Page 85 of The Red Woman and the White Bear

“Is that such a bad thing?” He unscrewed the lid of the jar and began spreading the salve over her skin with a tenderness that belied his strength, his rage. The male was a study in dichotomy, capable of unflinching cruelty one moment and such softness the next. Always, always proving himself more than the villain he made himself out to be.

She shrugged. “Most men aren’t particularly fond of scars.”

“Human men,” Kael mused, the barest hint of a smirk touching his lips. She blushed red as the center of the wound he was redressing for her.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” Aisling would have been content to watch his hands brushing over her skin for hours, but instead focused on the dripping faucet in front of her.

“I was awake.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t heard him stir; his steady breathing had been as good as a lullaby. “I guess the air mattress isn’t the most comfortable.”

“Indeed it isn’t,” he agreed. He tied off the bandage then straightened up. “There.”

She missed his touch when he pulled away but thanked him all the same. Finally, she looked up into the mirror and took him in as he stood behind her.

Kael looked so out of place there in Rodney’s bathroom, half-glamoured to look human and washed out by the harsh yellow lighting, that she had to laugh. This trailer had been a consequence of her mother’s stories, and now here she was with two of them: a púca changeling fast asleep in the bedroom, and the Unseelie King standing barefoot on the blue shag bathmat. He raised an eyebrow quizzically, but she just shook her head. She was too tired to try to explain the absurdity of it.

Rather than return to the couch, Aisling instead went to the kitchen and filled the kettle with fresh water. Kael followed and Briar padded over to lay beside her feet on the linoleum.

“You should sleep. You need rest,” he admonished halfheartedly.

“I know.” She lit the stove and set the kettle on the burner before pulling down a box from the shelf and holding it up. “Tea?”

When he nodded, Aisling rummaged in the cupboard for mugs. There was only one without chips around the rim: heavy ceramic in a faded shade of emerald and emblazoned with a fox, the Brook Isle High mascot. She set it aside for Kael.

“If you two are going to keep on with all this noise, you might as well pour one for me as well.” Rodney turned on the kitchen light, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Briar’s tail thumped against the ground, a lazy greeting.

All three sat around the small table quietly for a time, lost in their own thoughts. Rodney toyed idly with the string of his teabag; Kael’s hands were folded over the top of his mug. Aisling leaned her elbows on the table and held her mug against her lips, blowing every few seconds while she waited for it to cool.

“Ash?” Rodney broke the silence.

“Hmm?” Swirling steam partially obscured his face as she looked at him over the rim.

“Earlier, what did you mean about the ritual?” he asked.

Aisling cringed; she’d forgotten about her poorly timed quip. She set her mug down on the table and crossed her arms over her chest as tightly as the ache in her shoulder would allow.

“It takes a blood rite to raise the Silver Saints.” She turned to Kael then and said, “I’ve been thinking about the ‘blood of the powerful’ part. What about Laure?”

Laure was plenty powerful; Aisling had seen it herself. The Seelie Queen could produce plants from nothing, creating and sustaining life with her bare hands. It was pretty magic, and strong. Coupled with her ability to send humans into those enchanted waking dreams, Aisling thought Laure was likely one of the more powerful Fae she’d encountered yet.

Kael looked at her thoughtfully but said nothing in response. Rodney was unconvinced.

“You’re talking about killing the Seelie Queen, Aisling? That’s impossible,” he said. His heavy brows pulled into a tight frown.

Aisling backtracked. Her heart raced at the mere idea, as though Laure might have somehow heard their conversationfrom deep within the Wild. She recalled the fire that blazed in the queen’s violet eyes, the rabid hunger there. “I didn’t say anything about killing her. We wouldn’t have to kill her, would we?”

“A rite of this magnitude will require an equivalent sacrifice,” Kael answered simply. He was stoic: his voice, his expression, his posture. Nothing about him betrayed even the slightest hint of his opinion on the idea, whether he thought it wise or foolish or so far-fetched as to be unworthy of discussion entirely.

Over the fear that had gripped her, a burning sort of resolve flared to life in Aisling. Laure had been keen to use the Red Woman as a means to her preferred end from the moment Aisling set foot in the Seelie Court. Now, here was her chance to reclaim the autonomy she’d been clawing for since she’d learned of the prophecy. Fate was hers to write now.

“Do you know how to perform something like this?” Aisling asked. The sun was just beginning to rise outside the trailer, painting the kitchen in pastels. Kael’s hair took on every shade the sunrise threw, iridescent.

He shook his head. “Ordinarily I would turn to Werryn for guidance; he would likely know best how to design the ritual. He understands the old language and is far more practiced inRhedelas—rune casting—than I.”

“What about Lyre?” Rodney suggested.

“Possibly.” Kael remained impassive. His tea had grown cold, but he kept his hands above the mug as though he could still feel its heat on his palms. Both Aisling and Rodney waited for him to saysomething more—to sayanythingmore—but he lapsed back into silence.

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