Page 37 of Across an Endless Sea

“You sound like Jaro,” I mumble. “He’s not one for reading, either.”

“Wolf boy?” Caed shakes his head. “Now I know you’re insulting me.”

I don’t know how to reply to that, so I brush it off. “Okay then,” I say. “What about somewhere you like? There has to be somewhere nicer to go than just…” I wave my hand at the armoury.

Somewhere that means something to him might give me some clue about who Caed really is or what he wants. Hell, I’ll settle for an explanation about how he can switch from making me walk over iron with bare feet to slipping my iron bangle off while I sleep to let me heal.

Which version of Caed is the real one? Or are they the same, but I’m just searching for kindness where there is none?

He’s been frozen in place by my question, but he starts moving again swiftly. “This isn’t Elfhame,” he remarks, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Fomorians don’t exactly care for natural hot springs and fancy temples. We like drinking, fucking, and killing.”

I bite my lip and look away.

“Did I disappoint you?” Caed snorts, like the idea is funny somehow.

“Only with your own shallowness,” I retort, before I can stop myself. “Summarising an entire culture so crudely and callously tells me more about you than anything else. I may not like Prae, but she definitely doesn’t seem to fit into your neat little boxes.”

His mouth opens, then snaps closed. For a second, I think he’s considering what I’ve said. I’m proved wrong a second later when he scoffs and shrugs.

“Prae has always existed in a class of her own.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but his entire body stiffens. A second later, I see what he has—a shadow, moving along the rampart in front of us. I barely have time to track it up to the roof above before Caed whirls, shoving me to the ground as a blue figure leaps in front of us.

The would-be assassin strikes out with an iron blade, and I flinch, even though I’m clearly not their target. Caed, however, is already there, ghost sword in hand, blocking the attack.

Then, instead of continuing to fight fairly, he summons a second spectral weapon in the air behind his opponent. Of its own accord, it thrusts up into the assassin’s spine. The pain disables him for a critical second, giving Caed the chance to strike out and neatly collect his head.

I scramble back on my hands, trying to get away as his decapitated skull falls forwards and rolls towards me. I needn’t have bothered. With a single, decisive kick, Caed sends the head flying over the parapet, and into the darkness beyond like some kind of macabre football.

Goddess.

It all happened so fast, but Caed doesn’t look fazed.

“One of my cousins,” he explains, blithely stepping over the corpse to offer me a hand up. “The stupidest of the lot. He was probably talked into it by the smarter ones to see if I’ve lost my edge while I was away.”

He just killed his cousin—his family—yet he doesn’t even seem to care. The coppery tang of my own blood fills my mouth as the skin of my lips finally breaks under the relentless worrying of my teeth.

“Is thatnormal?” I squeak as he pulls me up.

“Lots of idiots out there like to fancy themselves the new heir,” he replies, stepping over the bleeding blue corpse without sparing it a glance. “And I have a lot of cousins.”

I try to follow, but I’m not wearing shoes, and the blood puddle is already too big for me to jump over with my much shorter legs. Caed senses my hesitation, turns back, and sighs.

He reaches over, grabs me around the waist with both hands, and lifts me carefully over the corpse and the blood, depositing me on the other side.

My heart did not just stutter at being carried over a puddle of blood thathecreated. That isnotchivalry, and I amnotgoing to swoon.

I go to thank him, but catch myself before I do. Perhaps I’m finally learning to be fae in that way, at least.

“I’m sorry,” I say instead. “It can’t be easy, growing up in a place where your family wants you dead.”

Caed throws his head back and roars with laughter.

“Oh, little queen,” he says, gasping for air and cackling. “That’s just a good Fomorian upbringing.”

Thirteen

Lorcan

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