Fae King’s Hunger - SAMPLE
Publisher’s Note: The Court of Bones and Ash series is written in serial format. If you haven’t read Fae King’s Temptation, you’ll want to do that before starting Fae King’s Hunger. If you have, I hope you enjoy this next installment!
CHAPTER ONE
ROGAR
Something about this route—the crispness of the leaves on the trees, the movement of the wind, the rich tang of pine invading my nose—makes my heart pound. Things appear normal.
Too normal.
I slow, keeping Kyra in my sight.
Gauron raises a fist, gaze raking across the landscape.
Kyra tenses. “What?”
“Something is off.” I feel it with every bone in my body. But what, I cannot discern.
Aelinor dismounts and sets her palms out, letting her magic roam the perimeter, stalking the danger circling our location. Our eyes meet. The slight shake of her head does not appease the wariness clawing my rib cage.
She shrugs. “The mist?”
“No,” Kyra answers. Her hand tightens on the bow. “The mist didn’t follow us across the swamp.” She glances about. “Where’s Gray?”
Gray?
I inhale, filtering through the scent of moss and damp soil, but catch no whiff of the warg. Lowering my shields, I explore our link. He is close, but something blocks our connection. Only one thing has the power to interfere with our link and manipulate what we see and feel.
Magic.
“It is an illusion. Prepare yourselves. The magic is strong.” I grab Kyra and wrap my arm around her waist while drawing my war hammer with the other. How could I have missed the signs? The same crofter’s house we passed earlier pokes through the trees but without the smoke rising from its chimney. “Reject all you see and hear, female. The magic will warp your perception.”
My mate’s eyes grow wide with fear, the acrid scent building with each passing minute. I will allow no harm to befall my càirdeil. By Ulda, should it come to her life or mine, I will gladly give my dying breath so she may live to see the rise of the dual suns on the morrow.
Holding her close, I whisper, “Stay still. We do not know where the illusionist is positioned. This may be a trap to force our retreat back into the forest.”
Kyra presses her body against mine. “So how do we know?”
“We do not. We wait for them to reveal themselves, and then we fight.” Which puts us completely at the enemy’s mercy. My skin itches with the need to change into my battle form, to let the rage building inside me bear justice on those who seek to harm what is mine.
Taking several steps back, I comb the encompassing landscape for hints of the vile wizardry camouflaged in breezy winds and lush foliage. Yet despite the warning burning at my nape, I see nothing. “Whatever happens, do not leave my side. Do you understand? Do not allow the magic to separate us.”
She nods and her knuckles go white under the pressure of her grip around the bow.
My second jumps off the restless animal clomping the ground in distress. Flanking Gauron, Aelinor unsheathes her sword.
“Oh God, what is that?” Kyra slams into my shoulder. Her eyes bulge, gaze fixated on a spot beyond the forest’s border. “I don’t think that’s an illusion.”
“Easy, female. Tell me what you see.”
She does not answer. Hands shaking, she reaches for an arrow from the quiver seated at her back. Her nostrils flare, and when she looks in my direction, her eyes are wild and unfocused. “We need to run. Now.”
“Kyra, breathe. I will let no harm befall you.”
Her gaze darts left and right in a frenzied sweep, her body vibrating with fear. To my left, Aelinor pivots. With her sword held on guard, ready to strike, she mirrors my second, who begins to shift into his battle form. Both warily watch a moving shape. One I do not see.
Jatta.
They are all under an illusion.
All but me.
I attempt to connect to Gray’s mind once more, but the magic’s grip is firm. No sound stirs. With my senses numbed, my orc abilities are stripped, forcing me to await my enemy’s first move.
“Rogar,” Kyra screams. “Oh God. Oh God. They’re huge. Shit. They’re huge.” With tears streaming down her face, she bats the bow in a manic swing, yelling, “Move. Move. Oh God. Move.” Kicking her feet, she barrels her shoulder into my side.
To hold an illusion this powerful, the bearer needs to be within range. I clamp my hand on Kyra’s hip. I cannot let her escape. If she eludes my hold . . .
“Reveal yourselves,” I bellow.
In this deadened silence, Gauron’s grunts are the only thing I hear. Aelinor thrusts her sword in the air. At her back, Gauron falls to one knee clenching his torso, pain etched across his features. Beside me, Kyra’s panic morphs into abject terror.
“Release my people.” A helpless rage burns through my words. “It is me you want.”
Kyra’s movements are erratic. Nails dig into my arms. Feet stamp against the ground. Her body wrenches uncontrollably, and as strong as I am, my grip begins to loosen. I am about to haul her over my shoulder when the magic stifling my awareness weakens.
Gray’s essence slams into my consciousness. Kill. Kill. Kill.
A voice booms through the haze. “Se.”
Part?
The illusion wavers.
“Rogar, king of the orcs, I seek your counsel.” Through the mist, a small army approaches led by a red-haired norn dressed in the long flowing dress of her kind.
“Rowena.” I clench my teeth. Gauron was right to warn me about the witch. I was a fool not to listen. Growling, I point my war hammer with menace. “Harm my people, and I will destroy you.”
