Page 36 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson

Before I can get half a question out about who Moyra is, the world’s shifting again.

It needs to stop that .

Another blink, another ripple and heave and gush of something being off—

And we’re standing back in the moors.

No time’s passed; the sun’s exactly where it was when we slipped through. But where we are is a bit different. Still in the bog, still wild and open, tall grasses bobbing in the gentle winter breeze. But the creek we were passing over is gone, and ahead of us is a copse of trees.

I barely pay the change any mind. My focus goes to Alyth—stays on Alyth? I’m not sure I paid Beira too much attention, and that’s foolish, but Alyth’s become the North Star I have to orient myself to for any of this to have a chance of making sense.

And now she’s staring at the trees, her face furrowed, thinking.

I touch her elbow. Then rethink it and wrap my hand around her forearm, holding tight. “That was the queen of the fae?”

Alyth blinks at me, her furrowed look shifting to confusion. It clears with a sigh. “Oh. No—that was Queen Beira. The Winter Queen. She’s a—” Hesitation. Then a shrug, as if it can’t be helped, and it can’t; none of this can. “She’s a goddess. More or less.”

My jaw drops. Has it closed since we slid into the goblin market?

“A goddess?”

“Aye.”

“A goddess, Alyth.”

She doesn’t respond, just holds my gaze, all the questions swirling deep in her eyes.

Is this too much? Are you sure you want to keep pushing on? Will you turn back?

But I lean in and kiss her instead of saying anything. And that settles all the questions, all the answers, all the uncertainty.

The kiss is different from the one in the goblin market, only in that there was no desperate magic push leading up to it; but here, now, my mouth on hers, the intensity is the same, and I sigh into the contact.

It wasn’t just magic that made her taste so sweet.

Wasn’t just magic that made my whole body feel alive, lit up like lightning in a dark sky.

Her lips are soft and chilled from the Scottish wind, but I work warmth into them quickly, nipping and licking until she whimpers and I have to drop my forehead to hers with a moan.

“A goddess,” I say again and swallow, throat contracting. “All right. So who’s Moyra?”

Alyth pulls back to stare at me. Waiting for me to react to meeting a goddess, only there is no reacting. It doesn’t change anything, not really. Freedom from the curse is still waiting for me at the end of this, and nothing’s gonna tempt or scare me off seeing this through.

Bloody hell, a goddess .

Alyth tightens her grip on me. “Moyra is the witch we’ve come to see. I know she can break the magic on Darnley’s letter, and—”

“Wait.” My head shakes. “Why do we need a witch when we just spoke to a goddess? Couldn’t she have done what we needed? Surely she could break whatever enchantment’s on that letter.”

A sharp smile takes Alyth’s face. “You don’t want to know what it would have cost us to ask such favors from Beira. Trust me—Moyra is infinitely preferable to deal with.” Her expression falls, sobers in a heavy drop. “It’s enough that Beira spoke to us at all.”

It’s not just enough that she spoke to us. It’s a warning. What we’re doing, what we’re onto, is important. The Red Cap weapons, Cecil, Darnley—the High Blade.

It’s life and death.

I give Alyth’s hand two tight pulses, reassuring her in that fog of thought and worry she’s fallen into. She’s not alone. Not anymore.

She looks up at me. I can see this place reflected in her blown pupils, the healthy flush to her face, all that wildness soaking in.

She nods as if something’s been decided, then juts her chin ahead of us at the copse of trees.

It isn’t just trees. Now that I’m looking, I see a little cottage, so small and camouflaged with the landscape that it’s easy to mistake for a shrub. The building’s dark, sucking shadows in like it’s made of ’em, and the moment I spot it at all, a shiver walks up my spine.

“How should we approach her?” I ask. “What do you want me to do?”

“Let me do all the talking. All the talking.” She throws me an intent look. “Keep your head down. When all else fails, deference is the safest bet.”

I glance at the hut again. There’s something about it that sends another skittering shiver over my body. It’s small and obsolete but…threatening. Not a place that draws you in.

Deference won’t be hard. I’ll pretend it’s not terror.

