Chapter Four
Vladimir
It takes far more time than I like for us to track Jeremiah and Maurice to Chislehurst Caves. Getting in is easy, considering it is so late in the night, and it is a fight to keep Paxton slightly behind me when he so clearly wants to reach his mate.
Jeremiah would not forgive me should anything happen to Paxton, and aside from Grant—who is not a fully-fledged member of the Hunt, of course—he is the youngest among us. He already has a knife in his hand, though, and his blessing is ready.
We stalk down one dark tunnel, and I clench my teeth at the sudden rise of magic ahead. They are still fighting. I can feel the distinct vibrations of Maurice’s magic, if nothing else.
Paxton snarls and starts forward, but I throw out an arm to stop him. “Careful,” I murmur. We must go into this with fairly level heads. “If we need to get them out of there, do so. Merletta is less important than your lives.”
Paxton gives me a look that tells me he does not believe my words but nods once.
We take the next tunnel, then round a corner that opens into a larger cave. Magic flies through the air, sparking around us, and when I nod, Paxton is off like a shot, running to Jeremiah’s side.
His lover does not spare him a glance. He cannot. I have never seen Jeremiah so worn down, struggling to hold onto his blessing as he shields himself and Maurice from the high fae standing in the centre of the space.
Merletta wears no glamour. Her dark hair is in disarray, arms trembling. Paxton holds on to Jeremiah’s shoulder, feeding him some of his blessing.
I race to Maurice. He is slumped on the floor, unmoving, though he lifts his head when he sees me. Gently, I probe for his power. It feels strange, ragged at the edges. I have never felt anything like this before.
“Can you move?” I ask.
Merletta lets out a howl of rage, but whatever attack she sends our way does not meet us.
“Y-yes.” Maurice pushes up, but he is weak as a kitten. I touch his shoulder. The best idea would be to remove him from this space. I cannot take him anywhere safer, but I can ensure we are not worrying about him while we are fighting. “Fuck. She hit me hard. Right in the core.”
“Up. We need to get you out of here.”
“Fuck that. Get her.”
He collapses back down again, but I sense the flutter of his death magic—the true magic we share—and get to my feet. My blessing has always been a tightly wrapped ball of power. I have always taken pride in my impeccable control, and that does not change now.
Merletta’s eyes flare wide when faced with the three of us.
Paxton is immovable, though his power has to be draining some for the way Jeremiah wields it.
No matter. I shape mine like a precision strike, and when Merletta raises her hands, the magic of the fae calling to us all under here, surrounded by rock and earth, I aim for her centre, where the heart of her power should rest.
Jeremiah’s gaze darts to me. Only for a second. He drags all the power he can from Paxton, making him gasp in surprise, and when he pushes it out, it shatters Merletta’s shield, allowing my strike through.
She lets out a pained cry before she collapses in a heap on the ground. Jeremiah rushes toward her, Paxton on his heels. I turn my attention to Maurice again.
He is unconscious now, and his death magic trembles when I reach out. Not gone, and I do not believe he will slip over that final edge. His blessing still feels strange, jagged, and when I crouch by his side, he does not wake.
Paxton has Merletta on her knees, arms bound.
He and Jeremiah can keep her magic controlled now, though it will be safer for us all once she is in the cellar and the Huntsman is on his way to collect her.
Usually, we would send a dangerous fae through the veil ourselves, but these high fae are different.
The Huntsman is transporting them over to the Otherworld personally, though I do not know that it means they will face more stringent consequences.
“We need a vehicle,” I say, and Jeremiah gives me a flat look. He is breathing hard, dark curls in disarray.
“Call Njáll,” Paxton replies. “He’ll send something.”
I grimace at the mere thought. He will also be worried, which I can understand, but we have to deal with this fae and ensure that Maurice will wake with his blessing intact, not focus on soothing him.
“Call him. He’s good at his job.” Jeremiah’s words are sharp. Merletta is silent between them, eyes darting amongst the four of us as though she still seeks a way out of the situation she finds herself in.
I have no doubt that is the case. High fae do not like to be bested, especially by those they consider to be lesser than them.
I take out my phone, frowning when I realise I do not have Njáll’s number. Digging around in Maurice’s pockets reveals his own device, but the screen is black and cracked, and it will not turn on. Not that I have a signal down here.
“Outside,” I say.
