Page 72 of The Blood Queen

Alyth leans into me, curling up in my lap with her head tucked under my chin.

And we wait for the cover of night to sneak into the Red Cap army and steal the High Blade’s blood.

18 Alyth

All my best defenses are useless right now.

Red Caps can see magic. It’s why they’re so good at crafting magical devices. Magic to them is nothing more than a thread to pull, manipulate, the same way the Faerie Queen’s loom worked.

Which means when we leave the ruined remains of Forres and approach the Red Cap camp, I cannot protect us with my barriers. I cannot even use a glamour to help us slip past guards, because while I can make it so human eyes slide right past us, it would be a shining beacon to the Red Caps.

“It’ll be all right,” Samson says, shooting me an overconfident grin. “I used to sneak through all sorts of crowded places in London, never spotted. Lifted the purse from a tax collector once. That fed me for a solid month.”

“Impressive.” It is. With flaming-red hair and a face I have to force myself to look away from, I can’t imagine Samson blending into a crowd.

Samson scouts ahead while I stay at our camp, promising to be careful. We’re waiting for night to fully set in. The Red Caps clearly feasted on violence by killing off every inhabitant of Forres. Queen Mary’s courtiers always lingered in bed well past midday after a banquet, and I’m hoping the logic holds true for the blood-drunk Red Caps.

Something heavy drops on my shoulders. I look up, surprised to find a dark indigo cloak. It stinks of smoke.

“Some of us mere mortals can feel the cold,” Samson says.

I pull the cloak around me tighter. I hadn’t realized how much my jaw had been clenched to prevent it from chattering until I give him my thanks.

I don’t ask where the cloak came from. My fingers slide over a spot on the side still sticky with blood.

The moon, a tiny sliver of a crescent, is high by the time the noises start to fade from the camp. There are still guards patrolling, still campfires casting glows, still a steady trickle of activity…but I don’t think we’ll have a better opportunity than now.

“Ready?” Samson asks, clearly thinking along the same lines.

I take the hand he offers me. Even with our stolen cloaks, it’s still so cold that my muscles are stiff and aching. I stomp my feet, trying to get feeling in them. I can sense the magic in my blood, ready to warm me, to cast us in protection, but I pull it back.

Samson takes the lead, and I follow close behind.

I have a dagger in my hand, a little thing hidden in my cloak, fae-made, taken from the treasury. It’s enchanted to strike true, but I am not so sure the weapon is up to the task against the most powerful Red Cap in history. Still, it’s all I have, that and Samson, a far keener weapon than any made of metal, but a weapon I will do anything to prevent having to use.

We discussed the plan, again and again.

But my heart is in my throat anyway, my nerves tingling, tension coiling.

On the outer edge of the camp, the people who are not close to the High Blade are packed in tightly. Some have small tents, but many of them simply sleep on the ground near a fire, huddled under cloaks they use as bedrolls. Closer to the stone, a large gold-colored tent is set up with a series of smaller, white tents encircling it.

There’s no doubt the High Blade is there, in the center.

Beside Sueno’s Stone.

My heart breaks at the thought of that ancient portal closed. It was among the old ones the Damhan-Allaidh mentioned. Rooted in lore that ties it closely to the fae and history that links it directly to the Scottish crown, it fed magical power throughout the area, a key vital point.

Dead now.

Part of me is furious at that, and I let the rage burn in my belly, warming me on this frigid night. It would have taken enormous power to kill this portal. Probably one of the princes had to do it personally. At least they’ve finally done something.

Samson pauses, and I freeze, my heart leaping to my throat. He’s kept us slinking along the edges of the Red Cap camp, stepping silently and effortlessly through the shadows. It’s not magic, and yet somehow eyes slide off him, ignore me. Even when soldiers have spotted us, they don’t spare us a second glance.

He blends in, I realize. I stare at his back, his neck muscles taut. He is able to walk through this camp because, at least on some level, he belongs here.

I swallow dryly.

No.