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CHAPTER THREE

Peppy.

That was the only word that could describe my steps as I walked down the empty east wing in the weak yellow light of dawn. The drab stone and washed-out pastoral paintings couldn’t dampen my spirits, even though the rational part of my brain was desperate for me to get a grip.

The effects of that makeshift anti-tonic potion/tea/sludge thing I made this morning had been nearly immediate. I had no idea how long they would last, so maybe it was a good thing I was practically skipping across the foyer and down the hallway to the great hall. The foraging bag, heavy with a smuggled cat and new runes (well, new to the bag, but old to my returned memories) that hid his scent and prevented anyone from helping themselves to the bag without my permission, thumped against my thigh.

Knowing better than to yowl his displeasure, Sawyer merely punctured every claw through the leather. When the bag thumped against my leg again, eighteen stabbing needles simultaneously got his point across.

“Rude,” I muttered, slowing down to a brisk march .

I’d been of a mind to leave him in the bedroom on pest control, but the cat was determined to be a tick and stick with me. The fact that he could donate small amounts of magic to me and his own knowledge of spells and crystals made his case. Despite the risk we faced, I truly was glad I wasn’t alone.

In more ways than one.

I don’t think I’d stopped rubbing the Celtic shield pendant once since waking, flooding it with the song of my heart that sang only for the lumberjack shifter. It was unclear if he inundated me with a positive mental attitude in return, or if that was a placebo effect of simply knowing the shield bound us in a way hidden even from Ossian, but I felt victorious. Like I had already dominated the day at half-past dawn.

There was no skulking one-armed magic hunter to ruin the morning either, nor any of his lurking Brothers. Unmolested, I shoved open one of the double doors that led into the great hall and felt my boldness falter.

The Stag Man sat upon his throne, something wet and red dripping from his knuckles.

Barefoot as usual, for boots never quite fit right on cloven hooves, Ossian was dressed in his customary buckskin trousers and white linen shirt. Around his neck, the multi-stranded necklace with its big blue sapphire and dozens of rough-cut gemstones— magic and souls , I corrected myself—twinkled like polished trophies.

The faebane sword and the bow he’d wielded the first time I’d met him in the moonflower grove were nowhere to be found. But the King of Beasts was a weapon in his own right.

The anti-tonic tea hadn’t affected me so completely that I was immune to the true danger I faced in this Court of Beasts, and my Misty Fields persona rose admirably to the occasion.

“Ossian! You’re bleeding!” I hurried across the great hall, not daring to spare the grizzly bear nor anything else in the room a glance, and slowed when I reached the dais.

The throne was of gleaming ebony and gold leaf, like a seat worthy of a pharaoh, the backrest carved to resemble a stag’s bust with wide-arching antlers. Shifting my gaze to the side revealed the glamour that radiated like a golden aura from the Stag Man’s skin. A purposeful, piercing gaze cut through the image of the man with copper curls and jewel-green eyes to the high fae beneath. The throne’s antlers seemed an exact replica of his, except his crown was chipped in two places. I kept my smirk to myself—how chipped antlers must burn his vanity.

“Ossian?” I prompted, setting only a foot upon the bottommost step of the dais.

I’d never seen him sit upon that throne before, and I knew he was sitting there now for a very good reason, even if it wasn’t one I understood. Yet.

His jewel-bright eyes finally deigned to meet mine. “Just a little morning exercise, love, that’s all.”

I kept my expression demure and concerned. Climbing the remaining steps of the dais, I called magic to my hands and reached for one of his. “And you either didn’t notice your knuckles were bleeding or—”

“Oh, it’s not my blood.”

My eyes darted to the grizzly bear slumped in the corner. His great shoulders shuddered with deep gasps as blood trickled out between his teeth and pooled under his chin.

Arthur . . ..

The green glow of my magic snuffed out as I carefully replaced Ossian’s hand against the handrest instead of using it to punch the smug fae lord in his handsome smug face. “Did you at least unchain him to make it a fair fight?” I asked casually.

“Why? ”

“Because to do otherwise would make you a bully, and bullies only bully because they’re weak.”

The King of Beasts’ eyes narrowed.

“Now wipe your hands off and let’s eat breakfast.”

He seized my wrist as I turned to go, and I really wished I had “conveniently forgotten” to cover my iron cuffs with those leather wrist guards he’d fashioned for me.

“You’re here early, love, and without an escort. How ever did you summon the courage to enter the great hall without a Brother or me by yourself when you’re terrified of the bear? You practically frolicked in here like a fawn.”

“And did you notice what I was holding when I frolicked in here?”