“These are dark times, Rogar, son of the rightful queen of Regnir.” Her smile is sweet and as deceptive as the tongue-stirring rumors of my past. She halts several arm lengths before me. Her group of ten mixed-race fae warriors fans out to her rear. “Calm yourself. If you do as you are told, no harm will come to your friends.”
“You are many things, Rowena, but I had not thought you a fool.” Or a liar. My eyes settle on the unarmed troll and the two norns moving to flank her side, and although none show signs of attacking, Kyra’s exertions leave me handicapped should they strike against us. “Is this how you choose to repay a life debt, witch?”
“That life debt is why your court still stands.” She takes two steps forward. “It cannot be helped, Your Highness. What I have to disclose must be done under the guise of secrecy. Like you, I have my own to protect, and we both know the loyal Gauron and your clever shaman would never allow me to whisk you away alone, now would they?”
The hair at my nape stands. I pull Kyra closer, but I cannot shield her from the norn’s probing gaze.
The witch’s chin lifts, curiosity wrinkling her elfin features. She angles her nose and samples the air. Recognition flares in her dark eyes. “Human?” Magic sparks, settling on my skin like a web of oily silk. “How dare you bring death to my door.”
My fangs burst from my gums. “The woman is under my protection. Think well before you act, for I promise you, I will not.”
“Stubborn fool. This would have been so much simpler had you arrived alone. But the risk to Lithyr is too great, outweighing the possible alliance a mighty orc king might provide.” She turns to the troll. “Gerd, seize the king, but do not maim him. I have faith Drengskador’s leader may yet see reason.”
The troll breaks formation, taking huge strides in my direction.
“You will regret the day you betrayed me, witch.” With a roar, I shove my mate behind me. Well over a head taller than me, the troll is covered in a thick, armor-like green skin. Massive arms hang past his knees, ending in clawed hands. He stands on three-toed feet, has a large nose and ears, and a hairless body.
My war hammer is useless against this creature. He will regenerate quickly from any slash to his flesh. To defeat Gerd, I will need to get close enough to sink my dagger into the only spot on his body not protected by his thick skin.
His ears.
With the troll down, I can take out the norns, shatter the illusion, and free Aelinor, who will help me defeat the remaining army.
But the first step?
Getting seized by the troll.
For my plan to work, my capture must look authentic. Amidst Kyra’s frantic screams, I lunge for the creature’s legs, swinging my war hammer at his ankles. His massive arms drive toward my legs. I dodge a claw and stab the hammer’s handle into his right kneecap. The troll grunts and then grabs me by the neck, lifting me off the ground before burrowing his stubby fingers into my trachea. Reaching for the weapon sheathed inside my left boot, I bite his arm and kick my legs closer.
“Throw the transportation charm,” the norn commands.
The troll retrieves something in his pocket and flings the object behind us. The bitter tang of magic punches the air, and a doorway glimmers where there had been naught but air and grass.
Clocking my right fist against his jaw, I throw one punch after another in a futile attempt to slow his march to the portal. I cannot let this troll carry me through. I cannot leave Kyra, Gauron, and Aelinor alone and unprotected and at the mercy of these traitorous witches.
My left hand is inches away from the hilt tucked inside my boot when the troll crosses into the portal.
My lungs lock. Forces inside the vortex push, pull, and threaten to suck each of my organs out of the nearest orifice. When the sensation stops, a wave of nausea builds in my gut. Orcs are resistant to magic, but the elf blood coursing through my body counters the effect.
The troll drops me to the ground. Dagger in hand, I roll to my feet and assume a defensive position. The drive to kill, to sink my claws into my enemy and squeeze the life from every limb, overwhelms years of restraint. Years of becoming more elf than orc. Years of undoing the sins of my ancestors.
I shake my head to clear my rage. Days of perpetual darkness leave my eyes sensitive to the bright light of our dual suns. Smoke hangs heavy in the air along with the scent of death.
Where in Alfhemir am I?
The portal closes. Rowena marches past, boots striking the cobblestoned road in the center of what had been a vibrant town.
A town I recognize.
Keeping the troll in my line of sight, I swing my focus to the side of the narrow road. The broken walls of several huts jut from the charred ground. Ash and stone sit in heaps where a foundation once stood. The more I search, the more devastation I find.
Jatta.
This blackened village is Lithyr. Can this be another illusion? Another carefully laid manipulation? To what end? “What happened here?”
“Four days past, the goblins raided the village,” the norn begins, her voice low. “They searched every home, inn, and tavern looking for you. They marched under the Wild Hunt’s banner.”
My throat goes dry. I see no life on these barren streets. As a free city, Lithyr is a beacon of hope to hundreds shunned by fae society—half-bloods, lower fae, species like the norns who are hated and feared for their magic.
“This is all that remains.” Rowena circles back and stops beside the seething troll facing me on my left. A soft breeze blows through the billowy layers of her blue dress. “Most royal visits are preceded by notice. Yet I never received word of your pending arrival. Of course, if I were harboring a human among my court, then I too would keep my travel plans secret.”
“Where are the survivors, Rowena?” I refuse to believe all life perished here. “You have separated me from my court with an elaborate ruse. Perhaps what you show me here is false as well?”
