Page 21 of Atop the Faerie Throne
The merest shadow of a stag’s skull in the second frame.
I can’t help the way my jaw goes slack with shock. He notices, and thenwinksat me.
It’s a tiny, tiny sliver of Drystan’s approval, barely there, but still… When? How? I dart my gaze to my dullahan, but his expression is completely inscrutable. Goddess, wewillbe talking about this later.
Kitarni bows and backs away, leaving us with the illusion of privacy as they palm the sharp edges of their blades. She’ll stay to witness, then leave once the marks are made.
A slight chuckle draws my attention away from her and down through the valley of my breasts to where Lore is standing at my feet. His hand is already dripping blood on the altar.
I have no idea where he wants to make his mark—I told my mates they could decide amongst themselves—but my only request was that mine would be visible. I blushed when I asked, but the way they reacted told me they didn’t mind at all.
“My blood to your blood; now we are one. Mate to mate. Nicnevin to Guard. What Danu has decreed, none may tear asunder.”
The chant is ancient, simple, and lyrical in the fae language. All six of us echo the words, and I watch as they slice into their skin. Drystan chooses his palm, like Lore, and Caed picks the wrist on his unmarked arm. I expect Jaro, behind me, to do the same, but he holds the blade to his throat and slices across in a neat line from ear to ear, just beneath his beard.
“…blood to your blood…”
I keep chanting, swallowing back my nerves as his fangs lengthen. I look away, not because I’m scared of his wolf, but more because I’m searching for the final, quietest member of my Guard.
Bree is on my right, flicking away the lute tattoo over his heart to make room for the knife before he digs it deeply into his own chest. Blood drips everywhere as they advance on me, and I brace myself, knowing this will hurt.
“…Nicnevin to Guard…”
Jaro’s words are right against my ear. Lore’s hands tracing up my calves. Fingers capture my wrists and spread my arms out.
“Mate to mate.”
The pain, when it comes, is sharp. It radiates out from my inner thigh, my palms, my neck, and my chest.
But, Goddess, it’snothing.
Insignificant.
Because they’reherewith me. Inside me. The Call is magnified a hundredfold until I can feel them with every breath. The chant dies, because none of us can focus on anything beyond the numinous connection taking shape between us.
Jaro’s teeth leave my throat, and the blades are dropped in a symphony of metal hitting ice. I’m pretty sure Caed has collapsed to his knees.
Their skin on mine is no longer just a buzz, but a hundred sparks that light me up from within, illuminating the place where our souls are tethered together. Five impressions of awe float to me, followed by matching echoes of pure devotion that make me weep. The bonds that were separate are almost merged, with only the slimmest of barriers between them, and tentatively I reach out to one of them.
It’s Drystan. I know straight away by the sheer bossiness that radiates from it. But underneath… Goddess, underneath is so much love that it hurts.
I barely have a chance to take that in before a surge of anger hits me. Jaro loses control, leaping over the altar in a flash of fur and fangs.
He barrels straight into Caed, whose frustration, self-loathing, and relief hits me as the room is filled with snarls. My Fomorian must’ve been compelled to use our distraction and his new weapon to fulfil Elatha’s orders, but Jaro’s intervention stopped the attempt before it could really even begin.
“Blue, you only have to stab her once.” Lore tsks, and his amusement hits me next. “But if you’re feeling stabby, I can help with that.”
Caed’s answering hiss of pain steals my breath. Then finally, the quietest bond perks up.
Gentle hands cradle my shoulders, helping me to sit as unfiltered adoration and awe floods me.
“You okay, dragonfly?” Bree asks.
I want to answer him. Ishouldanswer him, but I’m still overwhelmed. The sparks of his gentle handling are messing with my curiously hyper-sensitive body, muddling my thoughts. In front of me, Jaro’s wolf is standing on Caed’s chest, pinning him to the floor as Lore crouches beside them, drawing the ornamental dagger out of a new wound on my Fomorian’s shoulder.
Something in me revolts, and my redcap hesitates, his attention flicking between me, the knife, and the damage he’s just done. Remorse follows a second later, and he borrows his cap, shoving it at the Fomorian’s wound like some kind of convenient apology.
“Give her a second,” Drystan murmurs. “We only had one bond to get used to, and we were already accustomed to the Call.”