His attention lowered to the ruby choker around my throat. Their gleam and sparkle reflected in his eyes. In his proximity, the stones warmed almost imperceptivity. I’d only noticed because I’d been looking for it, and I felt their influence plying me to submit to his seduction.

Fat. Chance.

“I am the mate of the most powerful fae king,” I whispered. My stomach roiled as I adjusted my dress so I could straddle and sink down onto his closest thigh. Misty Fields must’ve really been selling it, for his hand came around to grip my flank. “I am to be his bride and rule by his side in Elfame, am I not? There are worse things in the immortal lands than grizzly bears, and I will not embarrass you nor myself by not mastering my fear over something so simple.”

I leaned in to kiss him, hard and brief and full of anger that I disguised as desire. The anger broke through as I nipped his lower lip, eliciting a hiss in response. Passion and possession flickered across his eyes as both hands seized my waist and he lurched forward, wanting more.

One kiss that I controlled was hell enough, and I wasn’t about to allow him to force one of his own on me. I broke free of him, smoothed my dress, and fixed him with a reproachful look. “I said clean your hands. That disgusting beast’s blood is beneath you.”

His grin was positively savage as he rose from his throne and withdrew a handkerchief from his back pocket. “Yes, love.”

I waited for him at the end of dais to slip my arm into the crook of his elbow. He led us to the table and pulled out my chair for me. Just when I thought I’d escaped his greedy ardor, he snatched my long brown braid in his hand, yanked my head to the side, and sank a bruising kiss against my neck.

In full view of the bear, of course. The grizzly growled, spat out a mouthful of blood, and rose to his feet. He scraped the stone floor with a rake of his claws, sparks skittering like scattered cinders. But there was nothing he could do with that collar and chain around his neck, and we all knew it.

Reaching up, I threaded my fingers into Ossian’s thick curls. Fisted. Wrenched.

“Ossian, I know you’re famished, but so am I. And not for you.” A flirty grin assuaged his outrage at being so roughly handled. “I just anchored that portal and now I need to charge a key. This girl needs to eat.”

“Indeed.” He sat at the head of the table, and as if the act itself was a cue, a little golden bell rang to announce the presence of Mrs. Bilberry and the parade of woodchucks.

The hobs.

Once proud caretakers of apple orchards, the Fair Folk who resembled little men had been turned into belittled beasts of burden. And they didn’t even know it. Each bore a silver platter of food as reverently as if it were a bottle of their precious hob grog, and I refused to let their simple task go ignored without gratitude .

“Thank you, Roland,” I said quietly as the leader of the hobs passed by with the roasted game hens.

The woodchuck nearly stumbled. While nobody had ever told me not to address the castle staff, it was assumed that I shouldn’t because they were beneath my notice.

“Thank you, Walt,” I told the next hob. “Mrs. Bilberry, those waffles look delicious.”

“Th-thank you, milady,” she said hastily, casting a nervous glance at her king. “W-would milady like some?”

“Yes, please.” Then I thanked Ricky for carrying in the fruit salad. Mrs. Bilberry never forgot the maraschino cherries, and they glistened like jewels atop the medley of red grapefruit, pineapple, and peaches.

“Love, are you going to thank every hob by name?”

“Yes, I believe so. Thank you, Joe.”

“The food’ll get cold before you’re done.”

“Thank you, Victor. No one’s stopping you from eating, Ossian.”

“Meadow.”

The edge to his voice had the woodchucks parading at double-time. Mrs. Bilberry had even rung her second bell to summon the Lancaster brothers ahead of schedule. The black Labrador retrievers came bounding in, immediately noted the increasing frigidity of the atmosphere, and delivered my latte and Ossian’s beer without quip or comment.

“Thank you, Dale,” I said pointedly as Mrs. Bilberry hastily slopped a huge spoonful of apple butter onto my stack of steaming waffles. The badger snatched up her picnic basket and, apron strings flying out behind her, beat a hasty retreat after the last of the hobs.

“It seems bonding with your magic core has made you more fae-like than either of us anticipated,” he continued conversationally, though warning flashed in his eyes. His movements were clipped yet precise as he lifted the silver masala dabba and began mixing my morning toirchim tonic. “You’re bolder now, stronger. And yet you still have much to learn.”

Yes, please tell me the ways I’m still dependent on you, you cloven-hooved bast—

I took the fizzy red liquid and chugged it, wiped my mouth on my napkin, and turned my attention back to my breakfast. Waffles, fruit salad, and hard-boiled eggs. I would’ve preferred soft-boiled, but this way the yolks wouldn’t explode inside the foraging bag when Sawyer sank his little teeth into them.

