Page 61 of Flight of Fate

Tori clamps his hands. “It’s decided then; Royad stays. I’ll take Ayna, Kaira, Silas and Herinor to the rebels, and when Andraya agrees to help, I’ll take her to Cezux alone.”

Thirty-Seven

Ayna

When we leavefor the borderlands an hour later, Tori isn’t the one taking us. After Sanja and Rogue thoroughly briefed us on what feels like the entire Cezuxian history, Clio made it abundantly clear that she and Tata would accompany us. Only Myron insisted on joining us with the words, “One more handsome male cannot hurt.” No one dared object, and the tingle in my palm turned into potent heat when his gaze met mine, finding blazing confirmation of his attractiveness in how I couldn’t look away from him.

“Hold on,” Clio orders as she closes her hands around Myron’s and mine, Tata taking Kaira, Silas, and Herinor, and I grit my teeth in anticipation of the usual nausea coming with the mode of transportation as, together, we all disappear into the sickening void connecting the tissues of the world. Only, this time, I don’t get nauseated, as if my fae body is already accustomed to being drawn through time and space—or can process it differently.

The wooden walls of the farmhouse kitchen don’t disorient me, and I don’t sway as my feet hit the worn floorboards. Herbs and spices lace the air, warmth spreading from the crackling fire inside the stove in the corner. Ten half-finished dishes siton the table as if abandoned mid-meal, and in a pot, something is boiling hard, forgotten by the cook or left behind. Holding my breath, I listen to the rooms beyond the walls, to the frost-covered space surrounding the house, finding nothing but the occasional flutter of bird wings.

“Where are they?” Kaira beats me to it.

Herinor breaks away from the group, examining one of the plates more closely. “Cold.” His eyes scan all surfaces of the room with professional assessment. Not one thing is out of place. “No signs of struggle or fighting.” He nods to himself, stepping around the chair at the head of the table that is standing a bit far away to allow a comfortable sitting position.

Tata runs her finger over the long bench on one side of the table, studying the cutlery; then she turns to the stove once more. “They must have been gone for a while. It’s a miracle that stew hasn’t burned yet.”

To my surprise, it’s Myron who prowls to the stove, pulling the large copper pot onto the cool stone counter on the side. “Smells delicious,” he notes without humor, attention on the meadow outside the window behind the counter.

“I’m sure Andraya won’t mind if you help yourself to a ladle-full.” Silas stalks past Clio, Kaira, and me, aiming for the open door to the bedroom where we rested before the ambush on the convoy Erina sent to supply his armies with magic-nullifying serum.

On instinct, I follow him. Whatever is wrong here, at least, I haven’t caught the smell of blood.

The bedroom is as neat and clean as the humble setting allows—beds made and woolen blankets folded atop the covers. Fog clings to the windows, hiding the outside world from even my heightened senses. On instinct, my shield flares to life, my powers snaking along the walls, probing, listening for anything off.

Myron and Herinor are still in the kitchen together with Tata, whose voice carries through the suspicious silence. “The door,” she says, both males humming in confirmation. The bond with Myron flexes an inch as cold air rushes the building, and, turning on my heels, I follow him.

“They aren’t here. None of them are,” Clio murmurs at the same time I decide to go with Myron while Kaira and Silas stalk toward the narrow backdoor. “Be careful.” Her words of concern follow me as I rush toward the front door, holding my breath and shield firmly in place.

“Let me know if you find anything,”I tell my sister, but she’s already showing me an image of the meadow between the barn and the house. Nothing out of order.

A flicker of worry floats along that has me pausing as I cross the threshold, catching up with Tata, Myron, and Herinor, all three of them armed with steel and magic, shields of translucent silver enclosing them. Joining my shield with theirs, I bring up the rear as we follow the tracks leading to and from the door.

Many of them.

Large boot prints. And lines that suggest something was dragged from the threshold. Orsomeone.

“Over here,”I call Kaira in my mind, trusting her to inform Clio and Silas of what we found.

“This doesn’t look good,”she comments, her presence growing stronger in my mind with every step she makes her way around the building. She flashes me an image of Clio taking the other direction so we won’t miss any other tracks leading from or to the house. But the frost covering the ground is hiding any earlier marks, leaving the disturbances at the front door the only proof someone came or left at all.

“How many?” Silas crouches by the dirt-colored shapes with narrowed eyes, one hand on his hatchet while the other pokes afinger into the mud. For a moment, I believe he’ll taste it, but he merely smells the freezing crumbs with a grimace. “Human.”

As if sensing my surprise that he can scent the species from a mere trace of a boot, he holds out the finger to me.

Reluctantly, I take a whiff. And my eyes shutter as I realize the distinct smell of human that I hadn’t been able to make out inside the house where herbs and spices covered it up. I haven’t encountered any humans since my shift into this fae form, so I wouldn’t know this was even a thing.

“Only three coming to the house, but at least six leaving it,” Herinor notes, already following the tracks along with Tata, whose gaze is on the seam of the forest a hundred feet away.

Her arm shoots up, pointing at a large brown spot halfway to the tree line ahead, “Plenty more joining over there.” I smell it before she continues, the rust and salt of blood. “And it looks like there was a fight.”

In a flash, Silas shifts into his crow form, wings moving in powerful beats as he scans the area from above.

Myron’s fingertips leak black smoke, the tendrils spilling onto the white beside his feet like a slitted tongue tasting the ground, teasing it to yield its secrets. When he glances at me from the side, his eyes are the usual ocean blue and colder than the winter sky above.

“Do you think they were kidnapped?” I ask, refusing to consider the alternative, that they were slaughtered and their bodies dragged away and hidden.

“Hard to know.” Shoving past me, Clio lifts a hand, ice cracking at her fingertips. “It’s clearly human assailants who came for the rebels.”

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