Page 10

It feels as if someone has cracked open my skull and stitched it back together all wrong.

Catherine left with her husband, Daniel, to gather herbs that might dull the relentless ache behind my eyes.

Aithinne hurried to check the camp’s perimeter for signs of other fae after Derrick recounted my violent clash with the fae warriors in the forest. She took off so quickly that there wasn’t a chance to ask her about Kiaran.

So I sit alone by the sputtering campfire, the dancing flames offering little warmth or comfort against the cold. I wrap the threadbare blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying to ignore how the rough wool scratches and itches.

Boots scuff the dirt, and I glance up to see Gavin settling onto the log beside me. My childhood friend’s critical stare sweeps over my haggard appearance, no doubt taking in the bruise-dark smudges beneath my eyes that a bracing dip in the stream couldn’t erase.

“You look like death warmed up,” he says.

“Why thank you, Lord Flattery.” I aim a half-hearted kick at his shin that he easily evades.

Gavin’s blond hair hangs in disarray around his collar, needing a trim. And a good wash. Lines bracket his mouth, etched by too many sleepless nights. But warmth still lingers in those blue eyes when he looks my way. Small mercies.

He holds up a bottle. “Brought you something to take the edge off that skull-splitting agony you’re enduring.”

I eye the bottle’s murky contents. The liquid sloshes against the sides when he gives it a gentle shake. “Only you could scrounge up whisky in the middle of an apocalypse. Do I dare ask which poor bastard you robbed for it?”

Gavin’s smile tightens a fraction. “No one who still needed it. Consider it a ‘congratulations on not staying dead’ gift.” I wince at the reminder. “How morbidly optimistic of you.”

“You had better leave some for me, you swine.” Derrick zooms over in a blur of glittering wings to rest on my shoulder. “I’m fresh out of my private stock of honey mead, and a pixie can only endure so much existential angst while sober.”

“Rough day of doing nothing and bossing people about?” I drawl. “You must be exhausted, poor thing.”

He makes a great production of smoothing his rumpled tunic. “You try radiating ethereal beauty and good cheer in the face of Armageddon without the aid of proper intoxicants. It’s taxing work, I assure you.”

Gavin arches a brow as he studies my despondent shoulder ornament. “Forgive my ignorance, but how much alcohol does it take to get a pixie drunk? You’re approximately the size of a Cornish game hen.”

A flare of scarlet outrage pulses through Derrick’s aura at the perceived slight. “And twice as fierce,” he says, affronted.

“Insult my people’s fortitude again, and you’ll learn how sharp these tiny teeth can be.”

Sensing an imminent brawl, I step in. “Let’s forgo the posturing and drink, shall we? I’m parched over here.”

Gavin uncorks the bottle. He lifts it in a mocking salute.

“To Aileana clawing her way back from the great beyond just in time for the war to end all wars and our probable grisly deaths. But until then, sla ?inte .” He tips the bottle up and immediately doubles over, choking.

When he recovers enough to speak, he rasps, “I’m fairly certain this will dissolve our tongues before the night’s through. ”

I take a tentative sip and erupt into a violent coughing fit as the alcohol scorches a path straight down to my soul. “Good god, that’s vile. Where on earth did you dig up this toxic rotgut? A distillery in the pits of hell?”

“Seeing as it’s likely the last bottle of alcohol left on this godforsaken earth, I suggest you drink up while you’ve still got a tongue left to demolish.”

What a cheerful thought.

Derrick drops a sewing thimble into my palm with an impatient huff. “Pour some of that piss in here if you would, darling. What’s a pixie got to do to get properly sloshed around here? Threaten ritual disembowelment?”

“Threat noted and taken very seriously.” I oblige and fill the thimble.

Derrick takes a delicate sip and pulls a face, nose wrinkling. “Ugh. This is dreadful. Like licking the backside of a syphilitic horse.”

