CHAPTER TWO

KYRA

A cool sensation sweeps down my throat, dousing the fire ravaging my chest, and as quickly as the bone-shattering pain arose, it vanishes. I open my eyes.

Ilearis stares down at me, those strange brown eyes lucid, lacking any trace of the crazy I’d witnessed moments earlier.

I sit up, the ground spinning beneath me, and bring my hands to my face. The magic is . . . gone. All of it. Gone from my arms. My legs. My . . .

The tilt-a-whirl casts my stomach north. I lurch to the side and vomit, a new sort of hell invading my insides. After what feels like an eternity, the churning eases, and I fall onto my back.

Well, that sucked.

I drag a sleeve across my mouth, my throat raw and dry. I’m physically wiped. I can’t seem to find the strength to push myself off the ground. Or shield my eyes from the blaring suns. Or protect my face from the wind chapping my skin with tiny grains of ash-colored sand. I drop my hands and then quickly flick my sticky fingers with a groan. I’m damp and completely covered in a layer of the stuff.

This day just gets better and better.

Where’s Rogar?

Bits and pieces of his intense argument with Rowena filter into my head. Something about me. And Ilearis. And magic.

“You know what she is.”

Rowena had been talking about me, about my response to the portal’s magic, but what did she mean by what I am? And why did Rogar’s body go tight as a drum? Like he’d been physically threatened. Like he was about to attack Ilearis. And Rowena.

Which makes no sense. Somewhere in my pain-induced fog, I missed a valuable piece of the conversation. A detail that’ll put the whole situation into perspective, including Rogar’s aggressive behavior. I just hope the two haven’t killed each other in the time I’ve been puking my brains out.

“Where are they?” I croak.

Ilearis points to an area on my left. The swirls around her neck seem to swell and breathe against her skin, more pronounced than I remember back at the manor. I tear my gaze from the freaky whorls and track the short distance to where Rogar lies on the ground, Rowena beside him.

Oh no.

I scramble to my feet and run, my knees threatening to buckle beneath my weight.

“What happened?” I ask, out of breath, when I reach Rowena.

Rogar grunts and curls onto his side, bracing his hand against the sandy ground. His irises, glowing the bright red I’ve observed before a shift, land on my face. I see relief before the glow fades to crimson. “Nothing happened,” he says, and I get the feeling he’s not talking to me.

Rowena snorts. I expect her to say something in return, but all she says is “There is no sign of the others.”

Sitting up, Rogar brushes the sand from his clothes and then rolls up and onto his feet, turning his face to hide the wince feathering his cheek. He reaches over a shoulder to adjust the handle of the massive war hammer at his back. His skin, normally a rich golden tan, is absent of color except for the light green tinge spread across his hands, neck, and face—a hue that wasn’t there before we crossed the portal.

Or after.

Was the black sheet of magic responsible?

Did I do this? “Rogar—”

“We did not expect the portal to cooperate with our objectives, did we?”

“No, but—”

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips when he looks at me. “You are well. We survived the crossing. That is all that matters.” He juts his chin to the setting suns dipping behind jagged mountain peaks ahead, then to the long shadows our bodies cast across the gray sand. “We must procure shelter. That is our immediate goal.” His mouth tightens at Rowena. “Gauron will head to the rendezvous point as planned. When the suns rise anew, we resume our trek.”

To Balor’s Ridge.

Which, by the direction we’re traveling, must be the red-faced mountain range in the distance. There’s no way I’ll be able to drag my legs that far.

Ilearis lifts our supplies off the ground and then passes our pack to Rowena.

“I can take that,” I offer, relieved we’re not completely destitute.

Rowena slides an arm through the strap, arching one perfect brow in my direction.

“Okay, point taken.” The weight would probably kill me anyway. I suck in a breath and start walking. “So, I’m assuming those are the same mountains where we’ll find the miracle plant?” The Balor in its name can’t be a coincidence.

“Yes,” Rowena answers. “Balor’s Heart is said to grow in crevices along the pass where moisture collects. Should fortune shine upon us, we may find a few along the way.”

I nearly snort. That would be ideal, but I’m not holding my breath.

Taking in the miles and miles of vast terrain and rocky outcrops, Ilearis keeps up with Rowena’s quick steps, expressionless despite the rugged beauty spiraling out in every direction. I shake the memory of those childlike hands clawing their way toward me, preferring to focus on the sexy orc leading our little band of waterlogged desperados across the desert. But on closer inspection, I notice the slight limp in his stride. The stiff movement of those long limbs. I’ll bet my drueberry rations he’s doing his damnedest to hide it too.