She laughs, the sound shrill in the dead space that was once Lithyr. “Is that what it will take to appease your conscience, my lord? Then yes”—she throws her arms in the air with flourish—“this is all an illusion.”
I wait for the curtain of magic suspended over the city to dissipate, but the charred landscape remains unchanged.
“Enough with the games, Rowena.” The longer I stand here trading barbs with the norn, the more danger befalls my mate. “What have you done with my commander? With the human under my protection?”
Her smile is vicious. “So direct, Rogar, king of the orcs. To the point. No excuses. No unnecessary questions. You have taken all the fun out of my little presentation.”
“You test my patience, witch.”
“And your misguided integrity has destroyed my city, orc.”
A growl builds in my throat. “What. Do. You. Want?”
The troll’s body tenses. He looms over me with a growl of his own until the norn lightly touches his arm. The creature settles back, his gray irises promising retribution and pain the moment the opportunity avails itself.
“Until we can begin rebuilding, I want asylum for Lithyr’s citizens. In Drengskador,” Rowena says.
My eyes narrow. There is much my people will accept, but an influx of norns and lower fae who sought our destruction during the war? I might as well end my reign now.
I sheathe my dagger. “I will not be coerced into offering sanctuary.”
“I told you orcs cannot be reasoned with,” Gerd spits out.
The norn’s black eyes settle on my face, piercing in their intensity. Her mouth goes slack, and a white film drops over her eyes.
My heart flips in my chest. A norn’s power is centered in the complex illusions they weave to manipulate the hearts of fae. Powerful spells and potions, like the one I had hoped to purchase for Kyra, are created and sold like wares in the open market. But some norns are said to hold the gift of sight—the ability to see into the past or future—talents they employ to spy, or worse, sell information to the highest bidder.
Rowena’s eyes clear. “Interesting. This I did not see.”
With the troll temporarily distracted, I lunge for the witch, capturing her in my arms. I pivot, turn, and hold my dagger against her neck to ward off the raging beast. “Tell your commander to heel. I do not wish to draw norn blood, but I have no qualms doing so.”
Rowena’s body goes limp in my hold. “You would sacrifice your fated mate for a kingdom whose citizens cling to outdated beliefs and prejudices?”
She knows?
Thank Ulda my jaw is clenched tight or my mouth would drop open. “I would sacrifice myself to ensure a better future for all of fae-kind, including haughty norns who attempt to strong-arm kings.”
“I have not decided if I should be impressed or disappointed in you, Rogar.” The back of her head moves side to side, scratching my chest. “A càirdeil. A bond awakened after centuries of slumber. Never in my long life did I expect to witness such a phenomenon anew, and yet, if I read you correctly, you would forsake this tribute for atonement?”
Everything inside me rebels against the prospect of giving up my mate. “What does your magic tell you?”
She is quiet for a moment while the troll watches me with a death glare.
“You will move mountains to have her,” she says after a time.
“Has history taught you naught, witch?” This world will break Kyra. Drain her of her spirit and innocence until there is nothing left. Until all that remains is barren like the lands we stand upon. I will play no part in my mate’s destruction. Not even at my expense. “Alfhemir is no place for humans.”
Rowena snorts. “Humans. Norns. Half-bloods. For too long, Alfhemir has bled.”
I cannot deny this truth. Centuries of mistrust have turned fae against fae, and I am but one voice in a sea of bigotry and injustice, a fight I grow weary of waging alone. “Time will heal the misdeeds of our past, but to reach this point, we must ensure peace reigns.”
But at what cost?
Never before have I questioned my path—my sworn duty—until now.
Until Kyra.
“Release me.” The fight vanishes from her voice. “I will give you the charm you seek.”
It is my turn to laugh. “You have fooled me once, witch. I will not fall so easily again. Your oath.”
She snorts. “Leave it to an orc to question the honor of the norn. Make the cut.”
“Tell your troll to stand back.” I wait until Gerd moves a safe distance. Rowena’s second and I will never be friends, not after today. I angle my mouth to her ear. “You will make a charm to camouflage my mate’s slave mark. One that will hide her appearance and scent from all manner of fae. You will swear to keep knowledge of her existence secret for as long as you shall live.” I glance at Gerd. “And that includes your troll.”
“Fine. In return, you will release me from my debt and pay for my secrecy with a lock of your hair.”
“No.”
“Then choose. Charm or silence, but you cannot have both.”
I press the dagger to her neck. We both know the laws of magic will not allow me to force the oath, but one way or another, I will win the norn’s silence. “Charm.”
She extends her right hand.
I lower the dagger’s tip to the heel of her palm, the blade met with dozens of faint lines etched into her pale skin. My right hand slides over her heart, claws extending into the fabric of her dress. “Should you betray me with your magic, I will rip your heart out with my bare hands.” I let the words sink in. “Brace yourself for the cut.”
“You talk too much, orc.”
My lips quirk. Despite the centuries of hatred between our races, I like this norn. In a perfect world, we might have been friends. Allies.
My cut is quick and efficient.
Rowena closes her fist and begins chanting the words that will seal our oath. Magic builds in the air, rippling between us before snapping in place.
