Page 26 of The Red Woman and the White Bear

With a vicious yell, he wrenched his shadows away from her, back under his tenuous control and sent them ahead. Behind. Outward. He was a vessel filled with rage older than the earth and hotter than the sun. It burned beneath his skin, coursing through his veins with every beat of his cruel heart. It gave him purpose. Drive. His rage allowed him to kill fiercely and indiscriminately. With or without a weapon in his hand, he was a force of nature. For all on the battlefield,Seelie and Solitary and Unseelie alike, he was both terrifying and breathtaking to behold.

He let those hungry currents of magic take and take and take whatever they wanted—and take they did. They rippled outward, ribbons of darkness ensnaring the assaulting forces and pulling them apart in an abyss of inky oblivion. Alternating between vapor and solid, between plunging into chest cavities to strangle organs and slicing through flesh and bone, his magic swept through the enemy ranks. But not just the enemy—his own warriors, too.

Kael was only vaguely aware of the Unseelie soldiers dropping around him as his breath came in sharp, noisy gasps and the sound of rushing wind filled his ears. Distantly, he heard Raif screaming his name. He became aware of Werryn, next, when the High Prelate let out a harsh cry. Kael turned just in time to see a thick coil of darkness plunge into the male’s gut, throwing both him and Aisling from his horse. Shockwaves reverberated from the spot where Kael’s knees hit the ground as they buckled under the agony of trying to regain control.

In the muted glow of dawn, the battle was over, but the war within Kael continued to rage. There on the battlefield, the quiet stillness of victory was marred by the sounds of the dying in the carnage that had befallen both sides. The air was acrid with the stench of blood and spent magic. An icy numbness settled in his bones, but alongside it simmered the primal satisfaction that his thirst had been sated.

Armor battered and sword stained, Kael blindly found the reins of his mare that had ridden out to her master. Shewalked with him as he crossed the field. His own soldiers shrank back in fear of the slow-moving ebony serpents that trained across the ground behind their king, still unwilling to be pulled back inside their vessel. Werryn lay writhing on the ground at his feet, but Kael’s eyes slid over the Prelate to the girl, huddled against the cold flank of Werryn’s fallen mount.

As he drew closer, Kael’s shadows reached towards Aisling but hesitated almost in deference when they recognized the presence that had quelled their voracious hunger before. He crouched beside her, the joints of his armor biting into his knees.

Kael’s grip on his sword’s hilt slackened as he stared at her, a storm of emotions roiling within him. The intoxicating rush of his magic had dulled, replaced by a stark realization of the destruction he had caused. The fragile girl before him now was a mirror that reflected the cost of his unbounded fury. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t look away from what he saw there.

But he had to escape the screaming.

Aisling had been too afraid to speak and too weak to fight back when she was pulled into the midst of a battle ripped straight from the pages of a horrific storybook. But unlike during the ritual, she kept her eyes open this time, for all of it. For every nightmarish, surreal moment. The terrific clash of forces was almost awe-inspiring: the way the lithe Fae warriors fought was as graceful as a choreographed ballet, and as frightening as the attack of a ferocious predator. Amongst them, smaller, stockier faeries barreled into each other with outsized swords and thick wooden shields. There were beings that shot through the air like bullets on wings that fluttered so rapidly they were but a blur, and those that approached on thunderinghorseback.

And now, she’d witnessed firsthand the devastation that Kael’s shadows wrought: on the enemy, on his own men. On the Unseelie King himself. The blackness didn’t only shoot outward, but twisted in winding, lightning-like patterns from the tips of his fingers on up into the cuffs at his wrists. When she saw them cresting over the neckline of his armor, crawling towards his jaw, she imagined they had crept all the way up his arms, unseen beneath the leathers and gleaming metal. In her terror, Aisling clung to thoughts of home. Of her life before she was called the Red Woman, when she was content with her apartment above the hardware store and her job at the library, and the most difficult challenge facing her was the decision of whether or not to return to the mainland. When the closest she’d come to the Fae were the afternoons spent lounging on the couch with Rodney flipping through magazines. Before her skin knew the Unseelie King’s touch, and before her body knew his magic.

As his shadows seized her, much like before, Aisling was prepared for death. Her mind went blank and her body became paralyzed. She’d already given up. But this time, those midnight-black fingers seemed somehow gentler, the abrasions they left behind less severe. Even still, she felt her energy being drawn into their darkness and her vision grew spotty and clouded. She’d likely have passed out had she not been thrown off the rearing steed—then it was the violent crack of her head against the ground that brought her to unconsciousness.

Aisling awoke not minutes later to the discord of agonized screams. Those who were still alive—just—begged for the sweet release of death. No one moved to give it, though. Not on the enemy side, where there were no survivors left capable of tending to themortally wounded. Even amongst the ranks of the Unseelie Court, those warriors still standing remained rooted in place watching Kael wrestle his magic into something close to submission. His expression was unreadable, a contradictory mask of triumph and pain. Of pride and disgrace.

