Page 30 of The Deep End of Death (Twilight Lake #4)

Feeling like we were going in circles, I stood, excusing myself and citing the need for fresh air.

The main door to the suite was locked, and the other door led to the bathing room, which we had all utilized, taking turns. The door to the balcony was made of glass, hidden behind a thick velvet drape—the only entrance to the outside world.

Tor leaned on the railing. He did not turn to greet me as I closed the door softly. The balcony was high up, enough to invite a bitter chill.

The Night King’s castle was ringed with blood-red trees, topped with white snow, the colors muted by the darkness of the Night Court.

Overhead, the moon looked down on us, reflected in the lake at the bottom of the valley.

The night was still. Not even an owl's hoot or a nocturnal insect's creak. Not a cloud in the sky either.

I mimicked Tor’s position, feeling entirely awkward without the ability to pinpoint why.

I’d hurt his feelings, much like I had hurt Rainn’s when I’d shown a lack of faith in my Shíorghrá from the events in Cruinn.

It felt like we were at a stalemate.

Having sex was easy enough, as evidenced by the night before, but it seemed that Tor and I were conditioned the same way. To keep our emotions silent and allow them to fester.

“I’m waiting for you to realize I’m not worth the trouble.” I kept my eyes fixed on the moon. “That when all of this is over, we’ll all return to our homes on opposite sides of the lake. That we’ll look back on this time together as a dream.”

Tor exhaled a tired breath. “I never wanted to be King of the Reeds.”

“No?” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

He didn’t look at me as he spoke. “Do you know why the Kelpies of the Twilight Lake do not take victims from the shore?”

Tor was a Kelpie, a water horse who could make his coat as sticky as he needed it to be to drag victims to the deep. While Kelpies were empathetic and fed on emotions for sustenance, it was said that their preferred method of feeding was to experience the moment of death by drowning their victims.

Elsbeth, Tormalugh’s sister, once warned me that Kelpies didn’t show emotions. Though their creed feed on emotions, to show them was a weakness amongst their people. It marked them as prey.

As Tor looked up at the sky, the moon reflected in his eyes, tears shone on his face.

“Do you remember what the Merrow said on the water?” Tor’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Of how the Night King hunted the Kelpies until there were no more left?”

The memory was sludge, hard to wade through amongst everything that had happened, but I nodded anyway.

“Many years ago, my kind made a pact with the Mad Queen,” He glanced at me. “Sanctuary, if we no longer took victims.”

“I didn’t know. My mother never told me.”

He nodded as if I had confirmed his suspicions. “I do not wish to stand in front of the Dark King, but I will. For Shay Mac Eoin. For you.”

I remembered his promise to me—that I would never have to sit on the High Throne again. Though hurt, I reached out and placed my hand on his back. “I can’t promise you won’t see him,” I said. “But I can promise I won’t let him have you.”

“Have me?” Tor raised a brow.

“You’re mine.” I pulled my hand back and slapped my chest in declaration. “He cannot hurt you. He will not hunt you. On my word, as Belisama’s daughter.”

His eyes crinkled around the edges as he bit back a smile. “Is that so?”

“It is so.” I told him. “What’s the point of a connection to the Tuatha Dé Danann if you can’t use it.”

I meant every word. I had watched Tor dragged under by the Thiggen. The image wasn’t far from my thoughts whenever I looked at my Shíorghrá. My fingers tingled, and I itched to reach for the stone in my pocket. It felt warm. Even when I had bathed, I had cradled the stone like a youngling.

Instead, I brushed my finger across Tor’s dark markings—the black tattoos only I could see.

I wondered what my markings looked like to him, even though I couldn’t see them.

Tor stilled my fingers, holding my hand as I made my way down his bicep. His face creased in concern.

“There it is again.” He murmured, speaking more to himself than to me.

I cocked my head to the side in question.

“Maeve...” Tor licked his bottom lip. “I’ve felt it since Cruinn, but I wasn’t sure exactly what I felt. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Push him off this balcony! The stone roared. The Kelpie can’t have you! You’re mine

He moved so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to react. My nose pressed into his hard chest, one hand gently cupping the back of my head. He pressed his palm against my solar plexus, feeling my heartbeat.