“There. It is done,” she spits.
Fighting the urge to shudder or rub the slimy feel of her magic off my skin, I step back and release her.
Confident, her vibrant red hair blowing in the wind, Rowena walks to Gerd’s side. The troll seethes from my treatment of his mistress. She faces me, her stance proud. “Well played, Rogar, king of the orcs. I will abide by my oath, and you yours, but we do not have to be nice about it, now do we?”
Smirking, she grabs hold of Gerd’s hand and drops a transportation charm at her feet.
Damn witch!
I roar and bolt across the short distance to find myself running through the disappearing visage of the grinning norn and her sneering second-in-command.
CHAPTER TWO
KYRA
Ouch.
I raise a cool fingertip to my temple. My head feels like I’ve tangoed with one too many margaritas—and lost—while the rest of me is uncomfortably raw and tender, like someone peeled away a layer of flesh from my limbs to reveal the jumble of throbbing muscles beneath.
Grimacing, I open my eyes and squint at the wood-beamed ceiling overhead, the stone walls, the lack of windows, the dirt floor, and the locked door that comprise my surroundings.
Yep, I’m definitely no longer in the Forest of Night.
Where am I?
“It’s about time you woke.”
Aelinor.
Ugh.
Of all the elves to be locked up with, it has to be her?
“Can you not scream, please?” My tongue is thick in my mouth. I manage to lift myself into a sitting position without groaning. If only my brain would stop trying to spin off its axis. Of course, the scowling she-elf doesn’t help my cause. “This isn’t my fault, you know.”
“It was an illusion. You were ordered to stay by my king’s side.” Her condescending screech reaches the rafters.
“How was I supposed to believe a swarm of centipedes was an illusion when nothing else changed? They crept over the terrain. We all saw that. They ate you, for fuck’s sake.”
“Centipedes?”
“Yeah. Fucking centipedes. Jesus. They swarmed all over the ground. And then . . .” A shiver rakes up my spine and grates my scalp. I resist the urge to scratch my head like a madwoman. “So the troll choking your king was an illusion too?”
Aelinor purses her mouth and slowly folds her slender arms across her chest. “The illusions were unexpected.” Her melodious voice is anything but kind.
“That must have hurt to admit.” My head pounds. I will my heart to slow. Losing my temper accomplishes nothing, for her or for me. “They got to you too, didn’t they?”
She snorts. “Trust me. It would take more than a swarm of insects to deter me from my king’s command.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Vindication sweetens the foul taste in my mouth.
Wait. She said “it would take,” implying it hadn’t. Were we hit with different illusions?
I shake the thought. I’ve got more important things to worry about right now than what we each saw in the woods.
Balancing one palm on the wooden bench and the other on my thigh, I push myself off the pew. “Where are we? Why isn’t Rogar here? And Gauron. Is he . . .?” I can’t bring myself to finish the question. The last time I saw Rogar’s second, he was injured. But that didn’t stop him from raising his sword in the air and fighting like the brave and honorable orc he is.
And Rogar . . .
Please let him be okay.
Aelinor’s cool brown irises are glued to my face, scouring my flesh like acid burning through metal, pushing every one of my buttons.
I rise to my full height. “I get it. You don’t like me. Guess what? I don’t like you either.”
Her body shimmers, the glow so subtle I almost miss it. To any non-fae—i.e. human—the lithe, silver-haired shaman looks frail and barely capable of lifting a four-liter water jug. But appearances are deceiving in faerie. I watched her haul an injured three-hundred-pound orc right off his horse with one hand.
And that’s not all I’ve seen her do.
A prudent woman would heed the warning and back off. Good thing I’m not prudent.
“We don’t have to like each other, but we do have to work together. Tell me where they’ve taken Rogar. And what happened to us anyway?”
“Rogar was captured, no thanks to you. I have yet to discover where he’s being held. As for Gauron, they’re tending to his wounds. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told. And you—” She throws me one last look before turning her caramel-eyed gaze to the stone wall. “—collapsed.”
I sit back down on the pew and rub the slave mark burning my hand. “We can’t just sit here. We have to do something.”
“We remain here until the ransom is served. Rogar is too powerful and too important a figure to be killed.” She flicks her delicate fingers in my direction dismissively. “Settle that fragile mind of yours before it’s harmed. I will not be blamed for your demise should you give yourself an aneurysm.”
I run my hands through the knotted mess of dark hair poking from my braid. I hadn’t outright asked Rogar for his help, but aiding and abetting an outlaw came with consequences. Consequences that risked his and Gauron’s lives.
Aelinor too.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t ask to be in this situation, and although I don’t agree with your realm’s stupid laws, I feel responsible for Rogar and Gauron. I never wanted to see them hurt because of me. Or you, for that matter.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Why would the Hunt go through the trouble of throwing up illusions anyway? I figured they would simply overpower us and kill me. What they did today—imprisoning us, taking Rogar, helping Gauron—doesn’t align with what I’d expect from a band of merciless executioners.”
