Of Quest and Triumph - SAMPLE
CHAPTER ONE
VICTORIA
Glynynore, nine days after the Battle of Azgagh
The dark outline of the High Queen’s fortress looms over the tops of twisty green trees, similar yet strikingly different from any specimen found on Earth. Mammoth branches sway in the wind like angry hands waving me toward a fate that can’t possibly be worse than the one I just escaped.
Can it?
I suck in a choppy breath to beat back the chill racing up my spine. Just the thought of the borgs . . . of those goblins touching my skin . . . that witch feeding off my fear . . .
The chill twists into an icy shudder. The old me laughed at anything supernatural. Ghosts? Magic? Demons? Just stories, right?
Wrong.
So wrong.
Because the things that go bump in the night are real, and they’ve got claws and teeth, and contrary to what we’ve been taught, magic exists in worlds that are parallel to Earth. Those orcs, elves, and goblins we’d all read about as kids?
They’re real too. All fighting for dominion of a world called Alfhemir.
Yeah, that Alfhemir.
A world where we are the myths.
Somehow, I and a bunch of other girls were abducted, enslaved, and used as pawns in a territory war we have no stake in.
God. I’ve lost count of the number of days I’ve been here. Eighteen? Twenty? Thirty? It feels like forever. I almost can’t remember my life before the borgs.
Before he found me.
Patches of memory surface. The bar. Music. A voice.
His voice.
I remember stumbling across campus after it, the grass cool beneath my feet. I remember the Doras Ring, the stupid sculpture my father commissioned as a pitiful bid to win over the college board and convince the rest of the world he and my mother weren’t the thieves the media were portraying them to be.
I remember a hum. And then nothing.
Nothing until I woke in the woods blindfolded. In my underwear. Flat on my back.
The muscles in my throat constrict. I’d thought my life a disaster, but now I’d give anything—anything—to go back. To wake up in that musty, double dorm, broke, friendless, my reputation ruined.
But I’d be free.
I’ve craved nothing more.
The cart jolts, pushing my left shoulder into its wooden frame at the same time Dorata’s knee slams into the side of my right leg.
Several loud gasps sound.
For four days, the nine of us have been crammed inside this hastily constructed wagon, three to a backless bench, one behind the other. Wide planks of knotted wood run overhead, forming a roof. It’s like a coffin on wheels with slashes of light filtering from the slotted windows on each side of the cart, and what little fresh air enters circulates between our sweaty bodies, offering no relief.
“This is a mistake,” Melissa says, for what must be the twentieth time. She’s on the middle bench, between Julie and Ana, and is the most vocal advocate against this trip. She’s also the only person I knew from before.
We’re not exactly friends.
Behind her are the triplets, Emily, Shelby, and Kelsey, BFFs who’d shown up at the Doras Ring as a lark, which in hindsight was a serious lapse in judgement.
I’m on the first bench. Dorata to my right, and the last girl, Michael, is on the floor by Dorata’s feet, arms wrapped around her knees. Of all the girls here, I feel a kinship to Michael. Maybe because she admitted her parents were so set on having a boy, they kept the name.
I know all about shoddy parenting.
But it’s more than that. I worry about her. This place affects her differently than the rest of us. It weakens her. Makes her skin sallow. She’s wasting away with each day that passes, no matter how much of my rations I force her to eat.
There were others, too. Girls who died before we reached the borgs. Girls who died after. Girls with names I no longer remember. And girls like me who responded to magic. Only I’d lied. They hadn’t. The truth got them sold.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
To survive, I pretend I can’t see the strange webs of light that are so prevalent in this world. I ignore the sparkly sheen some fae used to change their appearance. Like the big orc and warrior woman who’d helped Amon, a fire demon, break us out of our cells.
But it’s getting harder and harder to ignore, and one of these days, I’m going to slip up. I need to get home before this world kills me.
The whiny snort of the bull-like beasts towing the cart spills into the cabin, mixing with murmurs, exhales, and the furious tapping of Melissa’s feet against the floor.
“There’s still time to fix this,” she says. “We can turn around.”
“Now?” Kelsey huffs. “I can see the towers through the trees.”
Ana snorts. “No offense, but I’m not spending another day sweating in this tuna can with you all.”
“It’s fine.” From the corner of my eyes, I catch Julie putting her arm around Melissa’s shoulder. “We’re fine.”
“We’re not fine.” Melissa ducks from Julie’s embrace, pushing her arm away. “I’m telling you again because you sure as hell refused to listen to me before. Safe is not hiding inside the fucking mecca of this world. Safe was staying with the orcs, completely hidden by the magic that’s protected them for eons. We’re safer with them.”
I turn around, my hand grasping the edge of the bench. “Safer? No, we weren’t safer. We were unwanted.” The orcs practically hurled us over their “invisible” barrier first chance they got after days of looking at us like parasites who’d brought the plague into their precious homes. “I’ll take my chances with the High Queen. She’s the one holding the real power in this realm.”
“Of course, you would.” Melissa’s mouth twists around the word “you” with distaste, her brows doubling down over mocking brown eyes. “That’s exactly where you want to be, isn’t it, Victoria? With the pretty people? But, oh wait.” She cups a hand around the back of her ear, feigning shock. “Robeson? Who’s that? Let’s see how far your fancy name gets you without Bvlgari necklaces and Cartier watches to barter.”
The dig hits and I manage not to flinch. We hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot when I transferred to Stone Hill. We’d attended a few of the same boring parties, and I did what I always do when someone seems too nice for no apparent reason.
I ignored her.
And yes, on the night of our abduction, I’d tried to bribe my way out of the situation with my favorite Bvlgari necklace. When that failed, I switched to the Cartier my mother had gifted me on my sixteenth birthday.
If I’d seen our abductors, I might not have been so arrogant. But I hadn’t. I negotiated with the confidence of an heiress who’s never had to beg for a thing in her life. I offered money. Jewels. Influence. Anything that would spark interest. After all, these ransom plots were always about money.
Right?
They laughed at my efforts. “Will your sire pay for this pretty little creature, too?”
That was the moment I realized I wasn’t alone.
“Please,” Melissa sobbed. “Please, I’m not rich, but I’ll pay you back. I swear.”
Carl Robeson didn’t have a humanitarian bone in his body. He would never extend the Robeson family assets to a stranger. Someone beneath our caste.
His words. Not mine.
I’d sell the necklace, the watch, whatever I could get my hands on.
I never got the chance to tell her.
Our kidnappers ripped off my blindfold, and Melissa took my shock to mean silence.
And then there was pain.
I rub my thumb over the tattoo branding us as slaves, grimacing at the strange sensation running up my arm. It’s changed since we escaped.
Since the witch died.
The original tattoo looked like a stamp of the Doras Ring, a series of concentric circles. Now, only two of those circles remain, one inside the other, and at the epicenter of the smallest ring, there’s an inverted capital “A.”
The magic emanating from the symbol is different, too. I can feel it. No one talks about why, or what this means, and I don’t worry about who controls it anymore. No, I worry about when they’ll come for us.
Because they will.
