Page 35 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

Samson is full of wonder at the goblin market, and rightly so—its whole design is to provoke amazement.

But it’s his caress that fills my heart with such utter awe that my entire body freezes, unable to process just how glorious it is, to feel his lips on mine, his tongue against mine as he deepens the kiss.

His hands grip me as if I’m the only thing keeping him from drowning, but does he know that it’s his tight embrace that is the only thing keeping me from melting into the cobblestones?

My every sense sparks to life at his touch.

His hands rove up my back, sending liquid warmth along my spine.

His mouth shifts to my jaw, my neck, my ear, and every urgent nip and hot breath on my skin becomes a pinpoint of pleasure that borders on pain, the need so great, the desire burning inside me.

Dancing to fae music lowers inhibitions, yes, but this is not that.

This is coming from within, right at my very core, a need I have never known to be so strong before.

Not just for a connection but for his connection.

I have danced to fae music many times, but never have I danced like this, like our clothing is a curse, like the only way to satiate the rising need inside me is for there to be nothing at all between us and no one else around us .

I groan, and his body tenses, his hold tightening against me.

Breathless, I dare to pull back and look into his eyes, and I see that exact same desire in his dark gaze.

I lift my hands, trailing my finger up his back, behind his neck, through his hair, and his lids drop, his mouth parting, a shuddering sigh drifting down.

“Alyth—” he starts, and already my eyes are darting around, looking for somewhere we can go, somewhere to be alone, anywhere but here—

Alyth, the wind whispers.

Damn it all .

Samson sees my immediate shift, taking a half step back. “I’m sorry, I—it’s the music, and—”

“Don’t you dare say that,” I snap.

His eyes go wide.

“Don’t you say it was the music that made you want me, Samson.”

Horror washes over him. “I…no…I…” He leans closer and drops his head to mine. “No,” he says, his voice firmer now as he shifts to look down at me. “The music just made me brave enough to…” He trails his fingers up my neck, resting them briefly on my bruised and wet lips.

I stare up at him, all serious. “The music didn’t make me want you either,” I say. “I’ve wanted you since…”

Alyth, the wind whispers again.

I ignore it. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me since that first night. When you interrupted all my plans and tried to charm me and were mostly annoying as a pixie, but…”

“But?” he asks, his lips twisted in a hopeful half smile.

“But you saw me. Even then, you saw me. No one sees me.”

“More the fools they all are,” he whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Even when my magic was dampened and I couldn’t see any of—” He looks up at the square, casting a quick glance around at all the different fae creatures still dancing around us.

“Even when all this was invisible to me, you never were.”

My heart catches.

ALYTH, the wind demands.

A shadow passes over Samson’s face. “But something’s wrong.”

“It’s not you. But…I no longer think it was my father who summoned us here. And the one who did summon us is getting impatient.”

His eyebrows shoot up, lost behind his ruffled red hair.

His hand slides down my arm, finding my palm and squeezing my fingers. “Where to?”

I’m a little nervous about this—the wisp brought both of us here. It could have easily hidden itself from Samson. But it’s clear from his reactions that he’s not heard the voice on the wind.

But his fingers are laced in mine, his grip firm and reassuring. I’m so used to striding off and just getting everything done by myself.

I don’t have to. Not this time.

“I’m not sure where exactly we’re going, but we can follow the call. Besides, if I leave you here, who knows who you’ll dance with next and what sort of trouble you’ll get into.” I grin wryly at him, mostly to hide the pang of envy at the thought.

Samson smirks. “Jealous?”

“Never.”

“Your angry glare tells me otherwise. My, but you’re lovely when you’re suppressing rage.”

I smack my tongue on my teeth. “I need not suppress anything.”

Samson dips his head close to my ear. “Even better.”

The feel of his warm breath on my sensitive skin raises bumps all along my arms. I jerk away from him and smack his arm. “Come on.”

We weave through the crowd in the square.

I follow the gentle nudges of the cold winter wind, heading to the far side of the market, past the last lingering booths, through a small grove of trees.

When we’re far enough away that the music starts to fade, the wind whips around us, icy claws that lift our hair and rip at our clothes.

I grit my teeth, clutching at my cloak. “There’s no need to be so dramatic,” I mutter.

The wind almost seems to chuckle as it swirls away from me before settling like a mantle on the shoulders of an old, old woman. To his credit, Samson keeps his shock well hidden.

A long drape of white wool covers the old woman, a stark contrast to her blue-black skin that looks like the deepest, coldest winter night.

Her eye—she has only one—is sunken into her face like a tiny black pearl.

She would be taller than me if she weren’t so hunched over, but she’s supported by a cane made of solid ice.

When she lowers her hood, she reveals mounds of brilliant white hair topped with glittering, unmelting snowflakes and spikes of icicles that form a delicate tiara on her head.

“Queen Beira,” I murmur, sinking into a curtsy lower than any I have ever given Mary.

Samson immediately copies me, easily following my lead as he bends in a low bow.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see him watching me.

He notes the grim line of my mouth, the way my jaw clenches, and subtly nods.