“Hey.” I speed up, my hips aching with the effort. Rogar’s jaw is set harder than the mountains we seek. Yep, he’s definitely hurting. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He grunts affirmatively.

“You know, we can stop. Until you’re . . .” But honestly, stop where? We’re alone in the middle of Argomar.

His eyes soften. “Worry not, female.”

“I can’t help it.” I shrug. “Did I hurt you?”

He whirls around to face me. One big hand cups the side of my face. My heart melts at the warmth of his touch. The emotion in his eyes. “You are not responsible. For any of this.” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead and squeezes me gently against him. “This will be over soon,” he whispers into my hair.

I hang on because I want this to be over soon. But being over soon also means leaving Rogar.

My throat goes tight. “Okay.”

With a reluctant-sounding sigh, he releases me and runs a finger down the side of my face. “Stay alert, female. It is best if you remain behind me. Follow my footsteps.” He angles his head to a rock outcrop about a mile away. “Have you the strength to make it that far?”

“Sure,” I lie. “Do you?”

He pulls his lips into a wolflike grin that leaves me breathless. “Never underestimate an orc.” He leans over, his lips teasing my ear. “Our stamina is legendary.”

Don’t I know it. Just hours ago, we were a tangle of limbs. And that mouth . . . That gorgeous mouth showed me the stars.

I flush.

He winks and playfully taps the tip of my nose before resuming the lead.

I can’t let myself fall for the orc king. I can’t. But instead of panicking over the feelings he evokes, I’m smiling. Which should freak me the hell out.

Rowena sidles up on my left. “Was I wrong?”

“About?” It takes me a minute or two before the insinuation hits. She’d told me Rogar and I were “very, very, very compatible,” and to not let the “interspecies thing” worry me.

Man oh man, she wasn’t wrong.

Not by a long shot.

She smiles smugly. “Virile, no?”

My cheeks flame. “Again, none of your business.”

“Have it your way,” she says with a flutter of her hand before schooling her features. “Many consider this land cursed.”

At the mention of the word cursed, Rogar shifts his head.

He’s listening. To every word she speaks.

“That fine sand sweeping across the plain?” Rowena’s melodious voice rises like the wind buzzing against my ear. “It is said to be the ash and bones of the orcs who once ruled this land.”

Aelinor had told me the other courts united against Argomar. If this is all that remains centuries later . . .

I have no words.

A thick blanket of that fine sand masks layers of gravel crunching beneath our feet. Gravel that could be the remnants of an entire civilization that lived, loved, and warred before magical fire eviscerated their kingdom.

As if reading my mind, Rowena says, “It took centuries, but your virile king procured peace for the half-bloods who survived extermination.” There’s admiration in her tone.

Rogar rubs the back of his neck, his pace quickening, and I can’t help but wonder if the norn’s praise embarrasses him.

Ilearis skips ahead, sliding into the spot left open behind Rogar in the line we form.

Watching the girl, Rowena continues. “Tribes of orcs hid within these wastelands for centuries, many of which were born into the bonds of hate, never knowing freedom.”

“Until Drengskador.”

“Until Drengskador.”

“It’s why you sought asylum. You figured his people would understand.”

Rowena makes a sound that is half snort, half sigh. “One would hope. But hate runs deeper than blood in Alfhemir.” Her eyes settle on me, the weight of her gaze firing my nerves. “He speaks justly when he advises you to remain alert.”

Our gazes track to Rogar, who’s scouring the topography with a zeal that sets my teeth on edge. What is he looking for? Dry tufts spring from the ground in sparse clusters, their scaly arms reaching for a sky that refuses to quench their thirst.

“Remain alert for what? More orcs?” I skirt around a bush, watching my footing as my heel sinks into the sand. My cloak, wet and heavy around my shoulders, provides a surprising measure of relief from the twin orbs heating the sky.

“If any free orcs remain, they will stay hidden. Other fae, however?” She shrugs. “Like us, if they are traversing these sands, then they prefer to not be seen.”

Great. Just great.

Rogar steps over a depression, extending a finger to warn of a hole in the sand the size of a basketball. We maneuver around the small crater, and I try not to think about what might have crawled out of it.

“No,” she adds almost as an afterthought. “It is Argomar’s nocturnal inhabitants we need to concern ourselves with. That is the reason why he is so vigilant.”

“Inhabitants?” I glance at the setting suns. Nighttime on Earth is a scary prospect, but here? I scrub my forehead. “So, when you say creatures, we’re not talking about fae like vrou, are we?”