The orcs knew it the minute their scary eyes landed on our hands. So unless we figure out how to remove this mark, or get ourselves back home before “they” arrive, moaning about safety is pointless because we’ll never be free.
I shift in my seat and slide my hands under my butt for comfort.
“Victoria is right.” Dorata pats my leg. “Better we seek queen, yes? She hold power in this world. Power good.” Her heavy Slavic-like accent cradles each word. I can’t place where she’s from. She skirts around the topic whenever the conversation veers too close to home.
I guess we all do.
Melissa tears her gaze from mine to stare out the window slits.
“Amon wouldn’t have supported this decision if it weren’t in our best interest.” Julie is a petite blond server from Boston. She’s also the mediator of our group. “We’ll be safe behind the fortress’ walls. He’s positive his commander will offer us asylum if things fall through with the queen.”
“Fall through?” Kelsey sputters. “Things can’t fall through.”
I’ve been too busy trying to figure out how to escape to consider the possibility the queen might not return us home. “No, they got us here. They’ll get us back.”
Kelsey reaches for her friend’s hand. The rest of us sit in silence, expressions varying from fear to grim acquiescence.
“Whatever happens,” Julie says, her soft voice cutting through the strain, “I’m staying here. With Amon. There’s nothing for me back in Boston.”
Personally, I can’t imagine befriending one of the fae, never mind falling in love with a red-winged, eight-foot-tall demon. But Amon is gentle with her. Sweet even. And protective. He’s put himself in harm’s way more than once to protect Julie. If anyone can thrive in this realm, it’s her.
“They told darkness no lift from fortress,” Dorata says, voice low so the others can’t hear.
I turn around in my seat. “Who says?”
“I hear whisper. The guards. They talk when I in cell. They say magic different from this land.”
That can’t be true.
Why would the High Queen allow foreign magic to enter her world?
“You mean she uses magic from other kingdoms?”
“You put doubt my words?”
Cheese on a cracker. “That’s not what—”
“Victoria.” Out of her mouth, my name sounds like Veek-torria drawn out. “Yes. Is. But I no lie.”
I scrub my face and wipe days old crud from the corners of my eyes, completely unfazed by the amount of filth on my skin. Or the barely there rags keeping my nakedness at bay. It just goes to show how quickly one’s ideals can change after surviving hardship. How the things you thought were important before suddenly don’t matter.
Like baths, manicures, designer clothes.
I let out a sigh. “I didn’t say you lied.”
She bites back a reply, the wrinkles on her upper lip bunching. She’s older than me, maybe in her late thirties?
Forties?
I’ve never been good at judging age; however, the elements haven’t been kind. Her skin, thick in sections, is an ashen color that highlights every wrinkle. Her dark hair is dry. Course, too, not curly, but straight, hanging past her waist in a thick braid, strands of white poking through the weave.
She confessed they had held her in a dungeon in the eastern section of the witch’s compound. I never got past the mess hall, so I can’t confirm its location, but she says there were others who were sold to the elves. She also believes someone in the High Queen’s council knew about us, but kept their mouth shut.
I don’t know what to think about that.
In any case, Dorata may have been one of the first abductees, and honestly, I should feel sorry she’s had to endure the borgs the longest, but I can’t shake the feeling she’s . . .
Not like us.
Different.
It’s more than her looks, her weird speech patterns, or mannerisms. It’s everything. And probably normal because she isn’t American, she’s—
“Where are you from again?”
Dorata smiles, a faraway look taking hold of her expression. “A village small. Many wars change name, but is home I miss much.” She shakes herself and turns those dark, haunted eyes back to me. “Victoria, you make enemies instead of allies. Why?”
Her assessment hits too close to home. “I don’t know what—”
The cart jolts, harsh this time.
Melissa gasps. “Why are we stopping?”
The bulls bellow, and the cart shakes from side to side. A minute later, something hits the roof.
“Stay inside,” Amon orders, his voice coming from the front of the wagon.
A screech shatters the quiet. Then another and another, the howls advancing from all sides.
“Oh god,” one triplet whispers.
Shadows blur, darkening the slotted windows. A high-pitched shriek forces my hands to my ears.
“Something’s out there,” Melissa cries.
The wood overhead shudders. An object grates against the slabs, the sound growing louder and louder until a claw pokes through.
Several of the girls scream.
Someone yells. “Get down. Get down on the floor.”
I drop to my knees and crawl under the bench, blood pounding in my ears. Dorata and Michael huddle with me.
“No, no,” Melissa cries. “We’re not safe. This is not safe.”
“Shh,” Julie consoles. “Amon’s here.” Her voice wobbles. “He won’t let anything in. He won’t. I promise. Trust him. We’re going to be okay.”
Another claw splinters the wood, igniting more screams. I hear the whoosh of wings, then the monster clawing the roof squeals.
The scratching stops.
When I next look up, a drop of something dark slides the length of one claw, dripping to the floor.
Blood?
I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. We didn’t go through everything we went through to get here to die. Not now. Not when we’re so close—so freaking close—to getting the answers we need.
Outside, the screeches quiet. The bulls’ panicked bellowing morphs into several rangy snorts, barely heard over the ragged breathing and chorus of soft sobs inside the wagon.
I open my eyes, waiting, scanning the roof as if I expect a monster to fall through the splintered wood.
I release the breath I’d been holding. “I think it’s over.”
Slowly, I crawl out from beneath the bench. And that’s when I see it. A thin web spreading from the drop of blood on the floor, zig-zagging across the floor like it’s seeking a host.
I scream and shove my body back under the bench, crawling backward on my hands and knees until I knock into a body behind me.
Hands touch my back. “Vic—”
“Out.” I shove into Julie, whose body I’d slammed into. “Let me out.” The magic slivers along the edge of the wall, stealing the breath from my lungs. “We can’t be here.” I choke over the words. “We need to get out.”
“Breathe, Victoria. It’s okay.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Air fights with the words trying to get out. “We can’t stay here. We—”
“Victoria, breathe.” Julie’s words do little to calm the panic overriding every muscle. “It’s over.”
The back of the wagon flips down.
Light and fresh air funnel into the tight space, temporarily halting the magic’s trajectory. Tiny threads spawn, lifting to hover above the threadlike weave like they’re testing the air.
Or feeding. If that thing were to grow . . .
Stay small. Stay small. Stay small.
Amon’s yellow gaze locks onto Julie. “Meille, are you hurt?”
“No. I’m fine. We’re okay.” When his gaze flicks at me, she says, “She’s having a panic attack. She’ll be fine. Give her a moment.”
The fire demon looks from me to the wall and then lifts his hand to Julie’s cheek. “Take the females, but stay behind me. Do not venture into the woods.”
She nods and jumps out of the cart, turning to assist Melissa and the others.
The black web, now sporting larger tentacles waving in the air like arms, slithers forward, toward Michael.
“Michael, off the floor.” On my knees, I climb onto the bench behind her. “Hurry.” I extend my arm, and she clasps my hand with a frown, eyeing me like I’m crazy.
Maybe I am.
“Feet, all the way up,” I half-scream.
Wordlessly, she draws her legs to the wood. Hunched over, we make our way to the exit via the tops of the benches. The magic chugs along after us, dragging itself across the floorboards at a steady pace.
