Page 8 of The Dryad Storm

Strangled.

After Marina left that night, he remained on the lake’s bottom for a long time, alone in the dark, never wanting to emerge. Close to an hour later, he surfaced, raging and gulping for air. Cursing his very lungs over the need for it.

Cursing the very air he needed to keep living this trapped life.

“Do you even feel it, Crow?”

The familiar, taunting female voice hits like a hammer, shattering Gareth’s thoughts, hurtling him back to the present. He focuses on tying off one final line before rising to meet the Sylphan Fae soldier Xylo Skye’s confrontational storm-gray stare. There’s an unkind smile on her pewter lips, her slender form bracketed by a knot of other naval Vu Trin, their black uniforms, like Gareth’s own, marked with a blue dragon—the Goddess Vo’s water manifestation.

Xylo Skye points toward the violet moon above. “I bet the Xishlon moon doesn’t affect you.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” blue-hued Thym’ellia Vyyr bites out from beside her. The Urisk soldier tosses Gareth an unfriendly grin. “Mages don’t have hearts, you know that.”

Gareth inwardly flinches as, laughing, they saunter off, making their way toward the purple-glittering port city of Salish. A cacophony of music dances in the air, sensual drumbeats resonating through Gareth as he stares after the soldiers. Stares over the bustling city as the moon’s thrall scours out his heart anew.

“Pay them no heed.”

Unable to swallow the ache in his throat, Gareth turns toward Commander Quillen and meets her steady gaze.

His young commander’s stance is strong, radiating her ever-present intensity, like a typhoon about to be unleashed. Her puffed hair is the mottled-steel hues of storm clouds, her skin the ashen black of a hurricane’s eye, her ears curving to sharp points.

He’s heard stories of his commander’s childhood years—taken in by the siblings Lucretia and Fain Quillen after Zephyr’s parents were murdered by Gardnerians. Lucretia and Fain were almost killed themselves by the tornado that six-year-oldZephyr summoned as her parents were cut down, the screaming, raging child raining down hail the size of boulders as Lucretia and Fain battled back her magic and got her off the Spine’s apex before the Gardnerians could murder her too.

“Did they give you a hard time about your hair in the West?” Zephyr Quillen asks Gareth in that succinct way of hers.

She doesn’t need to specify what she means. Gareth knows she’s asking if he was tormented for his Selkie silver-tipped black hair back in Gardneria.

“They did,” he replies, his words clipped and devoid of emotion. But he can remember the taunts as if it were yesterday. His ostracism in Valgard.

And the danger.

He was beaten more than once by other Mage teens, his only solace escaping by boat to the ocean. Or visiting with Elloren, Trystan, and Rafe Gardner. Especially Trystan, Gareth’s closest friend in all the world prior to meeting Marina, perhaps the only Mage Gareth knows who completely understands what it means to live on the reviled outside of things. And Trystan always seemed to comprehend, in his quiet, deep way, Gareth’s constant pain over being kept forever from the ocean’s depths. Forever skimming its surface.

Gareth can sense Commander Quillen’s understanding as well. It never fails to touch him, since her own life was ripped apart by Mages, a group he’s firmly slotted into here in the East. Yet, here she is, pausing with him instead of frolicking with the others under this cursedly beckoning moon.

“Many years ago,” Zephyr says as she squints up at the violet orb, the metal hoops rimming her ears catching its jeweled light, “my people terrorized both the Kelts and what they called at the time the ‘Lesser Fae.’ Summoned wind swirls to slam them into distant targets for sport.” She lets out a disdainful breath through her teeth. “Basically scared them into paying a land tax. I read about it in some Keltish history books in the Voloi University archives. The Sylphan aristocracy wasmonstrous.”

She sets her piercing gaze back on Gareth. “About three generations later, after a stormy revolution, the Sylphan monarchy was ousted and, over time, the Air Fae Court became a Sidhe voice for the oppressed—a true light in this world.” Her lips thin. “But I keep my people’s cruel ancient history in my thoughts. A cautionary tale, if you will.” She tilts her head, bringing her hands to her hips. “None of it defines me, Noi’khin. Neither the cruelty, nor the light. Nor should being a Mage define you. We make our own way in this world.” A heartfelt note steals into hertone. “I see it in you, Selkie’kin. I see how land is not your true home.”

Gareth stiffens and looks away, his jaw tensing as the truth of her words prompts an upswell of yearning in his chest.

“Here,” Commander Quillen says gruffly. Gareth turns to find her thrusting a small black cloth pouch toward him. “Your holiday pay.” Her lips tilt up. “And a small stash of Sanjire root.” She swipes her hand toward the city, her usual brusque manner returning. “Go. Take the evening off. ‘Find the moon.’?” She cocks a brow at him, an amused glint in her eyes. “Or find some good wine, at least.” Her gaze hardens. “Tomorrow, we sail.”

To war.

A chill runs down Gareth’s spine.

But he’s ready. Ready to use his uncanny sense of ocean tides and incoming weather to aid the Vu Trin navy.

To fight the Magedom.

Gareth accepts the pouch, and Commander Quillen gives him a curt nod then strides off. When he glances down at the pouch once more, his gaze slides to the green glimmer of his Mage skin. A glimmer even the purple Xishlon moon can’t tint away.

The ache in his heart resurging, he thrusts the pouch into his pants’ pocket and strides off the dock and onto the large boardwalk that edges the beach. But not across it and into the festive city.

Instead, Gareth walks away from the city, ignoring the curious looks and glares cast his way by revelers he passes as he follows a pull on his heart that’s stronger than the Xishlon moon’s.

Some boisterous Noi children race in front of him, gripping streamers of linked violet runic orbs and sparklers crackling with lavender light, and Gareth’s gaze lands on a Wanted poster affixed to the boardwalk piling beside him. His steps slow then stop as he pauses before it.

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