Page 39 of A Song of Air (Fae Elementals #4)

“W hat have you done ?” The whisper cut through the soft wind, then it rose higher as Iona’s sister whirled her rage on Everette. “What have you done ?!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Tears and snot poured far too freely from the human. It was a sad sight to bear witness, and Uric found himself curling his lip in disgust at the entire display.

Iona’s sister let out a ferocious sound and lunged for the human, fingers extended like claws she meant to bury in his throat.

It would be what he deserved, however Iona appeared at Malika’s back, grasping her thrashing sister in her arms, her grip tight and reassuring.

Arlo paced back and forth along the campgrounds, suddenly stopping when Everette’s anguished cry pierced the sky once more. He had been bawling for what felt like hours now, though logically they knew it had only been a few minutes.

With a growl, Arlo reached down and clamped his hand around the collar of his man’s shirt.

“Get up,” he snarled. “And shut up.”

Everette’s head shook wildly back and forth. “I didn’t mean to!”

Arlo’s lip curled with barely concealed disgust. “Control yourself, you fool. How do you expect to help her in this state?”

While he tried to pull himself together, Valerio flicked his gaze to Arlo, pointedly ignoring the pathetic weeping man. “How exactly do you propose we go about helping them?”

He waited for a response, knowing there would be none. None that this so-called leader could offer anyway.

And Arlo knew it too, based on the way his jaw ticked.

As easily as he dismissed Everette, Valerio dismissed Arlo as well.

It earned him a growl, which also went ignored.

“We need to get the Elemental back,” he told Uric.

Uric’s own jaw twitched, but he said nothing. He’d not defy his prince aloud, though his every nerve went on high alert.

“Weylyn, I could live without. But we need her . My father would be cross if we left Weylyn there. Can you open a portal?”

Before Uric could deign to answer, Arlo stepped closer and interrupted. “Let’s go speak with .”

Valerio’s gaze strayed towards the man. There was an almost desperate edge to him, his eyes wide and manic.

“And why would we go speak to... ?” Valerio inquired coolly, though everything about the question was mocking.

“He is our... collector, so to speak.” At Valerio’s raised brows, the man continued, “He has an arsenal of rare objects in his tent. Calls himself an artist. He makes the masks we wear to conceal our faces from humans. recently came into our camp a few months ago. I am sure he has something in his collection that could help us.”

“All due respect that you are not owed, I think your people have done enough.” Valerio’s pointed stare went straight to Everette’s red, crying face and back to Arlo.

Arlo’s jaw grinded together. “This isn’t a pissing competition,” he spat.

“You certainly treated it as one,” Valerio said. “And now look at what’s happened.”

The silence would shatter a blade.

“Please,” Arlo gritted out. “We have to try.”

Uric would not have blamed his prince if he chose to flip a vulgar gesture at the man and went about his own business. The entire camp had been less than welcoming since they had arrived. Their animosity had been obvious, cutting. Had they the chance, they would have stuck their blades into the Resistance’s backs.

However, Uric knew, even before he saw his friend’s posture change, just what Valerio would say.

“Alright,” he agreed.

Uric bit back his growl of annoyance. Had it been up to him, he would have let his blade soar. Let it strike the halfling’s worthless heart. But Valerio had a cunning, if not too sympathetic, mind and saw everything as an opportunity to gain an ally.

Uric would not fault him that, even if it was what he wanted desperately to do.

“Lead the way, Arlo Blackwood.”

The tent of the so-called was a small thing that made Uric wonder how and what exactly he collected, as the thing appeared that it could hold nothing more than a simple cot.

Arlo stood on the outside of the closed tent flaps and called out, “?”

A low voice responded from inside. “Come in, Arlo. I’ve been expecting you and your guests.”

Uric unsheathed the obsidian blade from his waist at those words, staring at his prince with an expression that urged caution. Though Arlo walked into the tent first, followed by Malika and the weeping, sniveling human, Julius and Iona followed soon after. Only then did Prince Valerio step inside, with Uric close at his back.

The tent smelt of smoke, though there was no fire burning inside, and what Uric had thought would be a tight fit in fact was not. The inside was far more spacious than the outside suggested, as if by a work of magic; magic that Uric could taste on his tongue.

Every crevice inside was filled with shelves of strange objects. Creatures in jars suspended in glittering liquid, weapons piled high atop one another, fabrics and ribbons and golden scissors that emitted a strange light...

There was a desk at the far end of the tent with a male slumped over it. His hand lifted, golden fingers flickering as he waved them all in.

“Come in, come in,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you all.”

Beside them, Iona scuffled her feet forward. “Wait...”

Then the hunched figure straightened and turned in his chair. As they were met with the face of the newcomer, Iona gasped beside them.

“Welcome,” said. “It has been a long time, has it not?”

Iona stepped forward, her jaw dropped open wide. “George?” she exclaimed.

—George—smiled a grin with sharp, black teeth. “Hello,” he said. “Iona Wylde.”