The stone roared in my ears, loud enough to make me flinch.

Tor’s hand patted me down, searching the folds of my borrowed dress. He was searching for the stone. I knew it. It grew hot in my pocket, and as the High Throne’s magic screamed, I knew I couldn’t let him touch it.

I couldn’t have said if it was a desire to hide the stone’s existence or if I was protecting Tor from the High Throne.

I still remembered King Irvine’s face, the blood from his eyes, nose, and mouth, as he was pried off the throne’s teeth, foaming at the mouth and shaking unnaturally.

I reached up, pounding my fists against Tor’s chest. “You can’t.” I gasped, strangely out of breath. “Don’t touch it. Please .”

Fae did not say please or thank you. It wasn’t in their nature. The same bargain with the gods that kept Sídhe from speaking a lie held them to all debts.

Tor’s fingers froze, and his dark eyes narrowed. “You know what it is.”

“You can’t touch it.” I gasped out, still pressed against his chest. “You’ll die.”

“ What is it?” Tor snarled.

I avoided his question with one of my own. “What does it feel like?”

“Rage.” Tor’s eyes flicked to the door.

A moment passed, and the glass door swished to the side, revealing a mop of silver hair. Rainn shot us a grin, taking in our embrace and misreading the situation.

“The guards are coming. It’s time to meet the Dark King.” Rainn gestured over his shoulder.

My jaw clenched, and my nostrils flared.

I wasn’t ready. My equilibrium had been shaken like a shipwreck against the rocks. I didn’t know how to tell Tor about the stone.

I wasn’t sure how we would approach the Night King; for all my bluster and misplaced confidence, I was an Undine with an angry pebble in my pocket and not much more, regardless of who my mother was.

Shay would have admonished me if he’d heard those thoughts.

I shook my head to clear it.

Tor let go of me. His eyes flicked to my pocket, and the expression on his face was clear.

I wasn’t going to escape his scrutiny. I’d simply been granted a reprieve.

Undine were bejeweled by nature, so baubles did not impress me.

The Night King’s castle was made of a dark, shining stone that appeared almost like a mirror, reflective on every surface. Golden accents broke the darkness, snakes winding around midnight blue pillars, and bright arching windows revealed the lazy snowflakes drifting from the sky above.

Even the bobbing Faelight overhead clung to the ceiling, tiny pinpricks of light that winked like stars.

The guard led us through the castle in silence, and though our borrowed clothes were of fine quality, befitting of the Unseelie Kingdom, I hadn’t given much thought to why I had been provided a ballgown—only that it had pockets for my piece of the High Throne.

Even the finest gowns underwater were not as large as what had been provided. The skirts were expansive enough to fit Rainn and Tormalugh under the fabric without showing their feet.

Each of the men had been provided silk outfits, the night sky's color, with tarnished silver buttons. Though of acceptable quality, they seemed utilitarian.

To an outsider, I looked like a court lady with a battalion of guards.

The music grew louder, and we approached an impossibly large set of doors held open to reveal the valley's slope below. The snow continued to fall, and the cold crept through the doors, but the crowds of Fae traipsing into the castle seemed unbothered by the chill.

I recognized the sight. When my uncle held celebratory balls, he would welcome Sídhe from each corner of the city and open the doors.

“Is the Night King having a ball?” I whispered, aware the guard could hear me.

“The Night King holds court.” The guard squared his shoulders. “He requires an audience to pass judgment.”

The lump in my throat was hard to swallow. I glanced at Shay but found our bond was muffled. I had no idea what he was thinking.

Was he as frightened as I was?

Rainn rocked on his heels, hands in his pockets. “Looks like a ball.” He lifted his brows innocently. “Are all of these fae prisoners? Awaiting trials? Where are their shackles?”

The guard shook his head, and though I couldn’t see his expression behind his helmet, I felt the disdain.