Aelinor cocks her head and seems to study a section of the wall over the door. “You make a valid point, human.” She begins pacing from one end of the tiny room to the other, twisting the tip of her silver braid in her hand. “We were lost in the illusion for longer than we imagined. From the time we crossed Kolmarden all the way to Lithyr, we played into their hands, oblivious to the magic manipulating our actions.” Fangs peek through angry lips. “The norns are clearly involved. I will stake your life on it.”
Well, gee, thanks.
Scrunching my face, I try to think back to the moments prior to passing out, but it’s all a blur. “I don’t remember much after the magic cleared. A field. Bright sun. That weird bridge—”
She makes a grunting sound. “We’re lucky you didn’t veer off the path and fall to your death when we crossed the real bridge into Lithyr.”
“They lured us into the city?” I lower my face into my hands and rub my eyes. “So the troll was real but the centipedes weren’t?” Aelinor nods, and I’m grateful she doesn’t add to the guilt I’m already feeling. “Did the vrou take him, then? Rogar. Is that what happened?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know who was involved. We battled a squad comprised of multiple races of fae. After Rogar was pulled into the transport charm, we were brought here.”
“What on earth is a transport charm?”
“A portal spell. Rogar could be anywhere.”
Oh crap. This is bad.
Gray’s sad howl sounds from somewhere outside, echoing the turmoil beating within my rib cage. The giant warg had gone missing, but I realize he must have been with us all along, helpless to stop the insidious scheme. And now it all makes sense. The illusion was the real reason the mist couldn’t follow me across the swamp, not some imperceptible boundary.
“Is there any way out of this jail cell?” I ask.
“Do you think I’d be wasting my time talking to you if there were?”
I want to sock my fist into her holier-than-thou face, but without Rogar here to restrain her, she’d probably kill me. Literally. “Have you tried breaking down the door with magic?”
Her alabaster skin goes tight, and I swear the room’s temperature drops several degrees. “Who told you of my magic?”
Invisible red flags pop up in my head. I haven’t told anyone about the magical orbs Aelinor had whipped up the night I spied her in the Forest of Night. Besides, how much damage could a light orb do to a solid wood door?
“No one told me about your magic, per se. Rogar mentioned—”
“His Lordship to you,” she admonishes.
Fine. Formal it is. “Your Lordship imparted a general understanding of your world. He told me your land influences the abilities your people wield. You hail from Autumn, correct?”
“Regnir.”
“What?”
“My kingdom. Autumn is . . . what your kind call an epithet.”
Huh? “So what magic would beings from Regnir wield? Anything we can use to weaken the door?”
She considers me long and hard. “Are you goading me?” The unearthly brown of her irises flares bright, affirming her nonhuman state. “Would I be locked inside this filthy room with my king in peril if I had the means to escape?”
“I can’t sit here and do nothing.” Standing, I carefully stretch my body side to side. A dull ache throbs at my lower back.
“Believe me, human, there is no greater hell than spending time with you on this miserable bench.” Aelinor passes me, close enough that I jerk my shoulder to avoid a direct hit when she lowers herself onto the bench. “By all means, amuse yourself.”
“Fine, sit down and get comfy. This lowly human is going to get our asses out of here.” I pivot and examine the room with a clinical eye, and damn, there’s not much here in the way of escape tools. The windows are girded with massive iron bars, so no getting through those. I might be able to dig through the dirt floor to get under the door using . . . my hands?
Yeah, no. That would take a decade.
Or more.
The bench doesn’t appear to be bolted. Theoretically, we could smash it against the medieval handle and break the lock. I mean, I can’t lift the thing, but my cellmate can. But the noise would destroy our chances of ambushing the unseen guards.
I refuse to admit defeat. There has to be a way out of this shithole.
Chewing the inside of my lip, I stare at the door, willing the answer to materialize across the wood grain. If we can’t force the door open from our end, then our only option is to persuade someone on the other side to enter the room. That, I can do. Aelinor will do the rest.
Rubbing my hands together, I say, “Okay, when the door opens, be ready to do your thing.”
“My thing?”
“Yeah. Magic or your awesome fighting skills. Your choice. Just take the guy down.”
“Ah. So I’m to sit here until the door opens and then do my thing? Go on, then.” Smiling, Aelinor settles back against the wall and folds her model-thin arms across her chest, looking pretty darn comfy. “I’ll wait here to do my thing.”
Freaking elf has no faith in humanity.
Clearing my throat, I stride to the door. “In fifth grade, I fostered with a kid named Dennis. Nice kid but a pain in the ass.” I run my hands over the wooden frame, carefully inspecting the ironclad hinges. I don’t know what I’m searching for; if the warrior-shaman didn’t find a weakness, I certainly won’t. “We lived with strict rules in that house. Assigned bathroom times. Specific forms of address. Butts in your chair for dinner at exactly six o’clock. And if you were late, oh well . . . sucks to be you.”
“Does this stroll into your pathetic life history have any bearing on our escape or my capacity to do my thing, human?”
“What’s with you guys and your inability to call a being by his or her name?” I scoff. “Anyway, Dennis would get around house rules by whining. Or crying. Neither of which got him dinner, poor kid. But it did get Mr. Carvalho into his room.” Belt in hand. I leave out that last bit.
