Page 16

Story: The Longing

“You have one moon month, Wyrm, to fill her belly,” the Faerie queen says, her voice quiet but still easily audible over the whipping wind. “Or both she and you will be gone forever.”

I push past Fenrother’s arm. “Hey! I didn’t ask to be brought here. That’s not fair.” I ignore the weight in my stomach at her words, all of which fit with the concept of mate and mating, even if it’s the one thing Fenrother hasn’t attempted to do with me.

“You were sold. A consideration was taken. You belong to the Faerie,” the queen says, still not looking at me.

“I didn’t agree to be sold,” I shout at her. “There are rules about what the Faerie can take and what they can’t. I wasn’t my aunt’s enemy. She stole from me and she’s stolen from you too.”

I feel the rush of the wind, the thump in my stomach which causes me to gasp in pain, the skeletal hand at my throat which shoves me through one of the castellations until I’m half hanging over the drop.

“I make the rules.” The queen’s voice has become a banshee shriek. “I take what I want, and I give what you deserve.”

I’m wrenched back from the precipice but not because she has pulled back. On the contrary, the queen flails violently until she sees Fenrother with his hand wrapped around her wings.

“One moon month,” she growls at him and winks out of existence.

ALICE

Iput my hands to my abused throat as Fenrother glares at the spot where the queen was.

“What did she mean?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. “She didn’t mean anything.”

“Fuck’s sake, Fenrother, she tried to drop me off the roof!” I fire at him. “No one turns up, issues threats, and leaves if it doesn’tmean anything.” I imitate his growl.

Fenrother huffs and turns his back on me, his leathery wings, filled with iridescence, sweeping the floor. The tip of his tail twitches like a cat’s.

“It is the curse of the Lambton Wyrm. We have no females, and we must mate with a human,” he says. “But the mating must bear fruit within the first moon month.”

“I can assure you, Fenrother,” I half scoff because my heart is shoving its way out of my throat in a bid to leave my body and this place. “It doesn’t work like that. Gestating a baby takes a lot longer than a month.”

He rounds on me with a half snarl. “You are already with young. Her threats mean nothing.”

I open my mouth to disabuse him of the statement, but he has already stomped off back into the castle by way of the wooden door. I watch him for a few seconds, still trying to process everything which has happened.

And the fact the flipping queen of the Faerie tried to kill me.

The Faerie never said they came in peace, only to stop the human race from dying out completely. They need our life force or something to continue. We were saved and we paid the price—learning there was another force sharing our earth, one which had more power than any politician had ever dreamed of.

Except for those who were not saved.

I chase after Fenrother, catching him as he reaches the floor below the ramparts.

“Wait, why is she doing this to you and me?” I demand.

Fenrother stops so suddenly I virtually run into the back of him.

“And I can assure you I amnotpregnant.” I add as an afterthought. “The last time I had sex was at least a year ago and it was thoroughly disappointing.”

Fenrother blinks at me, slowly as if he doesn’t quite understand what I’m saying.

“I refused to fight in the Night Lands anymore. I returned to my home without her consent, and as a result I incurred her wrath.” He shakes his head a little. “I should have expected her to meddle in my mating.” The head shaking stops and he glares at me. “What is thissexyou speak of?” Hands curl around my shoulders, gripping me tight. “And we have spent the night together, in the same bed, which means you are with young.”

I open and close my mouth like a carp. There is so much which is wrong, I don’t know where to start.

“Just sharing a bed won’t get me pregnant.” I furrow my brow. “We have to do other things. Sex for a start.”

Fenrother grips me harder. “That is not true. And why do you keep saying sex?” He makes a sour face. “I dislike this word.”