Page 37 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

Samson’s head droops, his eyelids shuttering.

“What did you do to him?” I ask Moyra. I trust her…

to a degree. As a witch, she wasn’t born with magic, but she does have an affinity for it, and she’s able to twist the threads of power with the help of herbs and plants.

I don’t really understand her knowledge or her practices.

I have always just appreciated the results she produced.

But if she’s playing with Samson’s well-being—

“Aye, he’s fine. Just a little safer,” Moyra says.

“Safer?”

“That lad has no curse on him.” The witch scoffs. “The only magic he has in him is in his blood.”

My heart thunks, thinking about the fits he told me of, the violent blackouts.

“Anyway, you should know better than anyone that when it comes to the fae, best to be sure what you’re dealing with before you consider who.”

I blink at Moyra. Actually, that’s not what I think at all. Kitty is herself first, a brownie second. Is that what the witch thinks of me—that my blood determines my soul?

Moyra continues blithely on. “The potion I gave the lad will make him a little more amenable.”

“I don’t like this.” I don’t like the way Moyra is talking or that she drugged Samson like that.

But we do need answers.

“Sam,” Moyra starts.

“Samson,” I correct.

Samson’s head lists toward me, his eyes cracking open.

Moyra snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Here, boy.”

“He’s not a dog,” I mutter.

“Were you telling the truth? You think you were cursed as a wee one?” she asks.

“Yes.” His voice comes out low, the s dragging out in a hiss.

“Who told you that you had a fae curse on you?”

“My father.”

“Is he fae?”

“I think he must be.”

Moyra looks at me. “He can only answer what he knows to be the truth, nothing more. But that curse lie—I wanted to make sure he wasn’t tricking you, Alyth dear.” She squints at Samson. “Do you know what kind of fae you are?”

“No.”

Moyra turns to me again, frustration evident. “He has so much power, but it’s repressed. I don’t understand it.”

Samson straightens in his chair, his head twisting eerily. “There is much you don’t understand, witch.”

The tenor of his voice is different, the way he holds himself. Moyra’s attention sharpens. “Who are you?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, shocked.

A thin-lipped smile stretches across Samson’s face, his mouth curling in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.

“The potion made the lad more…pliable,” Moyra says in a rush, leaning forward to focus on Samson. “But that means he was emptier, for lack of a better word.”

“Accesssssssible,” Samson hisses.

Moyra nods, still not taking her eyes off him. Her whole body is stiff, scared.

I have never seen her frightened before. Not even when she shouted at a herd of kelpies.

“His body was accessible to someone else,” she says, standing and moving slowly backward, toward some plants drying near the window. “I’ve heard of this but never seen it. The only way he could have been taken over like this is if he was already being watched. Very closely.”

“Of course we watch the bastard,” Samson snarls. “He’s ours.”

A wave of fury washes over me, almost blinding me. “Samson is no one’s but his own!” I shout, throwing back the chair as I stand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Moyra crushing some mistletoe leaves in her hand, tracing a ward of protection in her palm.

Samson laughs. It’s not his laugh. “He was born for a purpose. Our purpose.”

My fists bunch in my skirts, and my arms tremble with suppressed rage.

Moyra gropes toward me, still not looking anywhere but at him. I feel the press of dried leaves on the back of my neck, warmth spreading out. “Hush, lass. This potion won’t last for long. And we need answers.” I can tell Moyra is worried but wary, watching to see how this plays out.

“Answerssss.” Samson’s voice cruelly twists into mockery.

“Who are you?” I shout at his face. I hate the tears burning my eyes; I detest the way my emotions weaken me in this moment. But it’s all so horrible, and it’s gutting me—not just that I allowed Samson to be violated in this way, that he trusted me to protect him, but also because…

Whoever’s possessing him now sees him as an object, a tool. Nothing more.

And that hits a little too close to home as well.

“Have we already been forgotten?” Samson asks. His voice is almost coquettish, high-pitched and affected. But not in a false way, I think, even though the sounds are strange from his mouth.

“Who are you?” Moyra repeats my question in a stern voice, like a mother trying to get answers from a petulant child.

Samson’s lips stretch wide in a laugh. It goes on a beat too long, and then his mouth closes with a clack of his teeth so strong, it makes me wince.

His red hair whips around, falling in his face, but he doesn’t brush it away as he stares at me unblinkingly.

“Tut, tut, girl, you know how this works. An answer for an answer. The fae like to bargain, no?”

