Chapter Thirty-Four
Lark
There is a reason I have no opening hours posted for Hallowed Grounds, and it is for nights like these.
Nights where I usually would have locked the doors an hour before and made my way to the cramped flat I occupy, but instead, I remain, wiping the counters over and over, all so I can enjoy simply being in his presence.
Not that he is alone. Not tonight. Tonight, Ophelia is with him, leaning into Dante’s space and speaking in low, urgent tones.
His hair is pale pink today—has been all week. The kind of pink that reminds me of cherry blossoms, which is why I added cherry blossom tea to the menu two mornings ago and ignored Drew’s soft smile.
I do not mind having an employee, especially one so diligent. I do not require a friend.
Dante shakes his head at something Ophelia says, lines marring his brow, and then glances at me. Even with his olive-toned skin, his cheeks flush. He looks quickly away.
I see all the signs of his attraction. It is not about that.
It is about time, about waiting, about having him truly understand what he would be entering into, aside from the obvious.
I know a great deal about him, and he knows very little about me and that is not his fault, not at all, but I simply need more time to pass, so in the meantime, I will remain close and wait.
A flash of light hair draws my eye to the door. He does not enter, just stands there long enough that I know he will not be dissuaded.
I sigh. It is time to stop staring, to close, and then see why the Huntsman has deigned to visit me after all this time.
Neither Dante nor Ophelia is looking at me now, Ophelia showing Dante something on her phone, so I approach them. I will need to clean their empty mugs anyway, and that will give me something to do with my hands during the no doubt unpleasant conversation that will follow their departure.
“…just swipe this way, and then if he does the same, it’ll match you together.”
“Yeah, thanks, I know how dating apps work.”
I come to a stop a few feet away, my heart beating so loudly that I am certain they will hear it. Dante frowns down at Ophelia’s phone, swiping one way, then the next.
“Oh, don’t match me with him, Jesu—” Ophelia looks up and spots me standing there. Her eyes widen when she glances at the time. “Shit, sorry! You should’ve closed ages ago.”
Dante blinks at her, then at me before he mutters his own apology, too. I can do nothing but stand there as he hurries their mugs over to the counter.
Ophelia watches me the whole while, and I get the sense she is puzzled, but I do not know why. “You could’ve said something,” she says. “We’d have gone home.”
“No, I—” I shake my head. I cannot lie, and it is never more frustrating than in moments like these. “It was not a bother.”
Ophelia nods, and she bustles out the door first, but Dante pauses in the doorway. His eyes soften when he looks back at me. “Night, Lark.”
“Good night.”
They leave, and I do not lock the door. I do not move to wash the mugs, either. I sit in the same spot Dante just occupied and let the faint traces of his magic ground me.
There is little of his I can sense now, being as I surrendered so much of my own to come to this realm, but what I can is always so solid, so of the earth. Ophelia’s is similar, but in a way that screams danger to my fae senses.
I sigh. It is irrational for me to be upset.
The point of giving Dante time is for him to experience things like this.
For him to come into a relationship with me—should he wish for that—on a more even footing.
That does not mean it does not hurt, of course.
The idea that he will have drinks with these men, dinner, conversation, kissing, touching—
“I am not here to improve your mood,” the Huntsman says. He sits in the armchair next to the sofa I am on and frowns at, I imagine, the softness of it.
“I never presumed you were.” I know why he is here. I might not have had the news already, but I heard the queen was fading. It is not a leap.
“Mother is dead.”
I feel… empty. Sadness will come, surely, but it has been years since I saw her last and decades if not centuries since we spent any real time together.
“You were there.”
“You were not.” He is not wearing his glamour, and I know to humans we are unreadable, but I see the fleeting pull of his lips that tells me he is irritated. “You need to return, Lark.”
“I cannot.”
“You need to take the throne.”
“And who will sit beside me? You?”
Iagan bares his teeth, truly angry. “I will not. Take your soulbond with you. You came for him.”
“He is human.”
“He is a witch.”
“Human enough that I do not believe he would survive, and that would be if we were bonded, which we are not, and if I thought I could uproot him to another realm once bonding with him.”
“You have been here for years—”
“I gave up almost all of my magic so I would not have to return!”
Iagan’s face falls. He has to have known the truth of that.
I went to the witch, gave her my true name, and gave her all but the final drop of my magic.
I can ward this café, I can maintain my human glamour, but aside from the residual magic that exists in my blood as a result of what I fundamentally am, I am no more powerful than the average human.
“You never intended to take the throne?”
“That role was always to be Ronan’s. You know that. He was raised for it.”
And then he discovered his own soulbond. In the end, meddling in the human realm got him killed.
“What are we to do?”
“You have your soulbond.”
Iagan laughs. There is no humour in the bitter sound. “No. No. He is human and has already said he will never accept our bond.”
I sigh and push my hair over one shoulder. “Three sons and no heir to show for it.”
The look Iagan gives me in response is downright venomous. He gets to his feet and all at once he is the epitome of the spoilt, selfish little brother I grew up with, and my heart aches for the damage my choices have caused, but I cannot help but be selfish myself.
I cannot rule with another. Not knowing that Dante is here, that I would never be able to return to him.
I cannot force that life upon him, either. The crown would drain him, waste him away before my very eyes, and that is nothing to mention what being taken from his pack would do to him. Even if we had centuries behind us, it is not what I would ask of him.
“You know what will happen should no one take the crown,” Iagan says. No, the Huntsman. As he stands by the door now, he is wearing that face again, the one he uses to hide every part of himself. “The Otherworld will fade. Fae will die for your whims, Lark. Humans, too.”
“The choices they make are their own. As are mine. I will not be shamed for them.”
I will not shame him for his, either. When I left the Otherworld, I left for good. I had no intention of returning.
I will not return. Not ever.
The Huntsman gives me one final look before he storms out into the night. I lock the door behind him and press my hand to the wall, feeling the wards twist at the touch of what little magic I have left.
I feed it into them—all of it—because he may not have said it, but we both know the truth.
It is not only Iagan who will be seeking out a lost prince. He is right. Many fae will believe they can take the throne, but very few have the power to endure the true weight of the crown. The Otherworld will soon begin to fade just like its queen did.
And then other fae will come for me, too.