My sudden fascination with the floor catches the fire demon’s attention. I lower my eyes to my feet and jump out of the wagon after Michael, but Amon blocks my path, preventing me from joining the others.
The web slows, coming to a stop beneath the middle bench. Close enough to launch itself at me if it could.
God, could it?
I can’t stay here.
“Let me pass.” I grip the demon’s arm. “Please.”
“What do you see? And do not say naught, for I will not believe you.”
I swallow. “I—”
Amon’s eyes narrow until his black reptilian pupils drown in a sea of yellow that makes me cringe. His stance hardens.
He’s not budging until I talk.
But no one can know about my ability. Not now. Not ever.
I rack my brain for another solution. Another lie because it’s not like I can muscle my way through a four-hundred-pound fire demon who I swear can sniff out truths.
I frown.
Fire demons see through magic. Why can’t he see it? Is it all in my head?
“Um.”
“Female,” he growls. “Speak.”
The “or else” hangs between us, and I know he’d act upon the threat in a heartbeat if it meant saving Julie’s life.
“Fine.” I blow out a breath and glance to ensure the others are outside normal hearing range. “There’s magic slithering on the floor. It’s black and currently creeping over the wood like a spider.”
“Only here?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Look.”
Being careful not to step on his twitching tail, I scan the ground and the bodies of the dead incubi strewn on the forest floor. My stomach lurches, and I suck in a lungful of air, forcing my gaze to the sides of the wagon. Seeing nothing that resembles the black web inside the cart, I shake my head.
He grunts and then turns around to the others. “We walk.”
Julie glances between Amon, me, and the wagon but says nothing.
“What’s going on?” Melissa asks. “Why can’t we use the cart? Amon, what did she say to you?”
Ignoring her question, the demon strides to the front of the wagon and unhitches the bulls. Without missing a beat, he marches back to the opening, opens his mouth, and torches the interior with fire.
From. His. Mouth.
A howling screech erupts from inside the wagon. The others are oblivious to its cause.
I’m not.
Amon steps back, scoops his girlfriend into his arms, and strides toward the towering onyx peaks of the High Queen’s fortress.
I don’t lend my voice to the protests springing up behind me, or the groans about the long walk ahead. No, I set my feet moving in case the thing wailing in the wagon figures its way out.
CHAPTER 2
KHAO
The High Queen’s Fortress
The guard post stands deserted.
The copper tang of blood hits my nose well before the clash of steel reaches my ears.
I leap over the staircase and sprint for the chamber. Behind me, Lukk, my captain and next in the chain of command, skids to a stop at the landing.
“Argh.” His frustration lashes at my heels. “Use care, Khao,” he shouts, his voice dimming as the distance grows. “Keep your wits about you.”
Another anguished moan renders the air. The sound is raw, feral, and I soon forget Lukk.
Hastening my pace, I slide two fingers into the pouch clipped at my waist and pinch a clump of herbs. If this remedy fails, Ulda help her, high mage or not, Tauriel will answer to me.
I slow and make the turn. Midway down the hall, the guard stumbles, his dagger protruding from his chest. Blood coats his torso. His pants. The stone floor beneath his boots.
Yet he lives.
Relief eases some of the tension brewing in my jaw. With the herbs pressed between the pads of my fingers, I take several measured steps along the stone corridor.
The orc throws his head back and bellows a painful howl, halting my advance.
“Calm, Balfour.” I extend my free hand. “I mean you no harm.”
Ignoring me, the warrior drops to his knees before the chamber door and plants his palms flat against the wood grain.
The sight of his hunched form wakes a deeper anger within me. If not for Aelinor’s greed, if not for the madness that consumed her, I would not be in danger of losing another orc to his own blade.
My jaw clenches. I wish it had been my hand gripping the Surtur-kissed dagger that pierced her heart. Alas, Gauron had reached her first and nearly lost his life.
But had our mission failed, had Aelinor raised the Dark One, instead of trying to repair the havoc she left behind, I would be fighting the darkness that brought forth the Reckoning and nearly annihilated faekind.
Yet despite our best efforts to contain the damage she caused, her treachery reaches from beyond the fires of Hel to the innocent orc striking his head against the barrier keeping him from her ashes and Myrkur’s bones.
I will not lose another warrior. Not this day.
Never again.
With renewed determination, I focus on Balfour. “This is not like you. Come, step away from the door.”
His claws delve into the wood.
“What reason have you to abandon your post, hmm? Your duty lies there,” I gesture behind me. “Not here.”
The orc rears his head, and like the downward stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer, bone slams against wood with a crack that echoes down the hall.
“Enough,” I command.
Boom. Another crack. More blood smears the aged wood.
Readying my arm, I edge closer, shortening the gap between us. “On. Your. Feet. Now, warrior. That is an order.”
With a slowness that makes my muscles clench, Balfour lifts his head, mad eyes leveling me with a crazed stare.
My gaze drops to his hand, to the sharp claws protracting from his fingertips, and up to the expression twisting his face into something unrecognizable.
Gone is the warrior who fought side-by-side with his brothers to breach Azgagh. Gone is the male who risked his life to battle the same evil now infiltrating his mind and bending his will.
Bitterness stings the back of my throat. The fates may care not for truth, justice, or fairness, but I do.
Throwing authority into my voice, I say, “Fight, orc. You are stronger than this. Fight for your wife. Your babe. Your king. Do not succumb. Do not give in.”
At my words, Balfour goes deathly still. His hands drop from the door to fall against his bloodied thighs.
Did he hear?
Skepticism forces a lungful of air into my throat. I filter through the myriad of foul scents saturating the space between us until I detect his. Balfour’s emotions coat my tongue, sharp and soured.
Regret.
Sadness.
I flick my tongue. There is resignation, too, and a punch of another emotion that halts my advance.
Aggression?
The dagger clangs to the floor.
“Son of a bloody—”
An ear-splitting roar rents the air. Shifting into his battle form, Balfour leaps. His weight slams into my chest, toppling me backward. The force nearly knocks the herbs from my grasp.
I wedge my right arm between us like a shield, and shove at his face with my left to prevent those razor-sharp fangs from feasting on my face.
Madness propels his every move. The plunge of his open mouth toward the artery pulsing at my neck. The knife-like claws reaching for my eyes. The unrelenting knee angling for my groin.
Hooking my left foot over his ankle, I thrust my hips and force us into a roll. Balfour’s back hits the stone floor with a thud, and I shove the herbs into his mouth before he regains the advantage. With no time to spare, I straddle his chest and drive the heel of my palm to his chin to seal the herbs inside.
But not before he clamps his fangs on my retreating digits. Blistering pain fires up my arm.
“Khao,” Lukk yells from the vicinity of the stairs. From where he stands, he cannot see the chamber. Or me. But he can hear Balfour’s grunts. And he can smell my blood. “Jatta. Answer me.”
“Sleep,” I grind out to the bucking orc beneath me. To Lukk, I say, “Hold your position. Let no one pass.” For reasons unbeknownst to the High Queen’s mages, Aelinor’s magic bypasses vrou.
I am immune.
