Page 3

The name pierces through the haze of violence, sinking claws deep.

Aileana.

A curse and a prayer all at once. Seven damning letters that call up pieces of the past, shards I can’t grasp.

Slotting into grooves worn by endless repetition.

I’ve heard that name—my name—spilling from countless lips over the years in every possible inflexion.

Whispered over my cradle, shouted in fury, sobbed out in grief.

The pixie’s face swims up from the tangled mess in my thoughts. I can practically feel the velvet-soft brush of his wings beneath my fingertips. Hear the bright peal of his laughter when I make some wry observation about lace or flounces.

“Aileana,” the pixie exclaims again in delight, scattering my focus.

“I noticed a flare of power, and it felt like you, but . . .” He stops short, tilting his head as he takes in my haggard appearance.

“Why are you wandering about starkers in the woods? And your eyes—” His brow furrows. “How can you be—”

He darts toward me in a blur of wings and questions, and instinct takes over. The comfortable haze of battle-readiness settles over me, narrowing the world to this singular certainty: violence. It’s the only thing I’ve known since clawing out of the earth.

Alone.

I don’t know you. I don’t know that name. You weren’t there when I scraped and tore my way up through the charred soil, choking on ash and darkness.

No one was.

My makeshift dagger slices through the scant space separating us, a vicious warning

“Stay back.” The steel in my voice surprises even me. “Don’t come any closer.”

His eyes narrow. “Put that bloody weapon down, you daft woman. What’s got into you?”

Nothing. And everything. I’m hollow inside, a ghost haunting my own mind.

The pixie tries to manoeuvre around the dagger, but I keep it firmly in place. Why does he seem to think I should trust him?

“Don’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He snorts. “Has dying stripped every last wit from that head of yours?”

Dying.

The word spears through me, a crushing weight forcing the air from my lungs in a pained gasp.

A phantom ache blooms below my sternum. On instinct, I press my palm there, half expecting it to come away wet with blood.

But the skin is smooth under my touch, unbroken save for a raised line bisecting my chest. It’s too neat, too surgical, to be anything but deliberate.

The perfect brutal angle designed to pierce a beating heart.

“I died?”

Then what brought me back?

A fragmented whisper teases the frayed edges of my memory, as soft as a rustle of feathers on the wind: I came to make you an offer .

The pixie’s impatient snort interrupts my spiralling thoughts. “Yes. Now, can we get to the part where you put down the bloody dagger and give me a damn hug?”

“How long have I been dead?”

His hands fist at his sides as if resisting the urge to shake me. “Two months, nineteen days.”

Two months. Nearly three. And I can’t recall any of it. None of my life before waking up in this forest surrounded by miles of charred earth and dead trees. No memories to tell me who I am. Nothing but this emptiness threatening to swallow me.

I run my fingers along my arms, seeking .

. . what? Answers etched into my skin? Some clue revealing who I was?

But the only story my unmarred flesh tells is a false one.

My questing fingertips recall the uneven feel of marred skin.

The ridges and whorls left by countless scars.

The shape of bites, dozens and dozens of them.

These hands remember holding blades. I know what it feels like to end a life. To take and take until there’s nothing left but smoke and ash.

“I don’t remember anything,” I whisper. The admission hovers between us, fragile as a moth’s wing.

Derrick clicks his tongue. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling. Do you remember dying?”

I shake my head.

“How you got those freaky golden eyes?”

“No.”

“How about that smashing new talent for levelling forests to rubble?”

I let out a brittle laugh. “Still no.”

“Christ alive,” he mutters. “I’m Derrick.

I lived in your house in Edinburgh and ate all your food.

You’re my companion. Our home is now a ruin after the fae destroyed everything.

” Desperation colours each word. “But more importantly, I made all your pretty dresses with ribbons and ruffles and flounces. You used to look like you belonged on some fancy cake, and now—” He lets out a mournful sigh.

“Now you’re wandering around stark naked and feral.

” The pixie makes another distressed noise. “Wait here.”

As if I have anywhere else to bloody go.

I shift my weight, trying to work some warmth back into my toes. I feel the cold now that the thrill of battle has receded.

Eventually, the pixie returns with a bundle of fabric clutched in his arms.

