Page 100 of The Blood Queen

I hear shouts and heavy thuds that remind me of the sound of woodcutters chopping down trees, and I gag on a scream, knowing the fate of the Ghillie Dhu, the price of his protection to buy us precious moments of time.

We pass a small alcove, where an old woman huddles in front of the fear-filled faces of a dozen or so children, some humanlike, some feral, horns peeking out above tearful eyes or fuzz streaked with grime. The old woman shifts as we race by, looking for danger, and her eyes widen.

I stumble, shock turning to disgust as I realize—

It’s not an old woman. It’s a man—Keryth, that arse of a prince, dressed as a hag, feebly tugging at stringy hair that looks far too real but I know is not his own.

“You coward,” I snarl, and his eyes widen with guilt and shame. I don’t stop. He might be hiding with the children, but I have to hope that he might actually redeem himself and protect them if…when the High Blade breaches the castle. Without looking back, I shout, “The High Blade comes!” I can hear the children gasping and screaming, but at least Keryth starts directing them to a new hiding place.

We round a corner, racing, the sound of our footsteps matching the muffled sounds of battle behind us. It feels as if we’re running for miles, yet I know in a way I have never been aware of before that the palace is helping us, guiding our footsteps to the quickest path.

Samson flings out an arm, stopping me, and we skid to a halt in front of the throne room.

Before us, a small contingency of the highest fae in the realm—with my father at the front—stands, faces grim and resolute, weapons out.

“Get out of the way!” I shout. “And prepare to defend the throne room to the death!”

My father meets my eyes, sparing only a glance at Samson. He had been among those to shout for Samson’s capture. He hates Samson for what he is, and he’s apathetic toward me despite what I am, and yet when he looks at me, there’s something in his face I’ve never seen before.

Pride.

Or maybe fear.

Either way, before I can suck in another ragged breath, my father shouts for the defensive wall of fae to part for me. Metal clangs as swords are raised, creating a canopy of blades, an honor for a warrior.

Samson looks at me. I can see the red of his aura threatening to break through, threads of crimson wrapping around deep-blue determination, green hope almost invisible, a brilliant streak of orange loyalty blending with bright-white love.

He reaches for my hand.

The doors open to darkness. There are no more locks.

A scream rips through the air behind us.

“Go, go!” Father shouts, and the group of the fae realm’s most powerful soldiers change their stance, creating a line of defense between us and the open door.

I can smell the blood in the air, coppery and sharp.

I feel the defensive line shift as they meet the force of the Red Caps, staggering back, pushing us closer to the door as the metallic clangs are drowned out by the sickening wet thuds of blades sinking into flesh.

Together, Samson and I step into the throne room.

27 Samson

I slam the doors behind us, the cacophony of battle muting instantly through the heavy wood and walls. It gives the illusion of safety; we’re removed from the battle now.

The throne room’s just as we left it, covered floor to ceiling in spiderwebs and cocoons. The constant twilight of the fae realm streams in through the high windows, not near enough light to make the space anything more than vague and nightmarish, but Alyth flares a small light in her hand, the magic orb dancing just over her palm and lighting up the shifting dots that crawl around the webs.

“It’s them,” hisses the overlapping chorus of thousands of voices. “They have returned. They have returned.”

A shiver runs down my spine. Though part of me’s glad for the distraction of something so minor as hating these damn skittery little spiders. If I focus on that, I won’t have to think about that loom waiting ahead of us. Won’t have to think about what the goddesses said.

A life for a life.

I sheathe one of my short swords, keeping one free, and square my shoulders. Stiffen my spine.

It’s not that I’m afraid to die. For so much of my life, dying’s been such a heavy part of living that the two became fiercely intertwined.

No. I’m not afraid of death.