The orcs, however, are not so fortunate. They, and the elves to a lesser degree, are highly susceptible to its corruption.
Lukk responds with an uncharacteristic growl, and despite the burning sensation engulfing my hand, the corner of my mouth lifts.
Once upon a time, the old Lukk would have defied those orders. Impulsivity was a trait we shared. The fact he holds his position, helpless to aid his commanding officer, is a testament to the fine warrior he has become. Apart from Gauron and my king, there is no other I would trust at my back.
Three breaths pass, and when Balfour fails to settle beneath me, I worry. This concoction must work. For as skilled as I am, I cannot hold him. In his fae form alone, Balfour outweighs me. Never mind the added heft and height of a shifted orc.
If I cannot subdue him . . .
The alternative spews bile into my throat. I would rather gorge a barrel of rotten eels than be indebted to the vrou of the Furious Army. Besides, by the time they arrived, Balfour could be dead, or worse, successful in his attempt to breach the weave protecting the chamber.
I cannot risk either.
The herbs must work.
They must.
Muscles straining, I intensify my efforts, clamping down on his airway. When he finally goes limp, I ease my grip of his neck and wait for his jaw to loosen, and the fingers clawing at my face to drop.
His hands fall. The slow rise and fall of his chest adds to the proof the herbs have taken effect.
Without lifting my eyes from the orc, I withdraw my battered fingers from his mouth. A hiss escapes my throat.
“He is sedated.” I roll off the warrior and rise to my feet. “Call for the healers.”
“Already done,” Lukk responds.
Hooking my elbows under Balfour’s armpits, I drag the big orc down the hall and around the bend to the bottom of the stairs.
When he sees me, Lukk’s haggard expression is replaced with one of relief, followed by concern.
“Flaming gonads.” He moves to assist. “You’re nearly gone a finger.”
“Stay back,” I bark. “Unless you want these fingers invading your mouth, too.”
Lukk grimaces. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Wise.” Taking another breath, I cinch my right wrist in my good hand, positioning the grip above the orc’s breastbone, and lift. “Feel you any effects of the magic from where you stand?”
“No.”
“Good.” I resume the arduous task of heaving the warrior’s heft up the stairs. “Let us keep it thus, yes?”
“Has any fae told you your head is as hard as these floors?” Lukk grumbles. “Aye, I’ll wait a safe distance.”
He retreats further, backing into the narrow hallway. “Just so you know, ’twas my plan all along. Let you do all the work, so I can share in the glory.” A brash grin takes hold of his mouth. “A bit of bravery rouses the females, eh? Not that you’d notice.”
I snort. “You notice plenty for the both of us.”
He laughs. “That I do.”
Grunting, I take the last step. Lukk bounds to the landing and secures Balfour’s ankles.
“I ordered you to stay back.” Perspiration—or blood—drips into my eyes.
His grin turns sly. “What’s a little insubordination among friends?”
Stubborn orc. “One of these suns, that mouth of yours will bite you in the arse.”
“It’d have to catch me first.” He grunts as we lift the orcs’ heft. “And you know I run like a Baltic fox with its tail on fire.”
The visual makes my lips twitch.
I jut my chin, gesturing behind him. “Go. There is no telling how long the High Mage’s sedative will hold.”
Lukk sobers and begins the backward crawl. We make good progress along the narrow corridor until the sound of feet slapping the stone pavers from the opposite direction interrupts our stride.
Tirian, Forvarra’s only prince, and the Winter Court advisor to the High Queen, arrives ahead of Tauriel and her band of healers. His icy-blue gaze catches on the darkened blood covering most of the orc’s chest, the color stark against the paleness of his gray skin.
More than any fae, Tirian understands the perilousness of this situation. After all, it was he who first ferried Myrkur’s bones and Aelinor’s ashes from Azgagh. And when the magic plundered his mind, it was I who found him and wrested the sword from his hand before it tasted his blood.
That moment lives between us, creating a bond that runs deeper than camaraderie or friendship. A bond rooted in survival.
And shame.
Gently, Lukk and I lower Balfour’s body. Without a word, the healers surround him and set to work staunching the weeping hole.
“Will he survive?” Lukk asks what neither I nor the prince can voice.
Tauriel kneels beside the warrior. Hunching her shoulders, she bows her head. A writing instrument pokes from a nest of thick, unruly blond hair bound in a knot. Closing her eyes, she raises a hand over Balfour’s torso.
Several heartbeats pass.
The silence rolls my gut. If Balfour dies, he leaves behind a wife and an orcling he has yet to meet. The burden of disclosing this terrible news to his wife lies with me and me alone. I will not skirt my duty, yet—
“Yes, I believe he will.” Sitting back on her haunches, Tauriel lowers her hand to her lap. “But the magic has tainted his flesh.”
Large, wire-rimmed spectacles sit closer to the tip of her nose than the bridge. “We will work to remove the contamination, but I do not know the extent of its reach. I will have a better prognosis once I see his response to treatment. It is the best I can offer.”
She waves a hand to the elves awaiting her command. “Take him. Quickly. I will meet you in the infirmary.”
Tauriel grabs a handful of skirt to avoid stepping on the hem. Rising to her full elven height, she ushers me to her with the same wild hand gesture she used a moment ago.
“Come, let me assess your injuries.” At my reluctance, she arches a fair brow. “This is no time for shyness. Or have you forgotten it was I who mended those scarred knees so many moons ago?”
“I have not forgotten.” Heat rises to my face, causing a whisper of a smile to ghost her delicate features.
“I jest, Khao. Although truthfully, I had hoped time would soften your demeanor. Still so solemn, I see.”
Her gold eyes sweep from Lukk to Tirian, and I brace myself for the words already spreading fire across my cheeks and up the tips of my ears.
“It was a feat of the gods to arouse a reaction from this one.” Her head tips in my direction. “Even as a tiny runt, he was formidable, rivaling only Waur’s forbidding facade. It was impressive for a boy his age.”
Waur.
The great general, like Kyra, the High Queen, and Rowena’s ward, Ilearis, lies in a cursed sleep Tauriel has yet to break. Hearing his name—the male who is Rogar’s father—stirs a tumult of opposing emotions I forcibly shove aside.
“Balfour is the priority.” Unlike the orcs, I will heal. Another trait I share with the race I’ve despised my whole life.
Lukk’s gaze finds me, and ever so subtly, I flick my head to the elves hurrying down the hall. Without nary a sound, he sets off after them.
Tauriel tsks. “I had high hopes your time in Drengskador would finally dispel your mistrust.”
With swift steps, she eliminates the space between us and places a palm on each side of my head, tilting it this way and that before moving to my injured hand. “I see I was mistaken. Is this why you ignored my sister’s summons?”
She glances up, the honey gold of her eyes darkening with pain? Hurt? “Why you ignored mine?”
I want to scrub a hand over my face, but I hold still, my throat burning with each moment I do not answer.
She sighs. “You of all fae should understand a decision made in battle is often not one we would make under normal circumstances. We are protectors of the realm, my dear Khao.”
She sets my hand down. “But the heart? The heart bears no leniency, does it, for efforts made to right the wrongs of the past.”
