Page 20 of Tempting the Fae Lord
If he won’t takeme through the gate willingly, I’ll find a way without him.
First, I need to know how he does it, and as I’ve recently learned, spying on him without his knowledge is near to impossible.
But I do have an advantage. He won’t depart until nightfall, which leaves me plenty of time to scout the best perch.
It takes a solid hour to trek through the crackly layers of melting snow and ice. I have to go the long way, a circuitous route, to avoid leaving footprints where he might see them. In doing so, I slip and fall several times, enough to scrape my palms on sharp ice crystals and end up bleeding in three places.
So that’s great.
One detour to the ice-cold creek to wash off the blood, and I’m back to hoisting myself uphill for the best vantage point.
I get to the crest of a rocky ridge and seek out a spot with hours to spare before sundown. Time for snacks. With Eulayla busy with the baby, it was a simple task to raid the kitchen forgoodies. I have leftover plum crisps, dried apple leather, and cinnamon bread for my vigil.
My hands sting with every movement, but I don’t care. The scrapes are superficial and should heal in a few days.
From here, I have a decent, though distant, view of the towering gate. Gooseflesh arcs over my nape as I look at the eerie sight.
It’s an odd thing—black and gleaming with ice on the northern side—standing lonesome in the valley that dips toward the eastern sea. There’s no attached fencing in either direction. No nothing, actually, just a bare gate of swirling iron, daunting, and always firmly closed. Each slender rod is topped with a spearpoint, like jagged teeth. Even vines dare not climb the structure, as though they know better than to try.
And on the other side, because you can see straight through the menacing maw, is a more boring, snowy landscape. If I were to climb down, I could walk its perimeter and leave a circle of footprints. I know because I’ve done that very thing several times over the years.
But I’ve never seen it open. Never watched as the Gatekeeper crossed its magical threshold.
The gooseflesh has spread down my spine and sprawled the length of both arms.
I shake it off and focus on my snacks. A handful of crisps helps to shed the unnerving feeling this place conjures in me.
As daylight fades and night slithers her way down the valley, I tuck my cloak tighter around my shoulders and dig my hands into my pockets.
I don’t have to wait long.
The Gatekeeper, in his head-to-toe black clothes and with his massive black wings, is an inky spot in an ever-darkening sky.
I duck behind a jutting rock, only rising enough to peek over the top and watch as he lands with an elegant swoop.
He strides toward the gate, stops within arm’s reach, and rolls his neck. The baby is an oval lump fixed to his chest within a complicated knot of blankets, leaving both his hands free.
He draws a slow breath as his gaze lingers on the bars. He looks somber, maybe resigned. An eerie quiet stretches taut. Then he reaches inside his cloak and brings out a dagger.
Breath caught in my throat, I bite my lip and stare.
I can hardly watch what happens next. He drags the blade over the length of his palm, and blood wells to the surface. Red droplets stain the snowy ground as he makes a fist, knuckles white.
He freezes.
Sniffs the air.
And whips his head to face me.
“Gale?” His lips part. “What are you doing here?”
Oh shit.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
How does he do that? I rise and wave as blood continues to pool beneath his clenched hand.
“Get down here.”
