Page 145 of Atop the Faerie Throne
All of my hope dies at once.
No. He’s not helping me to the portal. He’s bringing me to his father, just as he was ordered.
Elatha is right beside the shadowy doorway, foot braced on the crumbled throne.
I cast about frantically for my Guard, but they’re split up and each surrounded by Fomorians and ghostly swords. The tunnel wyrm, which was in poor shape when Lore rode it into the room, is dead. My redcap is being pursued by three of the spectral blades. Every time he tries to blink to me, he’s rebuffed by Caed’s magic.
It doesn’t stop him, and I whimper as he tries again and again, becoming more bloodied and frenzied with each strike. He still blinks forward even when one of the swords takes the hand that reaches for me, blood spurting over us.
He won’t ever stop.
But he’s too late.
My head falls forwards, my knees slamming into the stone with jarring force as I’m finally dropped before Elatha. Spideryfingers claw into my hair, sharp nails scraping my scalp until it bleeds, forcing me to look up through glazed eyes.
At last, I kneel before the Fomorian King, just as he always wanted.
It’s over.
I… failed.
Forty-Seven
Caed
Elatha doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. He releases my mate’s beautiful blood-soaked hair with a final yank, black eyes sparkling with derision as she sags in the dirt, waiting for her death blow. For peace.
My heart seizes violently in my chest, the echo of her suffering blending with mine in a symphony that aches in my veins.
Once again, I curse myself for ever giving this asshole my name. I’ve done as I was fucking told, like a good dog on a leash. My swords are still battling the others, and I brought him the Nicnevin. I’m so caught up cursing myself that it takes me a second to figure out what that really means.
Right now, I have no orders. He’s distracted, discarding his halberd for a more practical sabre. Casting his gaze over the remaining warriors below, no doubt wondering if he needs to order more down here for his insane plan to work.
It’s a fleeting miscalculation on his part, one that won’t last forever.
I dart a look down at Rose for the last time, pushing every ounce of love and strength I have along our faded bond. Her hands are streaked with black veins, and I waste a half-second discreetly removing a familiar tin from my belt and dropping it, thankful that the púca is not quite so distracted as to have allowed sound to return just yet, because it makes the move more subtle than it ought to be.
One of the others will find it and use the herbal remedy within to reverse her iron sickness before it claims her.
She needs to live after this. She needs to close the portal and spend the rest of her days enjoying the peace she’s earned with her mates. They’ll be able to defend her properly the second I’m out of the fucking picture.
They’ll help her move on.
Without giving myself any more time to think it over, I launch myself forward.
My father, so used to my compliance, doesn’t expect me to tackle him. He’s so assured of his victory, and focused on the next battle, that he doesn’t see the blow coming.
In the end, it’s sickeningly easy to send both of us sailing towards the roiling mass of black that is the portal.
Whatever is holding the smoke back, it doesn’t impede the two of us as we cross the threshold.
And when oblivion comes, I embrace it with open arms.
Forty-Eight
Jaromir
Rose is blood-soaked and vacant-eyed as she kneels beside the stone arch. Lore clutches her to his side with one arm, snarling at my approach. He’s just as feral as my wolf became in that battle, and I don’t see him coming down any time soon. Bree and Drystan flank me as we approach the two of them, and my shoulders droop when our Nicnevin doesn’t even look up.