Ilearis swivels around, cocking her head as if something about me confuses her.

Rogar slows to a near halt.

The image of thousands of hungry centipedes darkening the forest floor flashes in my brain. “You mean animals and . . . bugs.”

Please not bugs.

I hate bugs.

I really, really hate bugs.

A muscle twitches in Rogar’s cheek. “The night lures what hides in the light, but there is naught to worry about, female.” He extends his strong arm, palm open, and gives me a half smile that doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

He’s worried.

Oh fuck.

Without a second thought, I grab his hand.

* * *

Turns out, I’d misjudged the distance to the outcrop. Did I say a mile?

Oops.

My body hates me right now. We’ve walked in a straight line for what feels like an eternity, our trailing footprints erased by the angry wind battering our backs. Our shelter, the three- or four-story rock outcrop east of Balor’s Ridge and directly in sight, is only a few hundred feet away.

I press on and remind myself I’ve powered through worse. Late-night shifts at the bar, followed by sleepless nights writing papers due the next day, all while maintaining my perfect GPA.

Which probably isn’t a 4.0 anymore.

I let out a frustrated breath. At the moment, there’s nothing I can do about my grades, so panicking about it is a waste of energy. I just have to get through these next few days. Then I can worry about the state of my life on Earth.

But what if Rogar’s wrong?

What if the High Queen can’t send me home?

I can’t stay here. Sure, life on Earth hasn’t been a walk in the park. I had a shitty childhood. Still, my odds of surviving human exploitation are substantially higher than any probability I’d have against even the weakest of the fae. I won’t spend my life running. Or hiding. That’s not who I am.

My boot slips on a loose rock, distracting me from my morose thoughts. I manage to catch myself before anyone notices. The terrain in this part of the desert is elevated and more rugged than before. A rocky crust cushions the sand beneath our weary feet. Brush grows in thick bundles scattered randomly across the desert floor. And despite the cooler air, I’m sweating. Beads of perspiration run down my back and pool under my arms.

Rogar passes me our water skin.

“Thanks.” Perhaps he did notice my little wobble. There isn’t much those crimson eyes miss.

I sip, careful not to take too much. Although dehydration is our greatest health threat, our rationed supplies are scarce, so I have no choice but to limit my thirst. Who knows when we’ll find more? Or how long it’ll take us to find Gauron and the others. Or the damn plant. It is, after all, the sole reason we’re stuck in the desert.

I return the water skin, but Rogar refuses to take hold of it. “Drink more,” he encourages.

This whole time, he hasn’t drunk a single drop.

“You know”—I watch my footing so the water skin doesn’t crash and spill on the sand—“you should take your own advice.”

He grunts and takes the water from me, but instead of lifting it to his mouth, he screws the cap on and shoves the container into the pack he’d retrieved from Rowena earlier. His skin is still marred with a sickly pale greenish hue. And since he’d made it clear he didn’t want to discuss the “incident,” I’ve been hesitant to broach the subject.

Being part elf, he should have healed by now. I can’t shake the feeling something’s wrong. Once we’re settled, once we’re safe inside the cave, cavern, or wherever we end up, my sexy orc king is going to divulge exactly how he saved me. And then I’m going to have to figure out how to fix him and reverse the damage he assumed in my place, because there’s no way that thing, that oily soulless thing that was inside my body, left willingly.

My stomach roils. There’s probably a potion.

Maybe another plant?

I’ll need leverage to barter with the norn. Squinting, I cup my hand over my brow. Across the way, hazy gold light forms a halo over the mountain, illuminating the scarred red granite to a fiery color as the suns descend into the horizon.

Wow.

My first Alfhemir sunset.

I’d spent my first six days in this realm running from vrou in the Forest of Night, followed by another kidnapping, and the attack at the manor. Since Lithyr, our focus has been on getting here. On finding Balor’s Heart so we can cloak my scent, which will hopefully buy us the time we need to reach the High Queen without marking the trail. Alfhemir has been more of an aggressive enemy than a stunning friend.

But this . . .

I veer away from our formation, wandering several feet to a flattened space spanning an area between towering rock formations. Above, puffy clouds begin to churn a dark violet. If Mars were a planet known for its gray sand instead of red, I imagine it would look just like this. Sand and rocks and a vastness inspiring both awe and fear.

Soft blue transforms to a vibrant orange that slowly bleeds to a flaming red. Purples swirl through the mixture as if some ancient god got restless and took a paintbrush to the sky, applying broad strokes in a haphazard fashion across a canvas of pink.