“The heart bears no place in war,” I say, restraining the emotion I feel from my voice.
“So I am told.” She smiles again, sadness framing the shape of her lips. “Although one may wish it otherwise, too often, the heart is the only thing left on the field once the carnage is cleared.”
Then, as she has so many times before, she searches my face for a boon I will never grant her.
Forgiveness.
With a resigned sigh, Tauriel’s gaze drops to my hand. “Tirian, come. Lend assistance.” She pulls strips of fabric from her pocket, handing the stash to the elf watching our interplay with a curiosity he does not bother hiding.
Uncorking a vial she retrieves from the same pocket, she places the topper in the elf’s outstretched hand, then uses a knuckle to push back her spectacles.
She holds the small bottle over my torn flesh and says, “This will hurt.”
It could not possibly ache more than—
“Bloody eels,” I hiss.
A smile blooms, but she keeps her gaze on her task, wrapping fabric around the injured digits.
“This will aid your natural healing. Should you accept such a kindness, I’ve a poultice that will curtail the inflammation and pain.” She secures the ends of the strips neatly. “As for the rest”—she waves at the lacerations on my face and chest—“bathe and do not tarry. You may exhibit resistance to the magic’s call, but who knows how the bite of an infected fae will impact your immunity.”
I incline my head. “I will do as you suggest.”
“Report any irregularities. Anything of concern, be it minor or otherwise. Let me be the judge. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
A heavy silence falls, then Tauriel says, “The blocking spell should have held. The distance between the guard’s post and the chamber should have been enough.”
Should have?
Should-have may have cost Balfour his life.
“Cast an aversion spell if you must, but I will not spare another to guard this corridor based on your should-haves.”
Tauriel’s nostrils flare. “I am the High Queen’s mage. I outrank you both as Drengskador’s captain and acting regent. You may hold my favor, but do not forget your place.”
“I know who and what I am. I need no reminders.”
“And that there,” she says, pointing an angry finger at my chest, “is our problem.”
I bite back my retort.
With a huff, she marches away, skirt and locks of hair rippling behind her.
Shifting his attention from the corridor, Tirian says, “She means well.”
“Aye, and some swore Aelinor had the realm’s best interest at heart, but we all know how that story played out, do we not?”
“Those same fae whisper your king had a hand in the plot until he could no longer control his cousin.”
I have heard the rumors.
My lips curl. “And you? Is your voice among the whispers, Prince Tirian?”
“I know Rogar to be an honorable fae. Like you.” His icy gaze sweeps to where Tauriel retreated. “I hold the High Mage in the same regard.”
As do many.
And perhaps I would feel the same had it not been her alchemy that stole my birthright.
Jatta.
Tauriel holds great influence with the High Queen. She is kin to my king, a fact I have yet to reconcile. This resentment threatens the alliance between our courts and my standing as Rogar’s regent.
Without duty, I am nothing.
“I—” Pausing, I let the frustration drain from my throat. “I must return to the courtyard. Tensions between my warriors and the goblins have been problematic since our return.”
“Yes.” Tirian’s stride matches mine. “I have witnessed the same. This treaty with the goblin king will spark much debate among the kingdoms given the many acts of violence the goblins have directed against your subjects over the years. They will watch Rogar with renewed interest.”
No doubt plotting his downfall.
“Khao.” Tirian’s jeweled hand flattens against the door to the great hall. His elven features—aristocratic nose, alabaster skin, and ice-blue eyes—go bleak. “Rogar’s rule in Drengskador was tolerated. When the kingdoms learn of Menora’s condition and his legitimate claim to the onyx throne as her only heir, that constraint will shatter. Harryk, and the Summer Court in particular, will not bear a half-blood king upon the seat he has coveted since his sister assumed the crown.”
I hold his gaze. “What have your spies reported?”
Tirian drops his hand. “They have not, thus my worry.”
In fae politics, silence is lethal.
When we crossed the portal into Argomar, a good portion of Rogar’s forces remained behind to defend Drengskador while we worked to free him. The plan was to return home once we had secured the king and defeated the enemy.
Nine suns have risen.
My warriors bemoan each day spent patrolling these desolate lands, and how can I blame them, when I too long to feel the warmth of Drengskador’s gentle winds upon my skin.
I grind my teeth. “Fortify the border patrols. I will send sentries outside the walls to aid in the effort.”
“Drengskador’s support is welcome,” Tirian says with a tip of his head.
And needed.
Although the elf does not speak those last words, they ring loudly between us.
We enter the great hall, empty save for a table of elven warriors seated closest to the hearth. Several members of the High Queen’s Furious Army stand on guard, a vrou on each side of the castle entrance.
The Night realm warriors protecting the fortress remain hidden in shadow, but their magic hangs heavy in the air, much like the unnatural gloom imprisoning this whole domain in its chilly grip.
At the other end of the room, several elves stand locked in conversation, while three others sit on benches sharpening weapons with keen eyes pointed at the goblins congregated near the door.
Ignoring the tension building between the two groups, I cut a path through the center of the room, heading for the courtyard. The vrou guards at the door snicker as I step past them into the gloom.
The scent of orc, goblin, and elf assails my senses. Meats roast on spits, smoke dissipating into the mist. There’s magic in the air.
And the foul stench of anger.
Scrutinizing the dirt yard dotted with temporary shelters, livestock, and children running beneath lines of drying clothes, I spot the emotion’s origin several yards away from where Tirian and I stand at the castle’s entrance.
Two of my newer recruits, farmers hailing from a village burned down several moons ago during a goblin raid, shout at three goblin warriors nearing the line separating our camps.
Another moves quickly, parting the crowd, the black druid-like tattoos on the green of his skin contrasting against the glowing gold eyes tunneling through the gloom.
Frinhol.
The reluctant goblin king.
Before I can land a foot onto the courtyard, Tirian says, “We cannot leave the chamber unprotected.”
“My warriors have suffered enough.” I take a moment to reel back my frustration. Elves and Night realm fae are equally affected by Aelinor’s cursed magic, and because of their superior tracking abilities, the few vrou who comprise the Furious Army are being deployed to hunt down the incubi and goblins who escaped capture in Azgagh.
Which leaves me.
My return to Drengskador cannot come fast enough.
Tirian’s near perfect features twist. “It is an impossible situation, I know.”
“Tauriel will perfect the aversion spell.” The words sound incredulous coming from the mouth that had argued with her moments ago. “Do you not trust her skills?”
“It is not her skills I question. Believe me. This pestilence is beyond our knowledge. I have summoned my father’s healer, who is versed in the old ways.”
By old ways, he means the forbidden.
“I am confident she will discover the key to unraveling this foul curse,” he adds.
I do not need a Winter mage to tell me what I already suspect. Aelinor infused vrou magic, both forbidden and ancient, into her resurrection spell. Sorcery whose roots are buried beneath the rubble of the vrou empire the High Queen destroyed.
To unravel its secrets, some poor fae will have to travel to the under temples beneath the Aurelian Mountains where long ago vrou magic and hatred were spawned and sown.
A place I hope to never see again.
My homeland.
Hulemork.
