’m not normally inclined towards pity, but damn if I don’t feel it now.

“Drystan,” I introduce myself before nodding to Jaro in the corner. “That’s Jaromir, and Lorcan is around somewhere.” I have no idea where the redcap is, and that should not worry me as much as it does.

He went off in a strop after Jaro and I threatened to rip his cap up if he ever did anything like last night again. Unfortunately, he has a tendency to do stupid, violent things when left unattended.

“Bricriu.” The púca glances down at both of us, before staring down at his body.

His hand traces the nathair tattoo wrapped around his right forearm, then the valravn on his left shoulder before settling on the head of the cat-sìth which rests on his abdomen. As soon as he makes contact, the two pointed black cat ears he had when we swore the Oath to Rose reappear on the top of his head, replacing his pointed fae ones.

“Though, I was once known as Bree to my friends.”

He says the last like it’s an afterthought, scanning the room warily. But when his gaze finally lands on Rose, he can’t seem to look away.

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