Page 70 of Tempting the Fae Lord
I exit through a hidden tunnel on the southern side of the keep. If anyone’s keeping lookout, they’ll have trouble spotting me. Sonja, Petru, the queen’s soldiers, her mage. Too many threats to keep track of.
Outside, the fog rolls thick over the frost-covered farmlands. Dense cloud cover obscures the light of the moon and stars, but no matter. I can see fine in the dark.
Nose to the wind, I search for the telltale sinister energy of Sonja’s magic. I have never been, admittedly, a very good tracker, but I have to try.
I pick up the stale scent and follow it. A wave of pure relief hits as her trail leads away from my cemetery instead of toward it, but as each footstep brings me closer to the road to the village, I tense again.
As important as it is for me to protect my dead, it’s even more vital that I defend the living.
The villagers may not like me, but I owe them my protection nonetheless. They’re here because of me, so the least I can do is keep them safe.
I remain on foot to better track my quarry, sprinting with my vampire speed to eliminate the head start she and Petru have on me.
Another strong smell hits. A whiff of smoke. Burning wood and thatch.
Dread boils a hot line up my spine.
A hazy orange glow grows in the distance, hovering over the village like the most wicked of clouds.
With a roll of my shoulders, I unleash my wings and snap them open. I take to the sky, flying as fast as I’m able, scent trail be damned. This must be her doing.
The fire pulses and expands as I draw close. Panicked yelling and screaming soars next to me in the smoky night sky.
“Water. We need more water!”
“The well pump is jammed!”
“Fix the pump. Hurry!”
“Can’t let it spread.”
I home in on the wreckage. The village storage barn has been set aflame, located adjacent to the town square, and beyond that, a row of small cottages. If the fire spreads, we could lose half the village.
I take in the scene, scanning for the telltale shrieking of the fae harpy or another one of Petru’s rotting armies, but all I see are villagers and soldiers scrambling to put out the flames.
Where is she?
Then it hits me. The fire will wipe out her magical trail. She could go anywhere, and I won’t be able to follow. Rot me sideways.
The chaotic clanging ring of the town bell startles me into action.
Handle the fire, then search out its inevitable cause.
I swoop down toward the group of men struggling to fix the jammed well mechanism. Amid the mayhem, they don’t notice my arrival.
“Allow me,” I say.
Heads turn. “Gatekeeper.”
“Help us!”
They shuffle out of the way.
Rather than fix the well, I call upon my magic. Water has always been my strongest element. Particularly, frozen water, but liquid will also obey my command.
I direct a massive flow of water directly from its underground abode toward the flames. The unnatural rain pelts the burning thatched roof and douses the hay and grain stored inside. Steam sizzles wherever it lands. The flames are no match for the deluge and die a quick, sputtering death. The damage is contained to the barn.
The villagers cheer.