Out of the corner of my eye, Ossian gave a satisfied nod as he retrieved the tonic cup and placed it beside the masala dabba. Another test passed.

A hastily chewed section of grapefruit from the fruit salad had helped mitigate the taste, but I still winced as the nasty liquid went to war against that sludge in my stomach. I hoped I’d notice if my inhibitions lowered and my impressionability increased, but there was no way to be sure.

“The high fae do not consort with fairies and the like, Meadow,” the Stag Man was saying. “I’ve been lenient with you since this is your home and these are you friends, but in Elfame, in the Court of Beasts, you would make yourself a laughingstock. And, as a result, undermine my reign. And it is mine , Meadow. You might be my mate, but that does not make you a queen of my court.”

Instead of crossing my arms over my chest and petulantly demanding why not , I hacked off a portion of waffle. Apple butter and honey oozed out of the square wells. “Tell me, Ossian, are there are other witch brides in the other fae courts?”

“No. Not one,” he said smugly, leaning back in his chair as if the discussion had just been won.

“So there’s a first time for everything. Including queens. Look at that.” I chomped down on my forkful of waffle. Guess that sludge had done a decent-enough job at preventing me from turning into a compliant bimbo if I could manage that level of sass.

“Meadow—”

“How about we open the portal first and then discuss the system of government? Where is the key, anyway?” It was squirreled away in one of the pouches on his belt, last I knew.

“It’s safe.”

He cracked into his first game hen, ripping it apart with animalistic ferocity, but he didn’t eat. Steam wafted from the roasted meat and his fingers alike, and Sawyer squirmed inside the foraging bag on my lap. I jerked my knee, squashing him between my leg and the underside of the table in warning.

“About the portal,” he began. “What did you feel last night, when we tried to enter before we discovered it was locked? What did you see or hear?”

For the first time since I’d known him, the Stag Man sounded unsure. Trepidatious.

I let him stew and hopefully squirm a bit as I took my time replying. “It felt warm. Like when you step into a forest pool that’s been heated by the sun all summer. I smelled the freshest grass and flowers, like the air itself was so clean it could amplify any scent instead of dampen it. I heard—”

The music of the portal. Its song that had lured me into accepting the memories embedded in its bindings.

“Yes?” Ossian pressed.

“Birdsong,” I replied, stabbing the stack of waffles so viciously the fork drove all the way down and scraped against the plate.

“What kind of birds?”

“What does it matter?”

The game hens cracked in Ossian’s fists. “Were they herons or nightjars or finches? ”

“I’m a green hearth witch, Ossian, not an ornithologist.” I abandoned my breakfast so I could lean back in my chair and increase the distance between us. “And it’s not like I heard much before we were blasted halfway across the field. Why? What did you experience?”

The Stag Man wet his lips as he regained his composure. He dropped the game hen pieces onto his plate and wiped his hands free of the grease and juice. Then he extended his left hand to me, palm down.

The skin across his knuckles and the backs of his fingers had lost its bronze tint. It was no longer flawless or supple, but cracked, lifeless, and gray. Like frostbite.

I didn’t offer to heal him, instead folding my hands in my lap. “What does this mean, Ossian?”

“That Callan has turned my home against me. Even if you were to unlock the portal, I suspect my brother has placed more spells on the opposite side to deny my return. It means that extra precautions must be taken.”

“And why aren’t you as angry as I think you should be?”

The Stag Man’s lips turned into an ugly smile, and he jerked his chin towards the grizzly bear. “I released a lot of my frustration before you got here. And, after hearing your side of events, I realized all is not lost. I have you , Meadow Ní Violet.”

The possessive tone made my skin crawl.

“And him .”

I yelped in surprise as Ossian’s “extra precaution” stepped out from behind the dais. The Brother reminded me of Drake, that blond brute of a magic hunter who’d been sent after my family in Hawthorne Manor. Tall, heavily muscled, his blond hair buzzed in a military cut, and fae-like markings covering his skin. Far more markings than I’d seen on any other Brother, I realized, even Ossian’s pet, Alec.

And his eyes were blue. Faelight blue .

“Shane,” the fae king explained, “will be our bodyguard, here and in Elfame.”

I swear he said bodyguard , but I heard mindless minion. Maybe even sacrificial lamb .

Ossian straightened into a regal posture and declared, “We shall marry before crossing into Elfame. When we consummate our marriage, your magic will flow into me and disguise my essence from Callan’s spells. Then we shall enter the immortal lands and I will take back what is rightfully mine.”