CHAPTER THREE
VICTORIA
The closer we get to the fortress, the colder it is. Hungry, tired, and irritable, we slog ahead in groups of two or three. The hike is uneventful except for the strain it puts on our bodies. Before my abduction, I ran a seven-minute mile.
Now?
I’m huffing with each step. Tree roots, rocks, and forest mush shove against the flimsy wrappings the goblins call shoes. My feet ache, my legs muscles wobble faster than jello, and my heart? It’s lodged deep, somewhere between my lungs and throat.
No one complains. No one speaks. Not even whiney Melissa. I think we’re all too busy flinching at every sound, waiting for the next ambush to attempt stringing words into coherent sentences.
As the miles pass, the desert-like temps diminish, and a dank mist swallows the light. Then, after what feels like hours climbing uphill, the terrain levels, and we get our first glimpse of the fortress.
I’ve seen many beautiful landmarks in my lifetime. The Eiffel Tower in Paris. The Palace of Westminster in London. The Duomo in Milan. But this place shocks me. Maybe because it’s set here, in these woods, within this realm, rivaling anything real or imagined. Onyx turrets highlight a magnificent castle perched on a hill overlooking the rich forest bordering its domain.
A footbridge leads to a massive gatehouse flanked by two majestic towers. The same gray stone, veined in onyx, weaves through the entire structure, bleeding into an impenetrable-looking curtain wall that encircles the entire fortress like an army of soaring dominoes.
Armed beings walk the parapet. Even from this distance, I can tell they’re not goblins or orcs by the shape of their bodies and the distinct black armor they wear.
They’re elves.
Lord-of-the-freaking-ring style elves.
For a minute, I forget the borgs and the horrors of the past few weeks. How can this be? How can I be standing here, trapped inside a fairytale?
Then the mist coats my skin, zapping me out of my reverie, reminding me this is no fairytale, but a nightmare. I’m no Cinderella. There’s no glass shoe to drop for some perfect prince to find and ride to my rescue.
“Victoria?”
I shake free of the thoughts gluing me in place and scurry to catch up.
Watching my approach, Dorata tilts her head. “We close, yes?”
“We are.”
“No stay with fear.”
“I’m not afraid.” This is the closest we’ve come to gaining our freedom. “I’m ready.”
So ready.
“Good,” she says. “Good. Be ready.”
Dorata’s words should stir a sense of hope and determination inside me. After all, this is our chance to demand the High Queen return us to Earth.
Yet, that’s not what I feel.
I feel . . .
Suspicious. Like I should decipher Dorata’s words for some hidden meaning that doesn’t exist. Old habits, I guess. It’s what the old me would do. This version of me knows we all want the same thing.
Our freedom.
Dorata and the others might stab me in the back later, but for now, we’re all on the same team.
Aren’t we?
My skin prickles. Not because I worry these girls will betray me, they will, but because I see thin, intricate weaves of blue, green, violet, and orange in and around the fortress’s curtain walls. There’s barely a finger’s width of space between the threads. Except for the portcullis. It’s free of magic. Orcs guard the other side. Goblins too.
God, I hate goblins.
But what sets my spine ramrod straight even more than the sight of the grimy green monsters are the shadow creatures lurking near the granite walls.
I swallow.
Could Melissa be right?
Are we making a mistake believing these fae will help us?
When we reach the gates, Amon doesn’t speak. He stands, red wings spread wide, and stares at the metal grate as if his gaze alone will pierce an opening through the bars.
After some back and forth with the guards, the portcullis rises, the shrill sound disturbing the strange tranquility of the forest. Before following Dorata inside, I peer at the stone walls, static electricity buzzing against my skin. The magic seems to breathe when I near, the colors pulsating, luring my fingers to the stone.
I snap my hand back and hurry into the courtyard. A wave of loud, non-human sounds assails my ears. The road, if I can call it a road, leads to the castle’s entrance and splits in two before the massive doors, each arm winding around the sides of the castle as far as my eye can see. Hundreds, maybe thousand of soldiers occupy every inch of space off the road.
Orcs on one side. Goblins on the other.
A lump forms in my throat.
Above us, elven warriors dressed in black uniforms patrol the walls. Orcs too, along with the shadowy beings who seem to melt into the woodwork. One leans over, head turned in my direction. Silvery eyes catch my gaze, and I’m not sure if what I see is surprise or annoyance, but he vanishes into the wall just as quickly as he appeared. Yet the weight of that eerie stare stays with me like an itch against my cheek.
When we’re about halfway into the courtyard, the noise quiets. No one’s talking. I fight the urge to turn my head. To peer at the enormous bodies going still as we pass. Heads duck into tents. The orcs inside those tents step out and take in our small procession of nine raggedy humans and one eight-foot-plus demon with varying degrees of curiosity and wariness.
I focus on the dirt and gravel path and the fraying material of my shoes. If not, my eyes would veer left and right, bugging out like a slinky toy. It’s bad enough the fae can scent my fear. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing it too.
Then again, maybe I should encourage the smelling of my nasty B.O. I haven’t bathed in . . . well, forever. I’ve never smelled so bad in my life. If fae drop like flies, coughing and sputtering on the sidelines, I’ll know why.
A giggle scrapes the back of my throat. I could give my thighs a good shake and add some wild arm waving. That’ll give them something to whisper about.
The crowd multiplies, gathering along the dirt path like spectators waiting for the Macy’s day parade. Orcs on one side, goblins on the other, and with the portcullis shut, we’re trapped inside these vast walls.
There’s nowhere to run.
The air thickens with this strange new tension, lifting the hair on my arms. My gaze darts to the courtyard, but I can’t see beyond the mass of bodies jamming the path. Something is happening, and whatever it is, it can’t be good.
Amon leads us left, past the castle’s double door entrance.
“Wait,” Melissa says before I can voice the same concern. “Where are we going?”
There’s no pause in the demon’s stride. “We confer with Frinhol.”
Frinhol?
Who’s Frinhol?
“The goblin camp is a short distance from here,” he adds.
Goblin camp?
Those two words set my heart racing.
“Uh, no,” I say. “I’m not stepping anywhere inside a goblin camp.”
Amon turns around, Julie cradled in his arms. “You will be safe.”
There are goblins lined up to my left. Too many to count. I’m not safe. I’m as far away from being safe as humanly possible.
“Victoria.” Julie catches my gaze. “It’s okay. Frinhol is the goblin king. He commands this army.” She gestures to the goblins on the sideline, watching intently, then touches her demon’s chest. “Amon is his second-in-command. The old king is dead. He holds no power here. These aren’t the same goblins who worked for the witch.”
Her brown eyes are beseeching, swinging from me to the others girls, and then back again. “Wouldn’t you rather know what we’re up against before we talk to the queen?”
Of course I would. It’s shrewd business. “Know your competitor.” My father’s voice blares into my head. “Know what they want most. Use that desire against them. Do that and you’ll win, Victoria. Every time. A Robeson always wins.”
But I don’t feel like much of a Robeson. Every lesson I’ve been taught my whole life flies out the window in the face of surrounding myself with the creatures who’ve taunted and tormented me for weeks.