Maybe, after she breaks the magic on the letter, she can tell me how to find the weapon that cursed me. Or maybe she won’t need the weapon at all. Maybe she’ll take one look at me and go “Ah, cursed by a rage-inducing comb. I’ve seen that before,” and I’ll be free before sunset.

My chest clenches, too much hope welling; I’m dizzy with it.

I nod. “Lead the way.”

She heads off, picking her way delicately through the peatlands, avoiding more of those sunken muddy bits, and I follow her trail closely, keeping my hand tight in hers.

We reach the tangle of trees, and Alyth slows her steps. Up close, the hut’s just as nature beaten as it looked from afar, wrapped up in moss and vines, tree branches twisted into the roof until it’s hard to tell whether the trees grew up around the hut or vice versa.

Alyth walks up to the door and knocks three times. “Moyra?”

A pause.

The door creaks open, a shrieking squeal as it slowly peels wide. Shadows hover within, and after another stretched-out beat, a woman ducks to emerge.

She’s tall and severe, with long brown hair done in a plait over one shoulder, her dress simple and functional.

Hard to guess her age—she could have ten years on us or thirty.

Everything about her emits the same intention Alyth shows at the castle: a desire to be overlooked and unnoticed, finding power in the unseen.

But this woman snaps her eyes to me directly, and also like Alyth, it’s hard to imagine anyone ever overlooking her.

The witch—Moyra—raises one eyebrow and surveys me head to toe in a quick sweep, lingering on my hand in Alyth’s. Her face lightens with interest.

She says something in Scots, and Alyth answers her.

Then, with a glance at me, Alyth says, “He’s from London.”

The witch switches to English. “My, my, Alyth, what have you brought to my door?”

I swallow. Hard. It grates down my throat, and I just barely catch myself from answering when Alyth jumps in.

“Calling in that favor you owe me,” she says.

Moyra whips her gaze to Alyth.

I stiffen, muscles flexing, ready to intervene at that look from Moyra. Offense? Anger?

But it passes, and Moyra grins. “Ah. You fae and your favors. Come in, then.”

Moyra folds herself back into the hut.

Alyth starts to follow but stops when I tug on her hand.

“Favor?” I question, low enough that I hope Moyra doesn’t hear.

Alyth huffs a small laugh. “I relocated a herd of kelpies that wandered too far from the river and took up residence in her favorite grove.” She waves at the distance, presumably toward the grove. “They were tearing up the herbs Moyra uses in her spells.”

“Ah.” I nod, eyeing the doorway. I can’t see within the hut, even this close. “So Moyra isn’t fae. And her magic—”

“Is a wee bit different from mine,” Alyth finishes. “Which is why we need her. Now—” She bops me on the nose, and it startles a laugh out of me. “Hush, you.”

My smile widens. I bow my head mutely and wave her on.

She releases my hand to duck inside, and I don’t wait, not liking her out of my sight again. What if she falls into the fae realm without me? I follow quick.

But we’re just inside the hut. It’s like any other cabin, the rafters strung with dozens of clusters of drying herbs, and there’s a fire going—though there was no smoke outside, I note.

There’s a table in one corner piled with mortars and pestles and all manner of containers, and in front of the fire are three chairs.

The whole small room smells of burning wood and plants, cozy for the gloom that the exterior put off.

Moyra takes one chair and points at the other two. “Let’s do this quickly. I have other places to be.”

Alyth sits, searching through her cloak, and finds the letter from Darnley’s room. She extends it to Moyra. “We won’t keep you long.”

Moyra takes it.

Then she looks up at me expectantly.

I rush to sit next to Alyth.

Moyra keeps right on staring at me, her eyes narrowed, her tongue caught between her teeth. She fiddles with the letter, making the glow it gives off pulse, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Hm. This one. Why’s he with you, Alyth?”

I almost don’t care that she’s talking about me like I’m not here, but Alyth must think I’ll react to that. She grabs my wrist.

“He’s a Leth, cursed by a Red Cap weapon. We were hoping you could tell us what cursed him. He’s anxious to break it.”

There’s that hope again, roiling in me like starvation, and I look up at Moyra, unabashed.

She’s chewing her tongue again. “And this letter?” She lifts it, not taking her eyes off me.