“Dare I ask how you’re familiar with that particular flavour profile?” Gavin asks.

“I lived a very colourful life for centuries before you blundered into it, Kilmartin.” Derrick punctuates this with an expansive flap of his wings.

We fall into an easy silence as the flames crackle, just three old friends stealing a quiet night together amidst the chaos and uncertainty. I’m struck by how much we’ve all changed from the people we once were before life carved grief and trauma into our hearts.

“So, want to explain why the two of you have been suspiciously silent about a certain dark, brooding, and monosyllabic consort of mine?” I finally ask.

“Ah, well, you see . . .” Gavin casts a pleading look Derrick’s way. “I’d love to discuss it, but it seems I’m suddenly struck mute.”

I level him with an unimpressed stare. “Derrick? Anything to say?” I ask. The pixie elects to remain quiet, plucking at a loose thread on his tunic. “I see you’ve also suddenly lost your voice. Aithinne threatened you both if you said anything, didn’t she?”

Gavin grimaces. “With gruesome and inventive death.”

“And distressingly thorough anatomical inversions,” Derrick confirms brightly. “She did promise I could keep my wings as a token of goodwill afterwards, though, which I thought rather sporting of her.”

I’m tired of being handled like cracked glass.

“Please. At least tell me what happened to Lonnrach and Sorcha.”

Gavin scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Right. The short version, then.” He meets my gaze, steeling himself. “No one’s seen Lonnrach since . . .”

His stare drops to linger below my collarbone, where the thin material gapes. I know he’s searching for the puckered scar left behind by Sorcha’s killing blow. The one that pierced my heart and stole my life.

For an instant, I’m back by the crystal. I see the triumph in Sorcha’s eyes as her blade slides home. Just as quickly, the memory fractures, my throat tightening around the hard knot of grief.

Gavin looks away, jaw flexing. “Lonnrach fled with Sorcha while everyone was distracted with you. They haven’t been spotted since.”

Rage scorches through my veins. Of course, they got away. Sorcha planned it perfectly—use the crystal from the Old Kingdom to break Aithinne’s binding over Kiaran’s Unseelie power. To turn him into the monster he once was. And I was the game piece she sacrificed to achieve her ends.

“We’ll find them,” Derrick says. “Their heads will make fine decorative trophies for the garden.”

Gavin blinks, looking puzzled. “What garden? We’re in the middle of the damn woods here, in case you failed to notice.” He makes a sweeping gesture to the dead landscape surrounding us.

Derrick’s glow pulses an enraged scarlet. “The garden I plan to make from our enemy’s corpses, you obtuse fool. Must I explain my artistic vision for righteous vengeance to your stunted human brain?”

Sensing another imminent clash, I intervene. “While I appreciate the thought of creatively arranging our enemies’ body parts, perhaps we could revisit decor themes later? I still have questions.”

Derrick subsides with a grumble.

I take a bracing breath. “What about the humans in Derrick’s city? Was there any word from them after the attack?”

“They’re fine,” Gavin says. “A few of the fae on the ship come to us for supplies, and they’re holding out near the Western Isles for now. It’s not safe enough here.”

I swallow. “And the fae in the Fade?”

Gavin shifts, every line of his body radiating discomfort. “With MacKay.”

The revelation settles like a stone in my gut.

“Just tell me about him,” I say. “Please.”

The only sounds were the pop and crackle of the flames. Neither seems inclined to respond.

I dig my fingernails into my thighs just for the bright bite of pain. “Stop trying to protect me or deciding you know what’s best for me. It’s ridiculous and insulting after everything I’ve been through.”

They exchange another uneasy glance. Deciding which tidbits to scatter like crumbs or withhold.

“Wait.”

The softly spoken word splits the heavy silence. I see Aithinne standing at the tree line, her fathomless eyes meeting mine across the distance. Even from here, I glimpse the sadness that flickers through their depths.

“There’s something you need to see first.”