Page 9 of The Dark, Dead, Deep

“Hate me all you want, but it won’t stop me from picking you up and placing you on that throne.” He waved a hand dismissively.

It took every ounce of strength to swim to the throne, determined to cross the room under my own power instead of being dragged like a naughty child.

I tasted blood in my throat, but I knew it was a memory instead of a reality. Every muscle in my body protested as I placed a hand on the throne’s armrest and forced myself to take a seat, feeling the cool stone against my scales and skin.

The anticipation of the pain was always worse than the reality, but not by much.

I felt the magic of the throne sigh in contentment as I placed both palms on the armrests and waited with my eyes closed tight.

My entire body jolted when two large teeth pierced through the palms of my hands, shining obsidian as smooth as glass. I began to quake as magic flooded my body; I steeled myself as it crawled under my skin.

I tried to calm my heart, but I felt its beat in every pulse of my brain against my skull. I tried to listen to my breath and focus on the sound of the water swishing through my gills, but nothing took away the pain. Nothing could help.

I could feel Douglas shift, uneasy, as the lake claimed me and showed me what I needed to know. Blood coated my tongue, as it always did. Staining my teeth.

I was no longer in my body, soaring through the water without beginning or end. I was the lake. I was the heart of it. I felt the magic that ran through the bedrock like veins of molten gold. I felt the blood spilling and dispersing like ink in the water.

I was at the front line. Weaving through the barracks and trenches. Information rattled off my tongue, moving through me as its conduit.

Douglas took out his stone tablet and began to write, asking me questions that only someone miles away could have answered.

No, the mer-king was not at the front line.

Neither was the Prince of the Kelpies.

The magic surrounding Tarsainn is still strong.

We have gained no ground since the last time I sat on the throne.

The migration path was clear. No one is near enough to attack any undine juveniles making the trip.

I forced my consciousness back to the castle.

“Who is the kelpie in the stables? What bloodline does she belong to?” Douglas asked.

I found the kelpie quickly, her despair and pain enough to light a rage in my chest that brought the taste of metal to my tongue.

Royalty.

My eyelids fluttered open. A drop of blood left my nose and turned to a wisp in front of my eyes as it dissolved in the water. Another followed until a cloud of red sat before my eyes. A sharp pain radiated through my skull, and I bit back my cry. The teeth shunted back into the armrests, and I sagged, my chin on my chest.

It took everything in me not to vomit.

“Well?” Douglas bit out. “What is the identity of the mare in our stables?”

I suckled my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

The fae could not lie, but we could twist our words. “She doesn’t live in the castle,” I said because, at that moment, she didn’t. She lived in a stable.

“But who is her sire?” Douglas demanded.

“Dead,” I answered truthfully. The king of the kelpies had perished the year before, and the crown prince had yet to take the throne.

Douglas grunted, satisfied with my answer. “You may go.” He waved his hand over his shoulder as he turned back to the Abyss.

I did as he said and rushed down to the door. I managed to hold my stomach until I was free of the castle. However, I didn’t get much further before I sagged against the wall and vomited blood and breakfast into the water.

The fatigue was setting in. My body wasn’t designed for such magic, and it hurt every time, like a sickness I couldn’t shake.

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