“So your plan is to be more annoying than you already are?”
“Exactly. Never underestimate the power of a whiny voice.”
Aelinor suppresses a laugh. “Then by all means, human, continue.”
Pounding my fist against the door, I yell, “I’m not feeling so good.” Can I get any more cliché? “I hurt. Everywhere. Please help me.” I follow with extreme sound effects. Gagging. A few choked gasps. A couple of wails and moans. After a half hour of begging, pleading, and pounding, the side of my hand is numb, and my voice is hoarse.
“Don’t.” I turn around and wave Aelinor off before the “I told you so” hits my ears.
“What?” She shrugs. “I’m just sitting here patiently, waiting to do my thing.”
Have I mentioned how bad I want to punch this smug elf right now?
Aelinor’s expression changes, shifting from pompous to . . . sympathetic? “The room is sealed in magic.”
Oh geez. Kill me now. “And you couldn’t tell me this earlier?”
“I will admit, I was curious to see what that small mind of yours would conjure.” Aelinor whips her hand at the door. Magic bursts from her palm and shoots into the wood panel, dissipating upon contact. “They can’t hear us. Nor we them. Escape is impossible.”
With her hand extended, she stands and rotates her wrist, fingers twirling in a circular motion. The dirt floor begins to shift, soil hurling beside the crater forming in the center of the floor. The minute she lowers her hand, the stream of magic fades from her palm and every granule of soil is magically sucked back into the hole.
Dang.
“Now do you believe me?”
I groan and then wince from the soreness in my throat. “You could have said something a half hour ago.
“What? And miss out on that charming performance? Never. Besides, I had no idea your species could be so . . . vexatious.”
The slave mark on my right hand starts itching like crazy. I’m tired, hungry, sore, and angry.
“I hate you.”
“The feeling is mutual, human.”
CHAPTER THREE
ROGAR
Blasted norn.
Silence surrounds me, deep and mournful like a freshly dug tomb. I whip the rock held in my hand and yell my frustration into the wind. Ulda help anyone who gets in my way when I finally track down the wretched witch.
Running a hand through my hair, I suck in a breath. Where in Alfhemir has she hidden my mate? I should be thinking about Gauron and Aelinor, but my mind keeps snapping back to the frightened look on Kyra’s face. She is at the mercy of a band of half-bloods who hate her race above all others, including orcs. And worse, I gave my oath to protect her. To keep her safe.
I have done neither.
The wildness inside me roars and rages until all I hear is the static of my anger ringing in my ears. In this state, I am moments away from shifting into my battle form. Red clouds my vision. My claws lengthen. Bones creak as muscles and ligaments stretch to accommodate my growing size. Allowing my emotions to rule my head will only bring more danger to Kyra. For my mate, I must think, not react. Her life depends on my ability to reason.
Inhaling deeply, I force my body to submit to my mind’s control and funnel my concentration to the crumbling structure listing ten feet from where I stand. A flattened piece of stone from the foundation of the apothecary rises several feet off the ground behind me. I sit and lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, my hands loosely clasped. It takes effort to slow the pushing and pulling of air out of my nose and mouth.
I take a good look at what remains of Lithyr and shake my head at the senseless destruction. No building is unscathed. The tavern. Rowena’s shop. The thatched roof homes that had stretched up and down these cobblestoned streets.
All gone.
The goblins were systematic in carrying out the carnage, which tells me the true mastermind has coin to spend. The goblin king would not risk war unless his purse was filled or guarantees were made for compensation beyond riches. Land? Titles? The self-proclaimed king craves both.
This whole scheme reeks of subterfuge, but it is a problem to think upon another day. Right now, finding Kyra and the others is my primary concern. My senses, although keen, are useless, and my link to Gray is still blocked.
I retract my claws and crack my neck. The key to unraveling this mystery is to get inside my enemy’s head.
Where would an arrogant norn with a transportation charm hide?
Transportation charm?
A norn’s magic is tied to illusion. The ability to create a portal charm falls under a wizard’s domain.
Jatta.
Either Rowena has a wizard in her ranks, or she is purchasing charms from someone who does.
Urgency forces me from my perch. After the Reckoning, elves hunted wizards with the same vehemence they employed to implement our annihilation. After all, it was the dark wizard, Myrkur, who used the mate bond against us, compelling orcs to do his bidding, which ultimately led to the war of all wars. I have not seen or heard whisper of a wizard in centuries. Ancestors help me, the last thing I need now is the threat of a dark one’s power rising on the horizon.
Pacing the short width of the street, I review what little information Rowena let slip. The goblins attacked four days past. Given the extent of the damage, Lithyr’s citizens would have escaped with only the clothes on their backs. The city is leveled, yet I see no bodies in the rubble. When the norn captured me, her appearance had been immaculate. She did not resemble a female driven from her home. She may have been glamoured, or . . .
I clench my fist. The wily witch has a shelter nearby.
But where?
Portal charms were used in Rowena’s offensive, but as for the number, I cannot be sure. I am guessing two were used: one to separate me from Kyra and my advisors, and the second was a grandiose display of comeuppance. In days past, high fae reserved these spells for use as a last resort in battle or to escape injury. Although the magic needed to create the charms is extensive, the cost is dependent on the distance traveled from one point to another. The farther away one wishes to go, the more magic is required and vice versa.