“It’s . . . beautiful,” I breathe. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Rogar wraps his arms around me, and I lean into his embrace. It feels natural. Too natural. And strange. I’ve had relationships—two, if you can call them that—and both fizzled after sex. This swooping feeling his nearness generates is . . . disconcerting and soothing all at the same time.

The gentle weight of Rogar’s chin settles on my head. I shut my brain, focusing instead on the feel of his chest rising and falling against my back. I sense Ilearis and Rowena nearby, but I don’t dare drag my eyes away from the vision unfolding above. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole life.”

Nuzzling my ear with his nose, Rogar murmurs, “Long ago, these lands were ruled by Zarragut, the cleaver of souls. He had a daughter betrothed to Xurl, the son of the chief of a neighboring tribe. Xurl was a mighty warrior who had fought well in battle, bringing great honor to his tribe. His union with Zarragut’s daughter was considered to be a boon to the region, an alliance that would strengthen the Horde and bring peace to Argomar.”

He shifts behind me, and I catch a whiff of his intoxicating scent. “Now, this female’s beauty was well renowned throughout the lands. She caught the attention of a god, a young prince said to be the son of Bel, the Bright One. Twice a day, Bel rode a great chariot across Argomar, hauling the sun behind him. Once in the morning—”

“And a return at sunset.” The similarity to the Greek god Helios, who also rode a chariot dragging the sun east and west, isn’t lost on me. “I’ll bet Xurl wasn’t thrilled about having a god crushing on his girlfriend. This story isn’t going to end well for our young prince, is it?”

“No.” Rogar chuckles. “He failed to challenge Xurl for the female’s hand. To woo a betrothed in any other manner is dishonorable. Xurl had no choice but to defend his mate. The female remained loyal to her betrothed, frustrating the young god’s attempts to court her. And blinded as he was by her beauty, the prince ignored the warrior’s warnings, deciding a grand gesture was needed to turn the tide in his favor. So the young god stole his father’s chariot, filled it with summer blooms, and set off to Argomar, the sun blazing behind him.

“But his plan was doomed, for a shaman had foretold of the prince’s bid to earn the female’s affection.” Rogar points to the mountain. “Armed with his best war hammer, Xurl set off to the peak to await the foolish prince and his gilded chariot. When the god reached the chief’s abode, he stood and scattered the purple blossoms he had collected, hoping to awe the beautiful princess.

“At that precise moment, Xurl, who had been blessed with true aim, lifted his prized war hammer and hurled it at the prince’s heart. The god’s blood spurted over the chariot to mix with the blooms streaming across the sky, forming the reds and purples we see today.”

“Who told you this story? Your aunt?”

“No, would you believe Gauron, during our first year of service in the High Queen’s regiment? Back when we were two pups strutting around like wild fowl.” The memory garners a shake of his dark head.

“Yeah.” I smile, imagining him and his second as young, mischievous orcs, seated around a campfire drinking, laughing, and sharing stories. “I can totally see Gauron telling this kind of tale. So the prince died?”

Rogar shrugs. “The bards do not sing of his deeds.”

I look over my shoulder to the gorgeous orc assessing an equally gorgeous sunset. “Did they live happily ever after? Xurl and his princess?”

He grins, white teeth flashing. “Aye, they did. It is said to have been a very fruitful union.” His hands slide to my hips, and he turns me around.

When we’re standing this close, my thoughts scramble. Even pale, there’s a stark beauty to his features. Jet-black hair. Red eyes. Hard jaw. Everything about him is so very masculine. Wild yet tame. A force of nature barreling through my defenses.

“So,” I murmur, “you’re telling me we have a lovesick prince to thank for this dazzling sunset.”

“We do.” Rogar watches me with a look that makes my heart sprint. He steps closer, eliminating the space between our bodies. As if drawn to my mouth, he dips his head and inhales. His eyes briefly shutter with something akin to pleasure, which launches a mini-earthquake inside me.

“Should a foolish prince seek your hand, female”—his gaze, now a fiery red, drifts slowly to mine—“know that my war hammer is honed and ready.”

The thought of Rogar getting all alpha-male should repulse me. It should scare me. It should make me question this thing growing between us. Instead, I tingle from head to toe. And worse. The idea that this big bad orc warrior would get jealous over another guy’s interest in me—me!—tempts my feet to lift onto my tiptoes and steal the kiss that’s hovering on his lips.

A scream tears across the desert.