“The Night King does not need to bind his guests. If a criminal sought to take action against my liege, I doubt they would survive. And what kind of monarch would he be if he couldn’t fight off a simple thug? ”

The ballroom was made of translucent white stone with precious gold, silver, and bronze veins, like spiderwebs. Though there was an expansive space for dancing, much like the ballrooms of Cruinn, there were higher platforms overlooking the ballroom, with benches filled with masked fae.

The atmosphere was anything but jovial. The tension was thick, and the crowd even thicker as we pushed ourselves past the wall of Fae.

The Night King sat on the other end of the room, his throne elevated by obsidian steps, as the painting behind him formed a halo of disturbing images. Blood and death.

The Night King wore armor, much like his guards, though it was dented and black as soot. Beside him was a table, groaning with food—meat, cheese, and wine, untouched.

We had been served in our rooms, but based on the covetous stares of the other Sídhe, that was not the norm. It seemed Cillian Lane had opened doors for us, and I regretted not thinking of the male and his injuries until that moment.

The room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, save for the swish of fabric, as the guests fidgeted uncomfortably. It felt like a crime to speak. Rainn’s lips pressed together, with the effort to remain silent, though it looked painful for him.

Shay’s frayed nerves were worse than ever, and though he tried to muffle the bond, his anxiety began to bleed through. Shay Mac Eoin lifted his thumb to his mouth, chewing the nail as he shifted from foot to foot.

Cormac jabbed his hands into his pockets and glared at anyone who got too close while Tor studied the exits. I wondered how many knives the Kelpie had managed to hide on his person.

I did a double-take, glancing back at the painting behind the Night King’s throne. I’d been led to believe Darragh’s Siren wings were displayed for all to see, but only the unnecessarily gory painting remained.

My hope for a quick visit was dashed. Even if the wings still existed, there were too many guards.

From my position, amongst the masses, the Night King seemed almost gigantic. Larger than life.

His facial features were familiar, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.

A male Sídhe approached the throne, dressed in plum silk, the sleeves overly large, and the legs of his trousers billowing like skirts. The attendant produced a scroll from his sleeve, a sleight of hand made easier by the sheer size of the garment, and handed the document to the Night King.

“Shane O’Brian Bryn.” The Night King searched the crowd with narrowed eyes. “Step forward.”

A ring of space marked the boundary between the Night King’s steps and the crowd, and a shaking male stepped into the no man’s land, his armor missing several parts and his helmet gone.

I recognized the guard. The one that had sliced Cillian Lane’s face.

“Shane O’Brian Bryn, for the crime of harming a member of the Unseelie Kingdom and its inner court. How do you plead?”

Shane O’Brian Bryn bowed, his head so low that it almost touched the floor. “Your majesty. I beg for clemency. I made a mistake. One I will not repeat. Please .”

The Night King’s face hardened, and I felt the radiating anger even from my position across the hall. He took a measured breath. The gauntlets on his hands made his clenched fists more pronounced. “One year in the dungeon.” He said, his dark eyes flashing. “ Next !”

The guards in the hall swarmed Shane O’Brian Bryn, dragging him from the room as his legs lost the ability to stand.

Was Cillian Lane that important?

The unwashed prisoner from the pirate ship?

Several Fae were dragged in front of the Dark King, all with varying charges.

Some fae were sent to the dungeons, others to the quartz mines.

Some were given house arrest, but none of the punishments were lethal.

No one was put to death, thankfully. Maybe the Dark King was more lenient than I had been led to believe?

The King propped his elbow on the throne's armrest, resting his cheek against his closed fist.

The adrenaline that had held me up for several hours began to drain, leaving me more tired.

“Shay Mac Eoin.” The Night King drawled, peering over at the attendant’s scroll. He paused, his eyes widening ever so minutely. He cleared his throat, repeating Shay’s name and peering out to the crowd.

The silence, which had so far been unbreakable, began to crumble.

“ Mac Eoin?”

“A demon?”

“One of those beasts from the Night of a Thousand Fires?”

“I thought they all died.”

“The demons killed the Night King’s eldest son.”

“They stole his wife away.”

“We’re going to witness an execution.”

Shay stepped forward, his eyes flashing pale ice blue for all to see.

The Night King reached for his sword.