“Need the magic on it dissipated,” Alyth explains.

Moyra nods. “That’ll make us even, then?” She finally looks at Alyth.

Alyth drops her hold on my wrist. “Aye.”

“‘Aye.’ Aye. You know I don’t trust such simplicity from you fae.”

Alyth sighs. “Yes, if you break the magic concealing the letter and tell us what cursed Samson, you and I will be even.”

With a scrunched-nose grin, like this is all some joke, Moyra crosses one leg over the other. “That’s all I needed. Now—here.”

And she hands the letter back to Alyth.

But—it’s not glowing anymore.

What? When did she—

Alyth snorts, a soft little burst, and settles the letter in her lap. “Thank you, Moyra.”

Moyra’s smile is full on.

I think I might like her.

“That was so fast,” I can’t help but say.

Moyra waggles her eyebrows at Alyth. “The Well’s better than the fae, hm?”

Alyth gives me a flat look. “Thanks for that.”

I hold up my hands. “Sorry, I—” But I glance around, not seeing what Moyra mentioned. “A well?”

“The Well,” Moyra corrects. “The Well witches draw their magic from. Magic pools there, and witches can access it through focus in herbs and such. Not like the fae, with all their bloodline ties to the Seelie Court. Ever been to the Black Forest?”

I shake my head.

Moyra shrugs. “Probably for the best. You—” Her attention fixes back on me, intent and analytical. “You’d get picked apart there. What a fascinating thing you are.”

I hold myself steady, dropping into my facade of not letting my emotions show, not giving anything away. She’s still seeing something in me, something I don’t know to hide.

Moyra shifts again, scooching her chair so she’s between my knees, close enough that I smell the tang of dried herbs coming off her. “You’re cursed, you say?”

“Yes—” starts Alyth, but Moyra bats a hand her.

“Let him speak.”

I nod. “Um, yes. Samson.”

Moyra lifts her hands in front of my face, picking at things I can’t see. And it hits me then—not a bit of this place glows the way I’ve seen magic glow. And this woman’s a witch, right? So this whole place should be lit up with magic.

Is it only fae magic I can see?

Moyra hums, low in her throat, and meets my eyes, her fingers still picking and moving ’round my head. “I have a way of figuring out what you are, Samson. If you consent to it.”

“That wasn’t what we agreed,” Alyth is quick to say. “You would help us figure out what cursed him.”

Moyra nods absently. She pinches a bit of nothingness between her finger and thumb, studies it, and lets it drop. “Oh, this will. Whatever’s cursed him is embedded in him. Like it’s merged with the part of him that’s fae.”

“Merged?” My gut drops. “You can’t undo it?”

Her look is piercing. “Did I say that? Let me figure out what’s at the root of you, and we can go from there. If you agree?”

Alyth grunts in protest, but I’m already nodding.

“Yes. Yes, please, Lady Moyra.”

She cackles. “Oh my, Alyth! I see why you like this one. ‘Lady.’”

Moyra bolts up and starts shuffling around her table, bottles clacking.

Alyth leans toward me, and unconsciously, I rock to meet her. I want to reach for her, want to ground myself. It’s the unease of this whole situation, and the—the bloody hope still.

Can Moyra do it? Can she really find out what’s wrong with me?

I’ve lived with it for so many years. I accepted it too, thinking that was just how I’d always be, hurting people on whims I didn’t understand. I almost reconciled my life to being ostracized and alone, to never being fully safe.

But now.

Now.

Alyth touches my cheek, and I jump, realizing I was staring over her shoulder at the fire.

“You’ll be all right,” she whispers.

I exhale, but her words keep me from collapsing, and she strokes her fingers lightly down my jaw.

Moyra sweeps back over to us with a vial in one hand. It’s no bigger than my finger. “Drink it down, Samson. Every drop.”

I take the vial, fingers shaking.

“Cheers,” I say to Alyth, raising it toward her, and I down the whole potion in a single swallow.

It goes down smooth, no burn, and tastes of herbs, ones I can’t identify. Just earthy, rich flavors and something bitter on the back of it—mint?

But I don’t feel any different.

I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “I don’t think anything’s happen—”