She could manage little more than to shrink away as Kael approached alongside a skeletal black warhorse with bone-white eyes. He crouched close to her, studying her pensively before taking her by the waist and hoisting her onto the creature’s back. The sudden movement nearly rendered her unconscious all over again. The horse scarcely looked robust enough even to be saddled, yet once Kael had Aisling seated in front of him it carried them both away from the battlefield in a swift gallop with ease.

Every impact of the horse’s hooves on the packed dirt sent another arcing shock of pain into the base of Aisling’s skull, each one a merciless reminder of the violence her body had endured since she’d returned to the Wild. Wind rushed past, biting at her exposed skin and bringing tears to stream down her cheeks. Her senses felt dull, her thoughts swirling in a haze of pain and confusion. She struggled to keep her eyes open to make sense of the shifting landscape as they rode on.

Despite her own discomfort, Aisling couldn’t ignore the tremors that wracked Kael’s entire body. Through his armor and against her back, she could feel the convulsions that beset his muscles. His grip around her waist, though tight, was far from steady. If the animal moved with any less grace, she was sure they’d both fall from its back. She clutched its wiry mane to anchorherself.

The journey was a blur of agony that felt both interminable and fleeting as Aisling slipped in and out of consciousness. She wished for Kael to say something, anything, but she didn’t know what it might be. She couldn’t imagine what she could say to him, either. Would she thank him, or curse him? She’d seen the flash of indecision in his cold eyes before he threw her out of the way. He’d likely saved her life by doing so. It was the High Prelate who’d kept her there, murmuring his quiet incantations.

“Tell me how it feels,” he’d demanded when Kael’s shadows began winding up her bare legs. “Tell me what you’re doing.” As if he thought she was calling to them or controlling them in some way. But she wasn’t—the only thing Aisling could do was attempt to calm her rising panic.

So the pair rode in silence. Kael’s armor was uncomfortable where it dug into her back but if she wasn’t braced against it, her head and neck jostled excruciatingly, churning her already-throbbing migraine into a fiery storm.

When the Undercastle came into view in the distance, Aisling’s fingers tightened in the beast’s hair. On their approach to the obsidian structure, she held onto the faint hope that there would be some respite once they were within its cold stone walls. Yet, even through the fog of pain and the sounds of the battle still ringing in her ears, she recognized where she was being taken once Kael handed her off to a Prelate waiting at the bottom of the spiral staircase.

Time didn’t exist in the dungeon. In the dark, damp cavern, day and night blended invisibly into one long stretch, impossible to measure. Aisling’s body quickly lost its rhythm, sleeping in fits and starts, cycling through hunger and thirst at random. But she couldn’t drink, nor could she eat even the plain breadcrust a robed Prelate tossed into her cell periodically. Maybe that was how she could have counted the days passing, but often it was already lying at her feet when she woke. There were three pieces scattered near the bars now, but she had no way of knowing how many times each day they attempted to feed her. It was unlikely they adhered to any sort of schedule at all.

Groaning, she rolled up onto her knees to be sick into the dirt. Despite the roiling in her stomach, the only thing she could manage to bring forth was acidic bile that stung all the way up her raw throat. When Aisling raised her head from the floor, the solemn face of a Lesser Prelate swam before her—the same one who had received her after the battle. He’d quietly let himself into her cell and was kneeling down close. His features were distorted as the dungeon spun around her.

“You are unwell,” he said in a voice that nearly sounded kind—a marked contrast to the harshness she had come to expect from the Unseelie Court. Aisling could only nod meekly. She’d had migraines before, but never one such as this. If he had told her that she had an axe in the back of her skull, she wouldn’t have been at all surprised. As it was, he reached a hand up to the side of her head and his fingers came away slick with blood. The wound from her fall was still open and was by now caked with dirtand filth.

The male grasped Aisling under her arms and guided her to her feet, supporting her when she swayed unsteadily. A cold shot of fear flooded her veins. Surely, he couldn’t be taking her to tether the king’s shadows a third time. She wouldn’t survive it—she wasn’t even sure she’d survive the climb up that spiral staircase.

“Please.” The weak word came out softer than a whisper, barely audible over her shaky breath.

“You’re in no condition to be kept down here.” He began leading her to the open door of her cell. “I am taking you to a chamber where you can rest.”

Aisling sagged against his arm in relief and she let him support most of her weight as the pair ascended. The stairs were arduous, but the air at the top was clean and sweet and Aisling dragged in lungful after lungful gratefully. It was far from fresh, but at least not so laden with mildew and humidity as the stale air of the dungeon.

The Prelate was tall, nearly taller than Kael. His arm was slender but strong, all wiry muscle hidden beneath the billowing black robe that hung from his shoulders. His firm guidance kept her trudging forward through the corridors of the Undercastle. Once he had led her out of earshot of the redcaps still standing guard, he lowered his head so he could speak quietly into her ear.

“I’m a friend of the púca,” he said.

Aisling stumbled, tripping over her own feet in surprise. “Rodney? Is he here?”

The male chuckled. “Rodney,” he repeated. “What a remarkably human name. No, he isn’t here.”

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