Page 91 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
But the Unseelie can see where we’re headed. They must have figured out by now that Lir reaching the Pool is a very bad thing for them.
They descend on us in a tornado of wings and talons.
I’m torn from my saddle, flung free, spinning in midair. I crash to the ground and hear the crack of a rib and the snap of a wrist bone.
Screams shear from my throat as I’m picked up and thrown again.
“Lir!” I shriek, flailing with my sword. My other hand is useless, my broken wrist shooting fire along my nerves. I think a claw caught my forehead or scalp, because blood is running into my right eye.
The Unseelie are high, high above me, among the gently falling snowflakes. They’re tossing Lir in the air, throwing him for each other to catch, crowing and howling their triumph. He’s stiff, unresponsive, his limbs locked in place as they torment him.
But halfway between two of them, his body changes.
He shrinks down to the size of the Nutcracker.
The claws of the Unseelie who was supposed to catch him snap shut on thin air.
And the Nutcracker doll falls.
Agony floods my body as I wrench myself upright and hobble forward. I discard my dagger and reach out with both hands.
The Nutcracker drops into them.
I curl him against my chest. Teeth set, blood streaming down my face, anguish searing through my ankle and wrist, I limp toward the Unending Pool.
“I can fucking do this,” I spit through the blood. “I can—fucking—do this—”
Claws sink into the flesh of my back. But the Unseelie behind me doesn’t have a good grip—I rip free of the hold, screaming as skin tears. The shadows of the Unseelie fall over me, darkening, descending. Tottering, half-blind, dizzy with pain, I give one last great lunge, and I throw the Nutcracker doll into the Unending Pool.
There’s a soft plop as he sinks into its gleaming surface.
I collapse face-first on the blue grass, the soft blades tickling my nostrils with each ragged inhale. My vision is blurring, but I blink hard, trying to clear it. Even with one side of my face pressed into the grass, I can see the surface of the Pool, rippling slightly where I threw the Nutcracker in.
What is supposed to happen?
Did it even work?
The Unseelie aren’t attacking me—they’re hovering warily, watching, just like I am.
A single, huge, shuddering ripple pulses from the Pool.
Then another.
With a concussive force like a sun exploding, Lir bursts out of the water.
He’s immense—more than ten times his usual height, his naked body streaming silver liquid. His black hair is longer now, tossing around his pointed ears. Titanic silver wings burst from his back—like bat-wings but reflective, shiny as mirrors.
On his upper arm there’s a deep groove, a permanent valley carved where the splinter broke off the Nutcracker.
With giant fingers Lir catches a handful of the Unseelie and crushes them into pulp. The others flee, shrieking, while our reindeer gallop away into the trees.
Lir bends, laying his enormous hand, palm up, on the grass beside me.
“Come, Louisa.” His voice booms around me, immense and deep as the sea.
Disbelief clashes with wonder in my brain as I crawl into his palm. He curls his fingers around me carefully, heat and magic flowing from him into my body, easing my pain, knitting my bones and flesh back together.
Giant Lir walks out of the pool, crosses the meadow in a few strides, and parts the belt of trees easily, like a man might brush aside a branch and let it spring back into place once he passed.