My mind races. Whatever’s possessing Samson used the word “girl.” Not “lass.” Girl. That’s how the English talk. It’s not much evidence—we use “girl” too, just not as often—but it plants seeds of fear in my belly.

“You’ll answer my question if I answer yours?” I demand.

“Yesssss.” Samson giggles. “Now it’s our turn to ask you a question.”

Shite—I wasted a question confirming the rules. This is exactly the type of fae trickery I detest.

“What allies have you in the fae realm?”

Loaded question but obviously a test. “None have sworn allegiance to me,” I say. A technical truth, and one I take pleasure in knowing is not the full answer.

Moyra moves beside me. To offer me support, I suppose, or to try to distract the being overtaking Samson’s body. But she doesn’t speak.

I have to be smart about this. We’ve all been speaking English for Samson’s sake, but I switch to Scots.

“Dè an t-ainm air a bheil thu eòlach?” By what name are you known?

I know better than to ask what the being’s name really is—no fae would reveal that.

But they do have monikers of address they use, and that could help me narrow down the possibilities.

“Mòran.” Many. This being is known by many names.

And it also understands Scots.

“Thoir dhomh aon,” I demand. Give me one name.

“No.” Back to English. Interesting. “It is our turn to ask you something, bastard. When did you last visit the fae realm?”

Moyra looks at me curiously. It’s not that unusual for me to go between worlds.

“I just came from there,” I answer. There will be no lies from me. A powerful fae can tell when a human lies, and I cannot risk Samson being hurt if I don’t tell the truth. And I know this fae will tell me the truth too—fae can trick and manipulate and deceive, but they cannot outright lie.

“My turn,” I say. “Are you working with Lord Darnley, the king consort?”

The link here is obvious—I must ascertain the black-market network of Red Cap weapons and uncover the plot meant to overthrow Queen Mary and wreak havoc on both worlds.

“We do not ally ourselves with bastard Leths,” the fae snarls, then laughs bitterly. “Present company excluded, obviously.”

That’s not a good enough answer. Too much is left unsaid. While this being doesn’t work with Leths, it may command other fae who do the dirty work or use them as a tool if not an ally. And that actually would be the smarter way of dealing with Darnley.

“Tell us what you saw in the Seelie Court,” the being says with Samson’s voice.

I snort. “That’s not a question.” Besides, while I went into the fae realm, I didn’t go to the court, and this fae creature let slip just how little they know of me and my position with that question. To assume I crossed between worlds to dabble in silly parties and meet with my pretentious father…

Samson’s face contorts with suppressed rage, but the being switches tactics. “Did you go inside the palace?”

“No,” I say, for once grateful my arsehole of a father didn’t bother to acknowledge me. Now the bigger question is, does this fae being not have access to the Seelie Court, or do they want to know how much access I have? But that’s not the question I want to ask.

Moyra moves beside me, her fingers brushing my arm. “The potion will wear off soon,” she says in a low voice. Samson’s eyes flick to her and back; I don’t know if the being heard the witch.

I focus on Samson’s face, straining to see him behind the expression he never wears, that of regal superiority.

There’s no time to waste. “Are you a Red Cap?” I ask this of whatever being has possessed Samson, but it creates a strange revulsion in my belly to have to hear the answer from Samson’s mouth.

Samson giggles again, high-pitched and eerie. “Yessss.”

Moyra sucks in a breath, her nostrils flaring. But my attention is on Samson. His head jerks, his mouth turning downward.

The potion is wearing off.

Whoever’s possessed Samson seems to realize the same thing. They stand, legs wobbly, and take a step toward me. I think it’s an attempt at being menacing, but this fae creature isn’t used to Samson’s body, and the movement is disjointed, like a marionette with tangled strings.

“We will give you this one for free, little bastard girl,” the fae says with Samson’s mouth. “You asked us for a name we are known by. You should have asked for a title instead.”

Acid rises in my throat.

Samson’s body straightens, and they take another step toward me, steadier now. Moyra backs away, but I hold my ground.

“We have been called many things, but we are best known by our title. It was not given to us, like your prince of a father. No, our title was earned.”

My whole body trembles, but I don’t step away even when Samson shuffles closer.

“The Romans called us ‘Mors Gladius,’” they say. “The Vikings named us ‘H?yt Blad.’ The French declared us ‘Buveur de Sang.’ But you know us as something different. And we know you know us, bastard girl.”

“Lann àrd,” I whisper in Scots. “The High Blade.”

The ruler of the Red Caps.