Jeremiah helps me with Maurice, Paxton pushing Merletta up ahead. She does not fight or argue—she seems disinclined to speak with us at all, which is what I prefer. Once we are outside, I step away and call Grant.
“Vlad?” His voice trembles, and the edge of panic has me clenching my teeth as I bite back the words I truly wish to say to him. “Are you okay?”
“I am fine. I need you to call Njáll. We require a car.”
“Yeah… Yeah, okay.” He moves around, fabric rustling. I think he is in his room. “I can see where you are. Is everyone else all right?”
I sweep my eyes over them. No one is about to die right now. I will call the Huntsman once we are back at the base to come and check on Maurice. “We are fine. The car.”
Grant makes a sound I cannot interpret. “Fine,” he mutters, not quite snapping at me. “I’ll get him to send one over. See you in a bit.”
He hangs up before I can reply and I blink at my phone as the screen goes dark. Jeremiah frowns. “Pissed him off again?”
Merletta’s head jerks up, interest flaring in her eyes. I shake my head and Jeremiah hisses at her. He’s resting Maurice on a bench, but the sooner we get him back to the base, the better.
We wait in silence, though all of us except for Maurice are on edge. Two sleek black cars pull up, one after the other, and Njáll leaps out of the back of the first. His eyes are wide when he sees that Maurice is unconscious, but he holds his panic in well.
“Take her in the first one,” I say to Jeremiah and Paxton. “Get her in the cellar.”
It goes without saying that they should not expose Grant to her, and Paxton nods at me like he knows it. Jeremiah said it yesterday. They will all look out for him.
Njáll looks as though he wishes to take Maurice entirely from my arms, but between the two of us, we get him into the car.
Njáll sits in the back, Maurice’s head resting in his lap, and I take the seat up front, next to the driver.
She does not look at me. Her eyes meet Njáll’s in the mirror, and only when he nods do we pull away.
“Something went wrong,” Njáll says when we are halfway back to the base. The other car is just ahead, still in my sights.
“Yes,” I bite out.
Njáll says nothing else, and when I chance a glance back at him, the look he gives me is not accusatory.
This is the other issue with the number of people outside the Hunt who have recently come into our orbit.
They do not truly understand what it is to be one of us.
It is why Rook and Saide worked so well.
It is why Jeremiah and Paxton do. Njáll might have some inkling—I am not unaware of the responsibilities his position demands—but Quinn, Asher’s little wolf?
He is young and part of a pack known even among wolves for their fierce loyalty.
I turn my head towards the passenger window. Grant exists somewhere in between all this, I fear. The more the Huntsman takes notice of him, the more he is dragged in, but he was no warrior before I turned him. No fighter.
“I want to take him to the clan house,” Njáll says when we pull up outside the Wild Hunt’s base.
“No.” The word comes out too sharp, and I wince despite myself. “The Huntsman will need to see him. Check his blessing.”
Njáll is silent for too long and when I twist in my seat, he is staring at me. He is not as old as I am, but he is no young vampire, and more importantly, he is not afraid of or intimidated by me at all.
“He won’t hurt him?”
“No.”
“Not again, Vladimir. Not like last time.”
This time, I suppress the wince his words threaten. “He will not hurt him.”
He cannot afford to. Not right now, not with all these high fae on the loose. And I believe I know what Grant, at least, has been speculating. The Huntsman may not be able to take Maurice’s blessing back, not entirely. Not now that it ties him to Njáll. Njáll is far outside his control.
Njáll nods. “All right.” Whether he believes me or not, it matters little. I help him get Maurice out of the car and we leave the driver behind as we make our way up the short path to the house.
Grant lingers on the stairs, wide eyes flaring even wider when he sees that Maurice is unconscious between us. His power pulses even before he opens his mouth, but I shake my head sharply and tug on the bond that ties us together.
“He will be fine,” I say. “This way.”
We settle Maurice on the sofa. Njáll stands nearby, eyes never leaving his mate. Grant hovers at the other end of the sofa, hands fluttering as though he does not know what to do with them.
“Did you see her?” I ask, and Grant’s gaze jerks to me, face too pale. “The high fae?”
“N-no. Paxton sent me a text. Told me to stay upstairs until she was in the cellar.”
I let out a quiet breath. Good. The fewer people who know of Grant’s existence, the better, because that way I can keep him safe and—
“Are you all right?” Grant asks. He darts a step closer, eyes running over me as he searches for injuries.