I shake my head. “We’ve wasted too much time. Conferring with the goblin king won’t change the facts.” I rub the chill from my arms. “I—we—don’t belong here, and the sooner we meet with the queen, the sooner this ends and we go home.”
Several of the girls murmur in agreement, including Melissa. Dorata stands off to the side, head angled, dark eyes observing every twitch and frown.
“I offer you my protection.” Those odd eyes, yellow where there should be white with a slit of black at the center, sweep over us. “But you are not captives. You are free.” He tips his head in the castle’s direction. “Enter if you wish, but I seek the guidance of a king who has my allegiance. You would be wise to choose the same.”
I cast a glance behind me to the large double doors serving as entry to the only being who can legally open a portal to Earth from this realm. The last thing I want to do is spend another minute in this courtyard. I want a bath. Hot water. My soft satin sheets.
I want home.
Several fae children run curious circles around us, craning their necks as they pass.
Amon resumes his trek forward.
I hesitate. Trust the demon who saved my life, or the instinct that abandoned me a year ago?
“The demon. He talk good, no?”
I shrug at Dorata.
“We hear and if we no like what goblin king say, we go to queen.” Dorata’s fair brows, so dissimilar to her dark hair, arch. “Yes?”
The girls trail Amon.
I let out a breath. “So you’re siding with the demon, too?”
“They no hurt us. Look.” Dorata gestures to the goblins. “The give respect. Because of him. They give us respect. They no hurt us.”
She’s right, yet every fiber in my being is pushing me toward the castle to demand an audience with the queen.
But this isn’t just about me. Is it?
“Fine.”
Dorata smiles like she’s won the lottery.
“I’m agreeing with you this one time,” I huff, plodding beside her. “Don’t think for a second I’m going to make a habit of it.”
“No, Victoria.” Her grin grows smug. “I no think this.”
She better not. A whiff of something mouthwatering makes my empty stomach growl. Last night, before I’d fallen asleep in the wagon, I’d devoured a piece of stale bread. For weeks, before we’d arrived at the orc village, it’s all we’d survived on. Moldy bread. Crusty cheese. The occasional berry.
This smells fresh. Like meat roasting on a spit.
My stomach rumbles and salvia pools in my mouth. I’d give anything for a bacon double cheeseburger. Or a New York Strip Sirloin with a heaping side of garlic mashed potatoes, loads and loads of butter and piping fresh pumpernickel bread.
Oh, and nachos.
God, nachos with the works. And queso. I think I’d kill for cheese. Cheese on anything.
I’m too lost in my food fantasy to notice the change in the crowd until a low growl interrupts my imaginary meal.
I hear shouts
Amon comes to a full stop.
My spine goes stiff. I attempt to peer around the tip of one large wing when something touches my hair. I spin around and yank my hair from the hand of the female orc holding it between her claws.
“Don’t touch me,” I bark. “Stand back, do you hear me?”
“I do.” She opens her claws. Strands of my hair catch on the sharp tips.
A child leans against the orc woman’s hip, her big yellow eyes wide. “What are you?”
“Human,” a male voice answers from the crowd. “It’s a human female.”
It’s?
Is that how they see us? As things?
Assessing me with renewed curiosity, the orc woman tilts her head, her black eyes bright and intelligent. The color contrasts against soft sage skin, a shade darker than the child’s. Black tattoos carve into the side of her thick neck, sweeping to her hairline and below the collar of the brightly patterned shirt she wears over a brown skirt.
These orcs aren’t like the ones portrayed in movies. I see no tusks. Yes, physically they’re huge, but their features are softer, leaning more toward those of the elven soldiers guarding the fortress than the orc renditions I’ve seen on Earth.
“Human. All of them.” Stabbing a finger in the air, the owner of the male voice pushes his big body through the gathered orcs. Unlike the woman, he’s gray skinned, the shade patchy with hints of green.
The word “human” ping-pongs from one alien mouth to another, growing in intensity in a tone reserved for the impossible. Like seeing a unicorn prancing on Fifth Avenue, and I’m not talking about the privately held tech companies my father loves to invest in.
“Human?” The orc woman repeats the word, dragging out each syllable.
“Aye. Human.” There’s no amusement, no curiosity, no wonder in the orc man’s expression when he speaks. Only disdain. Or disgust. Or something else not favorable to humans.
“By Ulda,” she murmurs. “The creatures of lore from the pages of fables our kin wrote about so long ago?” Her lips curl into a smile and then freeze. Her hands grip the child’s shoulders. Unease replaces the naked curiosity she’d displayed a second ago. “Come, Jaffe.” She quickly maneuvers the child away from me, disappearing into the gawking mass of towering gray and green shapes.
I don’t know why her reaction bothers me, but it does. I throw my shoulders back and focus on the bony spur between Amon’s wide wings. Julie is encased in his arms and hidden from the Peeping Toms edging closer and closer.
Dorata doesn’t seem phased by the fae. I envy her calm.
“What’s going on?” I ask her. “Why aren’t we moving?”
“The road.” She points ahead. “It is, um, how do you say? Bucked.”
“Bucked?”
“Yes. The goblin and orc. They fight. In road.”
“There’s a fight?” Just what we need. More testosterone from monsters already dripping violence from their pores.
I eye the crowd. Maybe this is why there seems to be an invisible line separating the two factions. They’re taking sides. Throwing bets. Seems too human a notion for the fae, but what do I know?
The roars grow deadlier.
“We can’t just stand here. Can we get around it?” I ask Melissa. She’s the closest to Amon. The triplets, Michael, and Ana huddle between us.
“The king’s tent is the large one. Right there.” She throws a hand toward a large enclosed pavilion about fifty feet down the road. “We’d have to move into the crowd to get around,” she says loudly over Amon, who’s speaking to a goblin dressed in leather armor.
The soldier nods at whatever the demon said, then takes off into the crowd. Several other goblin soldiers approach, shouting commands to the gathered goblins. Some listen and turn away to head back toward the encampment.
Others refuse to budge.
Despite the fear stiffening my neck, I let my gaze wander. These goblins aren’t soldiers, but civilians. Women and children. Elderly goblins. They all seem so . . . normal, standing here, gawking, watching the commotion with obvious interest.
“To your camps,” someone shouts with authority.
Amon, maybe?
We inch forward as a unit, clustering behind him when a new command rings in the air.
“Disperse.”
This voice is deep and gravely and oh so fierce. It sparks an urge to run, so I force my feet to stay in line.
The orcs immediately obey and clear out, some grumbling as they return to their tents. The goblins, however, grow more engrossed, spreading out behind us to fill in the spaces the orcs reluctantly vacated.
Bodies press in, their warmth skating over my skin. Fingers brush my arms. The tatters of my clothing. I squeeze my eyes. Don’t turn around. Keep moving. Keep walking.
Something sharp grazes my back and tangles on the ends of my hair.
A claw.
A goblin claw.
In. My. Hair.
The boom-boom-boom in my chest drives my legs faster and faster until the landscape blurs. I’m not at the borgs. Pointy fingers aren’t poking my flesh. I’m not being chased by alien hisses and howls that invade my every dream. I’m at the fortress. The High Queen’s castle. I’m safe.
