Page 8 of The Blood Queen

I glare right back at him. He’s broad and tan, eyes beady over sharp cheeks. His giddy, vivid aura from before has been tempered, threaded through with crimson streaks and black ribbons. He craves violence. I’ve seen plenty of men like him, men who believe their physical strength gives them authority over anyone weaker than they are.

He has no idea how strong I can be.

“What are you looking at, you bobolyne?”

I snort. “What the hell is a bobolyne?” I say, even though I know he’s just called me a fool. Then I snap my fingers, as if getting a sudden revelation. “Ah, yes, I remember. That’s an English insult, isn’t it?” I rake my eyes over him, sneering in disgust. “You’re just like them, those English humans. Picked up their accent, their language, their habits. I may be half human, but at least I’ve not got the stink of England on me.”

The Red Cap rushes me, slamming his beefy body into the door, making the iron bars rattle as he reaches through them, grasping for me. His clawing fingers are inches from my face, but I don’t flinch, and I don’t take one single damned step back. I look him right in his furious eyes, and I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting an ounce of the fear coursing through my blood show.

Realizing he can’t get to me without opening the door—and hopefully he won’t unlock it without an order from the High Blade—the coward drops his arms and takes a step back. “You’re not worth it,” he snarls, slapping a hand in the air to dismiss me. “The High Blade has big plans for you, and I am going to enjoy watching everything she does, guardian bitch.”

“Funny,” I say, “I was just thinking about how much I’m going to love seeing you die.”

He snorts at me and turns to go back to the table with his fellow guards.

“What do they call you?” I ask.

He pauses but doesn’t turn around.

Fae don’t share their names, but the Red Caps have lived and worked among humans for long enough to require some sort of moniker.

“They call me Oak.”

“When you’re dying, Oak, look for me. I’ll be watching.”

He whirls around, rage flashing in his eyes, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. I suspect that my life is protected as long as the High Blade thinks I’ve got any value, but I’ve known too many men like Oak, who know that there are other things he can do that don’t involve my death but would kill me inside just the same.

Before either of us can move, though, the torches in the wall flicker as a door opens. A surge of hope flares inside me, even though I know it’s ridiculous to believe that perhaps Samson has figured out a way to kill the High Blade, eliminate the Red Caps, and save me. The guards at the table scramble up, a chair clattering to the ground in the rush to bow as the queen of England strides into the dungeon.

I curse hope with every fiber of my being. Hope will kill me if I let it. I take every single ounce of it that remains inside me, and I push it far, far down.

Fear replaces the emotion. It wraps around my stomach like a snake, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until I’m breathless.

But I don’t bow.

The High Blade stops in the center of the room, eyes cutting to me, drawing me to look at her face even though my gaze had drifted to her aura—solid black, thicker than smoke, so wrapped around her that if it were not for her flaming-red hair and pale face, she would disappear into the shadows. She notes the way I stand straight even as her guards remain bent in half, heads bowed. She lets them remain that way as she stares me down, a little smirk of satisfaction twisting her lips.

She wears armor, gold and silver flashing with the reflection from the torches. Briefly, I’m reminded of Mary, who sometimes liked to dress as a man in disguise, slipping down to the pubs and taverns in Edinburgh before she was married, before the duties of the crown turned her bitter. But Elizabeth is not wearing a disguise to play a game with her maids. She is wearing armor like a soldier. Jewels are interspersed around her, flashes of wealth: a necklace ringed in pearls, a thick gold ring set with rubies.

I think of the amulet that allowed the Red Caps access into my homeland, and I know these baubles are not decoration.

They’re weapons.

“Stand,” she says without breaking eye contact, and the guards finally rise. “Our new prisoner has been civil, we trust?” she asks, taking a few steps closer to Oak and running her long fingers along his jaw almost seductively.

“No, Your Majesty,” Oak snarls.

She chuckles, clearly pleased with the answer.

“She is used to controlling scraps of power, we suppose?”

My jaw works, but I don’t answer her. She never once looks away from me even as she talks to the guard.

She tilts her head to the left as if I’m a curiosity she cannot quite fathom.

“We do not think you understand the…gravity of your situation.”

Still not breaking eye contact, Elizabeth snaps her fingers. Immediately, two of the guards rush to the cell on my left, the one where the bodachan sabhaill is. The door scrapes against the stone in an excruciating screech as it opens. The guards go inside the cell, and I can imagine the little fae cowering in the corner. I can hear the scuffling sounds as they drag him out. They shove him in front of Elizabeth, and his whole body trembles with fear.