Rogar whips around and shoves me behind him. Ilearis is running toward us, Rowena at her heels. Behind them, the sand shifts.

“Go,” Rogar roars, pushing me. “The crag. Now.”

Ilearis races past us, heading in the direction of the rock formation to our right. Rowena’s gauzy skirts wraps around her legs. She falls. And that’s when I get a good look at the thing scuttling in the sand after them.

“Oh God.” I freeze.

“Female, now,” Rogar yells, reaching for his war hammer. Shifting into his battle form, he races for Rowena. He grips the norn’s arm and tosses her behind him as a huge pincer makes a grab for his torso.

Rogar dodges and barely avoids the second claw.

The scorpion faces him, massive stinger arched over a yellow segmented body whose height nearly reaches Rogar’s hips. Two giant pincers extend beyond its head, taunting the seven-foot orc daring to keep it from its dinner to make a move.

I don’t know anything about scorpions, except that when it comes to the venom, bigger is better, right? Isn’t that what Indiana Jones told Mutt Williams when he’d been stung? But here, in a realm where everything is supersized, what is big? And in that range, does it even matter?

“Kyra,” Rogar growls, barely enunciating the syllables in my name.

Ten feet from the twelve-eyed monster, shock locks my boots to the ground. Shifting in the breeze are long brush-like hairs running along the edges of the scorpion’s body and its eight freakishly agile legs.

Rogar jogs to the right and waits. He’s luring the arachnid away from the rocks.

Away from me.

The creature doesn’t move, not at first. A few of its transparent-looking legs casually lift from the sand, like an overgrown spider considering its options.

I snap to my senses. We need to scare it. Make it freaking run away. Do scorpions run from danger? Is that even a thing?

My eyes dart about. Rowena and Ilearis are gone. I have no viable weapons except sand and stones and brush and—

Stones.

Would enough rocks hammered into the arachnid’s side force it to scuttle back into whatever hole it crawled out of?

I hate bugs.

I fucking hate bugs.

Searching the rocky terrain along the edge leading to the crag, I collect as many hand-sized rocks as I can carry using my tunic as a net. This plan is insane. Absolutely insane. With my tunic sagging beneath the weight of the rocks, I move within throwing range and dump my load on the ground. My body shakes, and my heart gallops so fast I can’t breathe.

I take a huge rock in each hand, my nails barely reaching the center, and hurl one after the other before grabbing more. Some sail over the creature. Others land several feet before my target. Most bounce off the scorpion’s plated body like a foam ball. And despite my efforts and my shouts, the scorpion’s focus never shifts from the orc evading each swipe of its killer claws.

Then it lurches, pincers angling for Rogar in a one-two punch, ripping a gasp from my throat. Narrowly avoiding the left pincer, Rogar jumps and lands in the direct path of the right.

“No!” I scream, helpless to prevent the opened pincer from clamping around his waist and driving him into the sand. The tail, a swing arm loaded with a poison drum, drops like a lead weight.

Rogar twists, swinging his blade, steel meeting curved spine. The tail rises, drops, and each time, Rogar pommels into the stinger until finally it breaks away, wriggling on the ground. Then he hammers at the gland-filled segment, the scorpion screeching and shaking its massive body. A giant pincer lifts Rogar up and down as the second claw snaps at his body. The creature curls around him, using claws and legs to hold him in place.

Using his body weight as leverage, Rogar somehow flips the scorpion over on its back. A cloud of sand rises, temporarily obstructing my view. My lungs swell and push against my rib cage. When the dust clears, I see him, tusks dripping in a blue slime, launching blow after blow into the creature’s underside.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

After the final thrust, Rogar shimmies the weapon free. Stumbling, he backs away and sheathes the scorpion killer, which is dripping with a clear, bluish film.

Rogar’s big chest heaves. Once. Twice. He swivels his head and latches onto my position, large fangs protruding from each side of his mouth. Oversized hands hang at his sides, and noises rumble from his throat.

Words, I realize.

I’m still glued to my spot when he stalks toward me, nostrils flaring, more animal than man. And without another sound, he swoops me off my feet and throws me over his very orc shoulder.

Harsh breaths sound with each step he takes over the rocky terrain, heading to the rock formation. The crag he pointed to earlier. He climbs the ledge leading to an opening. Maybe a cave. We’re several feet away when he stumbles, staggers a few more steps, grunts, and drops onto one knee.

I attempt to slide off, but his grip tightens around my waist.

Rogar sways.

And then the ground rushes to catch us.