Page 32 of Realm of Nightmares
He couldn’t afford to sit idly by and do nothing while Maeve was tormented.
He’d vowed to destroy the realms to find her, and that was a promise he intended to keep.
Stalking through the streets and shadows, his gaze snagged onto a wooden sign flapping in the stiff breeze. It swung violently, the paint chipped and faded, but he knew he’d found the place. The window display was filled with oddities—skulls dusted in silver with onyx where eyes would’ve been, bundles of multi-colored candles, bowls overflowing with innocuous stones, and stacks of hand-painted tarot cards. All of them used for darker shades of magic.
Tiernan wrenched open the door, and an annoying collection of crystals tinkled, announcing his arrival. He was instantly assaulted by the scent of patchouli and musk.
“We’re about to close up for the night,” a female voice called out. She appeared a moment later, coming out from a back room through a curtain of orange beads. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head, twisted into a sloppy bun, and a twig stuck out of it. She carried a pile of boxes and dropped them down onto the counter. “You’ll have to come back—”
She found Tiernan watching her, and her dark eyes widened. The female swallowed, growing pale as her gaze darted between himself, Lir, and Merrick.
“Tomorrow,” she finished meekly.
Tiernan avoided a table where a tower of books threatened to topple over at any second. “I do not have time to wait.”
“Of c-course not, Your Grace.” She stumbled backward into the counter, her elbow knocking into a glass jar of opaque marbles, sending them scattering. The annoying clanking sound that followed echoed in his ears, and his jaw clenched.
The fae wiped her hands, wringing the fabric of her green dress so it wrinkled. “W-what can I help you with, my lord?”
Again, her nervous gaze bounced between them.
Tiernan moved closer, and she shrank back. “You’re a summoner, are you not?”
She blanched. “I am.”
Merrick strolled forward, taking a more casual approach as he leaned against the counter. He scooped a marble into his hand, tossed it up once, then caught it. “What sort of beings can you summon?”
“Ah, a good number of them, my lord.” She plucked and twisted at a loose thread dangling from the waistband of her dress. “Fae who owe a debt to me, souls from the in-between, those who have been enchanted or cursed…”
“Gods?” Tiernan prompted.
“I—I mean, I’ve never attempted to summon a god before. I suppose—”
“I need you to summon the god of death,” Tiernan interrupted, not caring to listen to whatever excuse she was about to hand him.
“Aed?” Her voice trembled, and she reared back, jumping when thunder cracked, causing her shelves to shudder. “Your Grace, the god of death is one of the Ancient Ones. His power is beyond my reach. And even if I tried, there’s no guarantee—”
“What’s your cost?” Tiernan snarled.
Lir placed a strong hand on his shoulder, but he shook his commander off.
“Easy, my lord.” Merrick’s voice was a low warning.
“C-cost?” She curled into herself, trying to press herself into the counter as though it would somehow save her from his temper.
“Howmuch?” he asked, his voice rising, reverberating off the walls. “Whatever you require, I’ll pay it. And then some.”
Her body was visibly shaking now, and he found he didn’t care if she was frightened. She stared down at the toes of her brown boots. “A summons is not paid in gold.”
“Then what sort of deal do I need to make?” The door to the shop burst open, shattering the windows, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. She threw her hands over her head, crying out, as he brought his storm down upon them. “Do you want the blood of your enemies? Is it magic you want? More power?”
He crowded her, intimidating her. But he was done being the obliging High King. Now, he was a true Archfae. Cruel and merciless.
“Or maybe you want something more? Something yet to come?” He glared down at her, sneering. “Like the beating heart of my firstborn child?”
She shook her head violently. She was sobbing, tears streaked her cheeks, and she sniffled, refusing to look up at him.
“Moh Rí.” Lir’s tone was like ice, cutting through his thoughts.