She could have taken my mate to the ends of Alfhemir, but my gut says no. The witch is close.
She has to be.
Striding down the street, I comb the landscape for clues. A blockhouse large enough to house Rowena and her people—which is most of Lithyr, based on the lack of fae casualties—would occupy a sizeable tract of land and stick out among the rows and rows of modest foundations like a Winter elf wandering Drengskador. When I reach Lithyr’s western boundary, I see a strange deposit scorching the grass and, upon further inspection, an innumerable number of prints stamped into the soil. I rub the residue between the pads of my fingers and sniff.
Bitter. Corrosive.
Ward magic.
Here was the point of entry. The goblins cut through the boundary ward and raided the entire village. Looking for me. Somewhere between the breach and the search, Rowena evacuated her subjects. The norns would have leveraged illusions to hide their escape, but like all magic, the power came at a great cost. Forcing an illusion on a party of four is one thing. Manipulating an army of fifty or more goblins is another.
I glance in the opposite direction of the broken ward. Even with a union of three norns, a powerful triad, the magic required to hold an illusion of this magnitude would have severely depleted the norns. So they improvised. If it were me, I would create a distraction and quickly decamp, getting as many of my subjects to safety as possible.
Trusting my instincts, I trek across the heart of Lithyr at a good clip. Every wooden structure I encounter is burned to ash, the stone sections marred in black. This is no normal fire. Only a handful of beings can wield magical flame, and goblins are not on that list. Could they have arrived with an ally?
Or did Rowena order her wizard to burn the village before the goblins could lay greedy hands on Lithyr’s riches?
I am well past the town’s main hub when I spot footprints converging into one route and a broken necklace buried in the dirt. I retrieve the brightly colored beads and raise the strand to my nose. Female. Lesser fae. Possibly brownie? About three hundred feet in the foreground, a sizeable object blocks my course. I drop the beads and race ahead, unsheathing my dagger, avoiding a toy left on the ground. Whoever passed through here—I am guessing Lithyrians—did so in a hurry. The tracks filter into a single lane leading directly to what I can now see is an abandoned cart stationed in a field untouched by fire.
Interesting.
The two-wheeled wooden cart sits with its bed sloped and the pull handles sunk into the soil. Old scents loiter, distinct and identifiable. Three norns. Too many half-fae to discern. Illusion magic. The scents grow weaker closer to the front of the cart. Here, the tracks completely disappear. My ears twitch, alert for the slightest sound. I cannot help but feel there is something I am missing. With the village burning, would the goblins not follow the norns this far out of Lithyr?
I grab a handful of dirt and sniff. Minerals. Moisture. Decay. Nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing resembling the distinct marker of a transportation charm. Or a goblin’s stench.
At the rear of the cart, the troll’s scent is thick and interspersed among the other fae. Glancing at the sky, I let the dirt fall from my hand and wipe my palm against my thigh. Lithyr’s citizens escaped without the aid of a transportation spell. Perhaps winged fae carried them away to safety, but why leave behind a pull cart filled with bundles of hay atop its bed?
Unless that is what they want me to believe.
Squatting, I scan the undercarriage to find grass, soil, and more prints. Pondering the clues, I retrieve several small stones, jiggling them in my palm, my ire intensifying with each angry beat of my heart. Taunting an orc goes beyond “not nice.” It borders on insanity.
I toss the rocks to the ground beneath the cart. Two land on the grass. Three disappear.
I throw my head back and laugh.
Clever norn.
Beneath the cart, the entrance to an underground tunnel is hidden by an illusion. I search the terrain for the inevitable hole, and once I have located the opening, I roll and drop down into the shaft, landing in a crouch. My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. The smells here are rich and concentrated, clay mixed with body odor and fear, but I fail to scent Kyra. Or my friends.
My stomach sinks. Racing down the tunnel at orc speed, my feet pound against the uneven terrain, and I am forced to hunch my head and shoulders to keep from scraping the channel’s roof.
Time passes. Too slowly. My frustration transforms to fear. What if my assessment of the norn’s actions is wrong? What if this tunnel is a cleverly planned diversion leading me farther away from my mate?
Images of Kyra bound and bleeding flood my vision. Fury scorches the back of my throat. I want to rake my claws against the endless walls of loam barring me from my càirdeil.
The rational part of my brain tells me she is safe. Gauron would die before he allowed harm to befall an innocent.
But my second’s injuries leave him weakened.
And Aelinor?
I fear my cousin’s loyalty will be usurped by her mistrust of Kyra. Aelinor’s tenacity and sharp tongue are a welcome diversion at court, but those immutable traits could very well be the noose strangling my mate’s pretty neck.
The temperature drops, and soon the tunnel winds to an end. A trap door blocks the exit. I stretch my arms overhead and shove at the wooden barrier. It topples over, and I quickly haul my body out of the enclosure. To my left, rugged cliffs tower hundreds of feet over the Sea of Storms, ringing the outer barrier of Lithyr’s southern border.