“Here,” he says, dumping the pile at my feet. “Put these on before you catch your death. I found them in an abandoned crofter’s cottage nearby.”

I waste no time shrugging into the oversized tunic, trousers, and soft leather boots.

They’ve seen better days, worn thin in places and reeking of woodsmoke.

But beggars can’t be choosers. And I’m so cold all other considerations fall away.

Neither my dignity nor hygiene rank high on my priority list at the moment.

He casts a mournful glance at the garments. “I’ll stitch you up something lovely as soon as I can. Maybe velvet. Or silk.”

Then he burrows into my tangled mess of hair without warning. His small hands stroke over my scalp, my temple, my cheek in soothing sweeps. Like he’s reassuring himself that I’m really here.

I shut my eyes, feeling some tight knot inside me loosen beneath his gentle ministrations.

Then I hear him sniff and make an aggrieved noise. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been wandering around like this for long.”

“I came out of the ground just before you arrived. And I couldn’t remember how I got there.”

“You climbed straight out of the bloody ground?” He prods my skull again in earnest, sweeping hair aside.

“No wonder you were half-feral when I found you. Did you hit your head? Are you addled?” He tuts in disapproval.

“You mortals and your fragile heads. One knock and your brains start leaking from your ears.” Derrick holds up a hand, waving it before my eyes.

“Let’s have you count fingers. Check you’ve not gone simple on me. ”

I bat his fretting hands away with a scowl. “There’s nothing wrong with my vision or my wits. Stop fussing.”

Derrick clicks his tongue in reproach. “Excuse me for worrying. It’s not as if you’re behaving rationally just now.” After another few moments inspecting me for injuries, he concedes, “The good news is, you seem free of any mortal wounds. I suppose you’ll live after all. Congratulations.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks ever so. And the bad news?”

“You clawed your way straight out of the bloody ground, you don’t have a single memory rattling around that empty skull, and you’re gawping at me like a startled lamb.” Derrick ticks each point off on his fingers. “But apart from that, tip-top shape.”

I fix him with a glare. “Any other helpful observations? Theories about why I can’t recall a damn thing about my life?”

Derrick pulls back, tapping one finger against his lips. “Well, you did die. And humans have such fragile brains. That explains the memory loss.” His face lights up. “Wait! I know someone who can help.”

My pulse kicks faster. “Who?”

“Aithinne, of course.” When I just stare blankly, Derrick sighs. “She’s the Seelie Queen. A bit touched in the head most days. Babbles nonsense, but mostly harmless, unless she takes a notion to kill you. But before visiting with monarchs, we need to clean up this little mess.”

I glance down at the broken fae warriors, taking in the twisted limbs and crimson-soaked armour. The metallic tang of blood is cloying and heavy on the air.

“Right. I suppose leaving corpses strewn about isn’t subtle,” I say.

Derrick gives an exaggerated eye roll. “Astute observation. I can see those months mouldering underground did wonders for your intellect.”

I resist the urge to flick him off my shoulder. Barely.

With an impatient huff, Derrick dives to the forest floor and begins churning up soil and rocks with surprising efficiency for such a diminutive creature.

He excavates a hole several feet deep and wide in the loamy earth, using his bare hands and bursts of volatile magic.

I watch the stacked pile of displaced dirt grow higher as he keeps digging, showing no signs of tiring.

When he notices me staring, Derrick shoots me an aggrieved look. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Since you did the slaughtering, it’s only fair you assist with the burying.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “You’re awfully demanding for someone who can be stuffed in a teacup.”

He sniffs, affronted. “Your sense of measurement must be as addled as your memories. I’d fit in a teapot , at least.”

Rolling my eyes, I grasp the nearest fae corpse under the arms and drag it across the leaf-strewn ground toward the waiting pit.

Bloody hell, the bastard’s as heavy as a draft horse with all that ornate armour strapped on.

My fingers skid through the blood coating the plates.

I have to dig my heels in and put my back into it just to get the sodding corpse to budge.

“Why are we hiding the bodies?” I ask once I’ve manhandled the dead soldier over the pit’s crumbling edge. He lands with a dull metallic thud. One down, two to go. “Why not just leave them for the crows?”