Page 118 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
Her soft snort hits my cheek like a caress. My insides quiver, and I want to touch her so badly that I tremble with the effort of restraint.
“Did Styx let you in?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Hm.” The blankets rustle, and her unique floral and musky perfume blooms around me. It grows stronger every day. Harder to resist. I shuffle an inch away from her, but it makes no difference. The movement sends the wrong message to my body. It says it’s time for action—pump the muscles with oxygen. My heart races. Blood rushes south. My cock hardens and throbs. Aches. Demands.
I should sleep on the floor.
I won’t.
“Did you just get in?”
“Go to sleep, Willow,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended.
Another snort. She settles, but after a few minutes, when her breathing fails to even out, I know she is still awake. And thinking. Even as a child, her thoughts were filled with open-minded curiosity. It had been easy for us to slip into her mind, to relate to her naivety with our own. As she grew, so did her natural ability to block us out. We slipped away, let her grow on her own, and tried to do the same . . . despite the darkest parts of us begging for us to do the opposite.
We are not good creatures, despite her hopes.
The enchanted spectacles weigh on my face. If I remove them, will my conscience disappear? That I’ve started considering this option is a sign I should move to the floor.
“Legion?” she asks, her voice soft in the darkness.
“Yes, Willow.”
“We’re mates, right?”
I nod.
“So why are you avoiding me?”
It hurts to exhale. That crawling feeling is back. In my gut. Churning and twisting.
“This might sound weird,” she continues, “but is it something to do with a canary you once had?”
My breath catches. “How do you know about that?”
“Cait mentioned it. Then Bodin said something about the bloody golden feathers he kept seeing in his head. And I saw one of his dreams. I thought it was a pet bird, but . . . there was a queen involved.”
The sound of her plucking blankets fills the silence, a nervous habit I’ve noticed before. As a child, she would shift out her claws and pluck and pluck and pluck. She would ensure her bedding was just right, and then she would slip into sleep.
“Are you aware of how the transfer of power works within the Sluagh?” I ask, still facing the ceiling.
“Maybe,” she mutters. “Remind me.”
“When any fae creature dies, their magic is reabsorbed through the Wellspring into the Cauldron, returned to the deities from which they originated?—”
“Wisps. Manabeeze. Blots.”
“Yes. But for us original sons of the Morrigan, we have evolved enough to return to our hive first.”
She nods. “I think I remember Fox saying something like that. Or reading it.”
“Did he explain why we have a rank?” At her head shake, I venture onward. “When our minds meld in the hive state, we think collectively and act as one. However, there are occasions where discord occurs. Rather than being thrown out of the state, potentially risking our survival if we are in battle, the decision travels up that chain of command until it reaches a tiebreaker.”
“You.”
“Yes. But also—” I swallow, the words sticking in my throat. Since the hierarchy of power inevitably falls to me, it also works in reverse. “I can slip into any of my hive’s minds or bodies, controlling them.”