Carefully, I survey the area and set the door back into place. The disappearance of footprints in the soil near the opening compresses the fist clamped around my heart. But it is the leagues of emerald grass and slate-colored rocks without a building in sight that punctures the organ in two.
I have wasted hours Kyra cannot spare.
Rubbing a hand across my mouth, I slowly pivot. I had been so sure I would find the blockhouse once I emerged from the tunnel. Instead, I am met with the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. No tracks. No scent of fae, norn or otherwise.
My instincts cannot be wrong, but then again, I have not been myself since the day fate dropped a beautiful human female in my path, pitching my orderly world into a heap of chaos and uncertainty.
A sensation pricks against my rib cage. I rub the spot burning at the center of my sternum.
The bond stirs, and for the first time since the attack in the forest, I sense my mate. Relief loosens the tightness in my chest. Following the tug, I jog across the turf, the promise of Kyra’s bright blue eyes and plump pink lips fueling my every step. But in the back of my mind, I grow wary of the bond’s growing power—of the need building in my soul. The want. The hunger. The dream that churns and burrows deeper into my heart with each day that passes.
Keeping Kyra in Alfhemir will endanger her life. If I had thought a future with her was possible, the norn’s shenanigans have wrecked that hope. I cannot let my burgeoning desires endanger my mate, and I refuse to let my world consume her.
I ignore the budding ache spreading across the center of my chest. A half-blood king cannot afford weakness. Already I have made too many mistakes. Mistakes that have jeopardized my subjects and my kingdom. Mistakes I will gladly make again if it means my càirdeil reaches her Earth unharmed.
A cold breeze carries the ocean scent upon its wings. I slow to a stop, my senses registering the natural landscape unfurling before me and nothing else. Yet the bond beats excitedly in my soul, telling another story.
“Where are you?” With my claws sinking into the soil, I dig deep and then stride across the land, flinging dirt like a plant reaper sowing seeds. After a hundred feet and an umpteen number of handfuls, a blur ripples in the expanse. I move forward, my hands outstretched, until I come into contact with a solid edifice. My hands pat what appears to be empty space but feels like a stone structure.
“Rowena.” Senses on alert, I reach for my dagger, cursing the norn for confiscating my war hammer and sword. “You have made your point, witch. Allow me entrance. Perhaps I will consider your request.”
I wait. One beat. Two. Three.
“Your wall will not keep me from what is mine,” I roar, sheathing my weapon. I feel for a crack or edge to grip, my neck prickling from the unseen eyes watching my ascent.
A huff and then “You are persistent. And quick.” The last two words are spoken as an afterthought. “I had expected at least a day or two before you located your charge.”
“Pray to Ulda I do not break your neck, witch.” My feet and hands work synchronously, hauling by body up the jagged surface.
“Swear an oath to harbor my subjects and perhaps I will lower the wards before you fall to your death. It would be a shame to see that strapping frame of yours broken.”
“You push your luck, norn.”
A laugh echoes from above. “Very well, orc. You have come this far. Who am I to take away your pleasure? Climb to your heart’s content. Shall I add to the challenge? I so love a good sporting.”
I can almost hear her clapping with glee. “So help me, witch . . .”
Black tongues of misty smoke lash around me, stinging my arms and legs.
“Rogar, king of the orcs, I will wait for you inside. Do not tarry. We have much to discuss.”
Glowering at the black cloud descending over my head, I ignore the welts forming on my limbs and continue scaling the wall. When I reach the top, the fog breaks, and with it the illusion obstructing my view of the norn’s blockhouse. Clutching the top of the wall, I hoist myself onto a rampart encircling a ruined tower and a colony of makeshift shelters.
My gaze is drawn to the left. From this vantage point, I have a breathtaking view of the cliffs and the sea below—blue-green seawater foaming white against a soaring rock face of striated stone.
For a moment, I still. Alfhemir’s beauty washes over me, briefly soothing the apprehension coursing within. But my reprieve is brief. From the corner of my eye, I see Gray charging into view. Through our link, I send him a pulse of assurance, then jump to the ground.
Four male elves surround me, half-breed by their mismatched eyes.
“Rowena.” I watch the elves approach, circling me like vultures, swords gripped. “Blood will be shed here.” The norn and her troll commander are nowhere to be found.
“We have been ordered not to kill you,” says one of the elves with a smirk. The other three wear identical expressions, their hatred clear in their uncanny eyes.
“You are to slow me down. Is that the plan?” I crack my neck and loosen my shoulders. “Very well. I will bestow you the same courtesy, but I warn you, you will hurt. Considerably. So much so that you might wish for death. Drop your weapons.”
The elves step forward.
“So be it. You had your chance.” I flash a smile and get to work.
READY FOR MORE?
The wildness inside me roars and rages until all I hear is the static of my anger ringing in my ears. In this state, I am moments away from shifting into my battle form. Red clouds my vision. My claws lengthen. Bones creak as muscles and ligaments stretch to accommodate my growing size. Allowing my emotions to rule my head will only bring more danger to Kyra. For my mate, I must think, not react. Her life depends on my ability to reason.
— King Rogar/Fae King's Hunger