Page 17 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Malcolm swallowed around a dry throat. “I will learn all I can and attend to the threat that has rooted itself into my lands.”

Clapa dropped from the king’s horns and floated down his front. “Gim gim,” she said, jabbing a claw at one of his crescent buttons.

Malcolm felt cheered as she teased their king, trying to snatch at the lapel of his coat even as he playfully swatted her away.

“You’ve enough of my buttons at home,” Night said, doing a poor job of sounding like a stern parent with his voice wobbling with mirth. His scarred lip twitched.

“Here,” Malcolm said, plucking off a round brass fastening from the front of his shirt. He looked like a wretch with or without it, and he wanted to give the fairy child something for lifting his spirits. Her wings hummed as she hovered before him to inspect his offering.

She took it and placed it on her head like a hat over her wiry black hair. Then she shrank down so small, she and the button, Malcolm could no longer see where’d she’d gone. A smell like overly ripe fruit emanated from the space she’d once occupied—the scent of fairy blood magic.

“You’ve made a friend for life,” Night warned. “Be sure to keep a close eye on your boots from now on.”

Malcolm had several arrangements to make before the path to Skugborg got any darker or any more dangerous for the horses. He made his farewells to his king, then retreated to the corridor. He had transport to secure and messages to deliver, and food was becoming a pressing necessity . . .

The fairy reappeared, growing before him, scenting the air in citrus. She dangled from the base of his antlers, a surprisingly solid weight given her size. Hanging in front of his face, she held the gifted button against her hair. “Mal Mal, attaway,” she chirped.

Malcolm paused as a thought came to him. He had a great deal to tend to. He could use her help. “I’ll give you all the buttons and shiny things you want, if you’ll take care of someone for me.”

Clapa considered his offer a moment, hanging upside down like a slumbering bat from the ceiling of a cavern. Then she nodded her head and held up one of her tiny hands. Her claws grew, doubling in size.

“Stab?” she chimed.

Malcolm shook his head, swinging her side to side. “No stabbing.”

“Stab stab?” the fairy insisted cheerfully.

“That’s not what I mean when I said I wanted you to take care of them. I meant I’d like you to look after them. To cheer them.” Malcolm pointed to his face and forced a smile. “Cheer them. Like this.”

“No stab,” she said, her tiny features falling. She took a moment to knot her hair around her new button, holding it in place on her head. Then she nodded. “Clapa attaway, Mal Mal,” she said soothingly, pointing to her own smile which was full of pearly needles.

“That’s better,” he said, uncertain if he’d just made a rather terrible mistake making deals with a fairy child.

Chapter 6

Hrafn

The guards that pulled Hrafn from her cell would not answer her questions about where she was going and why. Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought that this might be it. The end. They were going to score her wings with iron and hang her.

Should she fight them now? Perhaps she should wait until she was outside with a chance to take to the skies . . .

If she would die, it would be by a sword, not by the neck in some shameful way.

Instead of a noose she was dragged to a courtyard where a caged wagon drawn by four large country horses sat waiting. Hrafn relaxed as they rounded the heavy carriage to the opening in the back. There was no iron, only wood and steel and a canvas covering tenting the roof.

Ezra called to her in one long sharp cry from the top of a nearby gas lamp.

“I see you, my friend,” she whispered.

The hands that guided and pulled were rough, some mortal and some fae. She was seated in the wagon with the same forcefulness, her ankles cuffed in heavy metal that squeezed ruthlessly tight, attached to a bar that ran beneath a bench. At least it wasn’t iron. Little concern was given to her wings, which fit poorly behind her, scraping against the cage walls. She perched on the edge of the seat to give them as much room as was allotted. She leaned forward and spread them, stretching them out. They’d gotten stiff kept snug against her, and the skin stung where her feathers were missing and the flesh was torn.

The door slammed shut and was bolted.

It had been a nightmare trying not to touch the bars of her cell. Iron would burn like the hellfire Ezra called home. But this was only slightly better. The cuffs weighed heavily against her ankles. Her body ached all over.

“Where are you taking me?” Hrafn shouted to the driver.

The driver ignored her, cracking the reins to stir up the horses. The wagon lurched and then they were off, pulling onto a cobblestone street. The smell of city—smog and night air—rid her nose of the dank smell of her cell.

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