Page 145 of Cathmoir's Sons

“How in Mother’s name do you know that movie?” I ask.

The demon’s long forked tongue flicks out across his fangs. “Ate too many aficionados of human pop culture while I was trapped topside.”

“D-did you say ‘ate’?”

Grinning, the demon nods.

I glance at Lu who echoes the demon’s expression. I decide that telling either of them we’re deescalating the situation is a waste of time.

The birch grove gives way to ash. Oaks invade the ash grove, growing so close to one another their branches interweave in arcane shapes. The moonlight filtering through the leaves casts skittering shadows over the trees gnarled roots. The ground’s a mat of undecayed leaves that rustle underfoot, sounds that almost become words but fade before they’re intelligible.

“I fucking hate Faery,” the demon grumbles from behind me.

“Except Ceòfuar,” Luca says.

“Especially Ceòfuar,” the demon responds. “Full of fucking sneaky Cait.”

Luca chuckles. “I’m putting you on notice that after we’ve recovered Ulune’s Daughter, I’m moving into Ash Hill. I’m gonna do my Ph.D. on the interstices between the World Tree and the Baroness’ pond.”

“Th’ fuck you are,” the demon growls. “We already got enough pets. No cats in my house.”

“Your wife likes me,” Luca says, his grin even more evil than his twin’s. “She said I could come visit whenever I wanted.”

“I didn’t hear her say that,” the demon objects.

“You weren’t around,” Luca points out.

“In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I can hear everything Tsara hears and see everything she sees.”

“That’s not creepy or anything,” I tell him, although I’m slightly envious. I’d like to be that close to Caileán.

“You haven’t been together long enough to know how often your girl gets into life-threatenin’ situations, trainee,” the demon scoffs at me. “Give it a year and you’ll be casting clairaudience and clairvoyance charms on her every morning, too.”

I glance at Luca. He looks at me. We nod at each other.

The demon guffaws.

In front of us, the procession halts suddenly. The black-robed fae who were watching us dance have gotten in front of us and blocked the path to the Oak King.

“What is your intention, bringing this Unseelie creature before the High King, Aranthann?” Emnyre demands pushing through the middle of the line of black robes.

“You’ll speak to the king and queen with the respect they deserve,” the Holly King’s knight squares up with Emnyre. They look like David and Goliath, with Emnyre towering over the smaller knight.

“I answer to the High King, Aehelwen, not a pair of pretenders, and you should remember your place, squire.”

“I was knighted by a king,” Aehelwen flares, his hand straying to the sword on his hip.

The Holly King curls his hand over his knight’s pauldron. “Peace, my rose. Emnyre means no insult, do you, knight? Surely, you don’t look to prevent the Mother’s chosen from conversing together?”

Emnyre’s face, framed by the edges of his helmet, creases in displeasure. “I will never be convinced that the Mother chose you, Aranthann, no matter your current accoutrements.” He tips his pointed chin at the Holly King’s horns. “Nor would the Mother ever smile on this carrion-eater. If you seek an audience with the Oak King, remove all your weapons and enter his grove on your knees.”

Aehelwen begins to protest, but Caileán holds up her hand. She opens her mantle of raven feathers and steps out of it, naked from Crown to her ankle boots. She folds her mantle and offers it to Law, who drapes it over his shoulder reverently. Luca snarls. But both of them defer to Caileán and do nothing to hide their mate’s nakedness.

Didrane and Hraena follow suit, taking off their mantles and standing proudly. Didrane’s skin is parchment-pale, wrinkled, and somehow more elegant for her evident age.

The Holly King lifts his chin at Emnyre before unbuckling his armor and handing each piece to Aehelwen. He hands over his swords last, then unfastens his silk robes and passes them to his knight, before offering Caileán his arm. She takes it with a smile.

“Ready?” Caileán asks brightly.

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