I’m safe.
“Back off.” I kick out, startling a male goblin who clearly doesn’t know the definition of personal space. A massive gray chest enters my line of sight.
It’s the last straw.
“I said back off.”
The chest’s owner jerks to avoid my foot, and because he’s too close, his arms come down around my back, wrapping me in a bear hug that prevents me from throwing a punch.
“Enough.” The words rumble against my cheek. The same gravely voice from earlier. And despite the rage boiling in my blood, my body obeys.
I stop squirming.
What the freaking heck?
I bare my teeth, but a big hand slides between us and clamps itself over my mouth.
“I will not hurt you, female. I expect the same courtesy.”
He expects?
“I didn’t know humans were so lively,” another male says. His voice stems from the left and carries the same rough baritone oozing with amusement.
With what little leeway I have, I reach for my captor’s legs, my fingernails sinking into thick leather over hard as concrete thighs that will sooner break my nails than suffer any damage I can inflict.
“Let me go,” I shout into his palm.
“Violent, too,” the second male says. “Interesting.”
The man holding me makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Send word to Frinhol, then notify Tauriel the goblin king’s commander has arrived with a party of nine.”
“Seems you’ve got your hands full, my liege, and I, being your ever dutiful second, would be remiss in my duties were I to abandon you in this time of great need.”
“Lukk,” my captor growls.
“Aye, Captain. As you say,” Lukk says with a hearty laugh that makes me glare into the muscled arm blocking my view of him.
In the next breath, the “captain” lifts and spins me, hauling my body by the waist with an arm until I’m dangling at his hip like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum.
Blood rushes to my head. “Put me down.”
“Calm yourself.”
I’d like to see how composed he’d be with his butt dangling in the air. “I’m as calm as I’m going to get,” I say through clenched teeth. “Let go.”
He makes that throaty sound again, and instead of loosening the muscled arm wrapped around my hips, he tightens his grip.
I want to scream. A whole body, foot stomping, undignified scream that’ll wake the dead and mortify my mother. “Is there some magical word or phrase a woman needs to say to be heard in this stupid realm? Or are the males of this world just as clueless as the ones back home?”
Twisting at the waist, I crane my neck to get a better view of the stubborn fae and suck in a breath. The captain’s eyes—ruby red eyes—are fixed to my face, his expression a wall of solid ice. He’s . . .
Not a goblin.
No, he’s something else. The scariest, yet most breathtaking race of fae I’ve ever seen. Slender, pointed ears poke from locks of silver-white hair, the pieces adorned with pewter tube shaped beads. His skin looks airbrushed, an inhuman charcoal lightened with silver. A deep gash above his eye drips dark purple blood over white, perfectly arched brows that are currently pulling taut over those ruby-red eyes and perfect nose.
His features are both hard and ethereal. Compelling and yet terrifying.
Like the rest of him.
I should be scared out of my skin. Instead, I size him up. Blood seeps from several ragged cuts on his bare chest, flowing over leather straps I assume hold weapons to his back. Blood that’s probably smeared all over my grungy dress and hair. Two fingers of his right hand are wrapped in a plain bandage.
Was he injured separating the fighting fae in the road? Or did something else occur?
And why do I care?
A throat clears.
My head snaps up.
The entire path is clear of fae except for two goblin soldiers flanking Amon. Julie stands by his side, hand held in his. My not-friends, Melissa, Ana, the triplets, Michael, and Dorata, gape.
Well, not Dorata. She looks contemplative. Everyone else gapes.
I swallow a groan. So much for blending in and making friends.
“Do you know who that is?” The way Melissa phrases the question has me stiffening in the fae’s hold. How does she know who this is when I don’t?
As if reading my mind, she says, “You would have known had you talked to the orcs before we left.”
There’s no glee or satisfaction in her tone, which both surprises and alarms me because I thought she, of all people, would get her kicks from watching me squirm.
I don’t know if it’s my position, or the air temperature, but it suddenly becomes harder to breathe.
“Well,” I sputter. “Do I have to guess, or are you going to tell me?”
Abruptly, Melissa drops into a weird curtsy thing the rest of the girls copy.
Oh no . . .
“He’s, um,” Melissa takes a breath. “He’s currently the king of the orcs and commander of their army.”
“The Regent of Drengskador,” Amon corrects.
A king?
Cheese on a cracker. How many kings does this realm need? They’re like a dime a dozen down here.
Wait . . .
The thump in my throat sprouts thorns. A king?
I just assaulted a king?
In public.
The pressure building in my head makes it hard to breathe, robbing my brain of the precious oxygen needed for me to think straight.
“Well,” I say in my least pretentious tone, which is probably still too pretentious given who I am. “Will your majesty please lower me to the ground?”
The reigning king of the orcs releases his grip.
I fall on my face.
“Escort our visitors inside.” The command comes from of a platinum haired elf dressed in a cobalt uniform matching his eyes. Heavy silver embroidery trims the lapel, sleeves, and hem. A peaked crown resembling the tips of a snowcapped mountain encircles his head, the metal bands intricately woven and joined at the center by a massive sapphire that rest above his brows.
And by massive, I mean enormous. A faceted, sixty, maybe seventy carat oval shaped stone in a rich deep shade of blue. Not at all gaudy. It’s a bauble befitting a fae crown.
Another king?
Wonderful.
I scramble to my feet. I can feel the regent’s eyes on me, and when I turn to catch his gaze, there’s something in his face that forces my five-foot-four inch frame to stretch tall with defiance. Whatever he sees in my expression drags the tips of those silver brows into an almost-scowl.
Then his ruby gaze shifts, sweeping over my head to the royal elf behind me. He nods, the motion curt, then pivots and walks away.
He doesn’t get far.
“Lord Regent,” the elf calls.
With his back to us, the regent halts, a faint growl rumbling from his direction.
“The High Mage extends her invitation to you as well,” the elf says.
The regent doesn’t immediately turn around, but when he does, the almost-scowl is gone. In fact, there isn’t a trace of any emotion framing those captivating eyes or lips. He stands straight, shoulders wide, a hand resting against the hilt of a weapon at his hip. The pose is casual and yet there’s tension, like static electricity, emanating from him like a beacon snagging my attention.
He’s angry. Furious. I can’t help but wonder why. Is it because he’s being forced to do something he isn’t entirely on board with?
Like us?
Shared predicaments bind people. Can I use his anger to our advantage?
Will he help us?
I fall instep behind him, peering at the muscles playing against his back. The regent isn’t a frat boy who wants in my pants, or a professor looking for a link to my family to fund their research. He’s an alien with power and the physical strength to crush me.
All I have is me. My wits. My brains. My looks.
Will it be enough?
I’m pondering that question when I step over the threshold.
READY FOR MORE?
The darkness inside me rises, ready to lay waste to this mountain. To the entire Aurelian Range. But a part of me, a smaller part, a wiser part, cautions.
Wait.
It curls into the warmth of the fragile bond beating and burrowing deeper into my chest, making itself known. It breathes in the lingering scent of wildflowers and cool water. And then all the reasons I cannot seek her out slam into my head at once.
— Khao/Fae King's Triumph