He understands the danger here.

I don’t look up from the ground until she says in her cracked voice, “Rise, children.” When I dare to meet her gaze, I see approval in the tilt of her chin. She smiles, her teeth the color of rust and sharp as daggers.

My bones are cold with fear. Beira is the queen of winter and one of the ancient fae, the original goddesses. She is a giant and has deigned to shrink herself to a more reasonable size to confer with me.

“You did not answer my call for so long that I wondered…” Her wrinkled lips pull down in a frown. “But you are here now.”

“I apologize, my queen. I meant no disrespect.” I heard the summons but didn’t know it was her.

Beira carved the mountain to the north, she was the mother to many of the old gods, and the cane she holds in one hand is slowly turning the earth beneath it into solid ice.

She is more powerful than anyone of the Seelie Court, but she tired of both realms centuries ago, only occasionally interacting with either the fae or humanity.

Samson and I may have come to the bog with our own intentions—to decipher that letter he found and perhaps discover more about his curse—but none of that matters in the face of the queen of winter.

She has the power and knowledge to solve both issues, but it would never be worth the risk of paying the price she would levy on us for such answers.

I know of her by legend, the same way that I know of Lugh, the Green Man, or Brigid. The old gods don’t meddle with anyone, really. Not anymore. And especially someone as unimportant as me.

So the fact that she has summoned us…

“I have been watching you, half breed,” Beira says. Her eye slides over to Samson.

She summoned him as well and continues to tolerate his presence, but there’s something like…distaste on her lips as she stares him down. Samson meets her gaze, shoulders squared, watching. Waiting.

“An unlikely pair,” Beira eventually says, looking back to me.

She knows what he is, I think.

But she’s not telling us.

I can feel frustration radiating off Samson, who’s guessed much the same. Thankfully, he doesn’t interrupt the queen.

The old fae goddess looks down her nose at us both. “I will keep many eyes on you.”

I think about that first night with Samson, the stag that watched us silently in the moor.

Deer are part of Queen Beira’s domain.

Still, even though Samson is definitely not experienced in the magical world, he’s holding his own. And maybe together, we have a chance…

“Just know that my grace is limited,” Beira adds, layering on an additional warning. Her meaning is clear: one toe out of line, and the queen of winter will take care of us herself.

She swings her eye back to me, leveling me with an equally judgmental glare.

“I see the way you have attempted to protect the realms,” she continues.

I bite my tongue, unsure whether she’s giving a compliment or insulting me.

“And I have seen the threat continue to grow against all defenses, old and new.”

I meet her eye, stare into its dark depths. “The Red Caps are coming.”

“Yes,” she confirms. I was braced for her answer, but it still hits me like a blow. “But more than that.”

My heart sinks.

“The High Blade lives.”

It is every fear, every nightmare, every horror in four words.

I hoped the High Blade, the original traitor of the fae, the one who led the Red Caps and the Romans, the most powerful of their kind, would be gone. Dead, perhaps.

A foolish hope.

“What chance do we have?” I ask, hating the quiver of fear in my voice.

“None,” she says. “The wall will fall. The High Blade will invade.”

I don’t argue with the goddess of winter, but there is a part of me, a tiny spark of hope, that refuses to die, even in the face of such icy certainty.

As if guessing at my thoughts, the old hag snorts.

“Have you told the Seelie Court of this?” I ask. “Because I have tried to warn my father, but—”

“They know.”

It’s the only information she’s willing to give me about it. Once again, I’m left out of the loop but expected to fight on the front lines.

“They have their own plans, and I have mine. As long as winter holds, I will aid you.”

Her single beady eye slides to Samson. It could not be clearer that she has offered aid to me alone. But she must have summoned him for a reason. I cannot help but wonder if this was a sort of test, to see him in the flesh, to know how he’d react to her. To see us together.

I want to ask her more. She must know what type of fae Samson is, what his role in the upcoming war may be…but I know better than to press my luck here. And Samson, bless him, has wisely kept his mouth shut.

I dip into another low curtsy.

The aid Beira has offered is no small boon.

Not only can she help me with the weather—and she already has, I realize, in the way the wind has been so quick to aid me when I called for it to protect Mary in Darnley’s first attack or the way the snows have held off while Samson and I have traveled—but she can send storm hags to fight beside us and deer to silently spy, and she has powerful connections in the fae realm.

I rise slowly. I want to ask for more—a united front, the fae and humans combined working to fight the Red Caps. But while it seems as if the entire fae realm knows the wall is going to fail, they don’t know for certain when or how.

And uniting the fae is as impossible as directing cats or catching fish with my bare hands.

Queen Beira cocks her head. She examines me as if I am a curiosity.

To her, I must be. Tainted with both human blood and mortality, in the face of a being as old as the earth itself.

But she smiles at me. It’s not a good smile.

Her lips curl over her fangs almost maliciously.

Her smile is a promise, but it’s also feral.

As wild as the land itself.

That?

That I can work with.

“Now, go on with yourselves.” Queen Beira gestures toward the copse of trees behind her. “Moyra is waiting.”