Page 93 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“We’ll reach Reyni’s camp by noon,” the autumn prince says, his voice muffled by the downpour and his own heavy clothes. “She’s one of my aunt’s closest generals.”
Ever since we left, he’s been uncharacteristically helpful, not that it’s brought Prae out of her quiet shell. The Fomorian princess is hard to read, though I get the impression she’s not exactly mad at him. Their auras reach for one another constantly, seeking one another out across whatever distance. I don’t think Gryffin really knows what to make of it either, hence how easily he’s divulging information.
“And she’ll have information on the whereabouts of Prince Uther?” Jaro asks.
“More than likely,” Gryffin agrees. “Though he hasn’t been seen for at least two weeks. If the Fomorians haven’t made any demands for his release to Elfhame, I’d assume he was Corcrannach food.”
Lore blinks away, leaving me undefended from the cold, and when I go to look for him, he’s on the back of Gryffin’s mare, knife to the prince’s throat.
“Do you think you can wither me before I take your head?” Lore asks, conversationally. “Keep upsetting my mate, and we’ll find out.”
A moment later, he’s behind me once more, nudging me to rest back against him with a sweet kiss to my temple. “Pet, you’re all wet, and not in the way I like. Gonna do something about that, bastard?”
Drystan stiffens, and my skin flares with warmth a second later.
Before he can repeat his endless assertions that leaving Illidwen was a bad idea, Jaro interrupts, “If Prince Uther is alive, we will find him.”
“And if he’s dead, we’ll torture and kill his murderers?” Lore asks, eyes gleaming.
“Exactly,” Caed agrees. “Eyeballs for everyone.”
“If you don’t keep him, can I?” Lore asks me, seriously. “He’s so much more fun than the others.”
My lips quirk up in a ghost of a smile, but I don’t think I’m capable of true humour right now.
It’s been two weeks. If Uther is dead…
No. I can’t even go there. He has to be alive.
“Up ahead,” Drystan says, quieting them.
Our whole group bristles, going from relaxed to warrior-alert in the space of those two words. I peer around Lore’s arms, searching for what Drystan is talking about, but I don’t have to look hard.
Three fae in leather armour stand in the midst of the falling leaves, spears held tightly as they assess our group. The male at the front has a red helmet, and I grin as I realise it’s another redcap.
“Hail, warriors of the Forest of Whispers,” Jaro calls, riding forward. “We seek an audience with General?—”
“We know why you’re here,” the redcap says. “My mate asked me to send you away. She has no interest in letting her warriors be used as pawns to test the powers of an unproven Nicnevin.”
“Tough shit.” Drystan rides forward. “General Reyni is sworn to obey Cressida’s orders, and Cressida swore allegiance to Nicnevin Rhoswyn. Your troops are hers to command. It doesn’t matter if she asks them to pick up every seashell on the western shore.”
“General Reyni is his mate?” Caed blurts.
The redcap takes offence, eyes narrowing as the feathered crown of his helmet turns to lethal spikes. “Let’s be honest, you don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to criticising matings between high fae and under fae, shithead.”
“Ignore him,” Lore drawls. “He doesn’t get out much.”
The other redcap grins ferally. “If it isn’t Cressida’s escaped butcher. We missed your ugly face at court.”
“Awww, Finchikins, you missed me?” Lore blinks up to him, and the other redcap passes off his spear so they can clasp arms,exchanging those strange back slaps that males seem so fond of. “Let’s face it, Cressidick’s court was getting boring. It had been decades since we had a good slaughter.”
“We’ve got plenty of that here.” The other redcap looks beyond him. “But does your mate appreciate it as much as Cress did? I still remember the time she ordered you to take her to her knees in the middle of the Torvyn Estuary Massacre and fuck her in the blood of her?—”
Lore’s hand shoots out, snatching the other redcap’s tongue with his claws as rage flares bright and hot in my gut. Every single muscle in my body is taut as Lore cocks his head and smiles.
“Would you rather lose your tongue or your life?” Lore doesn’t seem to care about the two spears levelled at him. “Because my Nicnevin’s as gloriously murderous as I am, and I’m sure she’ll appreciate either.”
Gloriously murderous? He says it with the sincerity one might offer a compliment, but I’m struggling to reconcile those two words with myself.
