Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
C reslyn was absolutely certain of one thing.
She did not like the bogs.
The Fenmire Bogs were a marshy, sodden land where spindly trees jutted up from murky gray waters, their dense canopy of dark leaves filtering out most of the early evening light. Gnarled branches stretched overhead, reaching like skeletal hands, and thick moss hung from them like discarded lace. Piles of small stones were stacked near muddied streams where black mushrooms sprouted from the damp earth. Decaying skulls were embedded into the base of a handful of trees, surrounded by clumps of braided peat and withered flower petals.
Creslyn recoiled as the icy hand of apprehension trailed one finger down her spine.
Goosebumps pebbled her flesh as she glanced around the bogs, the pungent scent of rotting, stagnant water heavy in the air. It was eerily silent, save for the rustling of leaves and the squelch of her boots against the spongy ground. This place was creepy. Unnatural.
Even Svartos seemed ill at ease, shuffling his massive weight from side to side, tossing his head, refusing to settle.
“Stay close to me,” Drake murmured, pulling something from one of the satchels tossed across Svartos’s back.
Drake grabbed her thigh, dragging her leg up to his waist, and she swallowed her yelp of surprise. Slowly, he removed a dagger from the leather strap across his chest, its silver blade glinting like hardened moonlight. He twirled it through the air between them, then slid the dagger into the glossy black sheath strapped to her thigh.
Creslyn’s blood warmed at his touch.
It was quite possibly one of the most sensual things he’d ever done.
He released her, and she regained her balance quickly, glancing down at her new weapon. “Will I need this?”
Drake shrugged, capturing her hand. “You might.”
He guided her through the swampy bogs, and the marks and signs of witches steadily increased. There were twigs bound with twine and shaped into pentagrams. Misshapen stones formed uneven altars, each of them topped with stumpy, half-melted candles and rusted bowls filled with bones. Runes she couldn’t read were carved into the trunks of trees, intricate swirls and sharp lines representing a language she did not understand.
The further they trekked into the Fenmire Bogs, the more Creslyn’s awareness heightened.
She pursed her lips, threading her fingers through Drake’s. His gloved hand squeezed hers in return. “I feel like there is a possibility that we are being watched.”
Drake lifted a low-lying branch covered in tiny white flowers and emerald spores, letting her pass under first. “We are.”
A few moments later, a collection of small, rustic buildings came into view, though Creslyn supposed the proper term for them would be huts. They were constructed from dark wood, most of them hardly larger than her bedroom in Aeramere. Each roof was thatched, and gray smoke puffed out of lopsided stone chimneys, the scent of burning peat and aged wood hanging heavy in the air. Toward the center of the makeshift village was a crackling fire spitting flames into the fading twilight. Two larger logs were positioned on either side of the snapping fire. Grooves had been carved out on the top of each log to fit a long, whittled branch, and it was there a black cauldron hung, its unknown contents popping and gurgling quietly.
Unease shivered between her shoulders, and Drake drew her in close to his side as a cloaked figure emerged from one of the huts.
“Prince Drake Kalstrand of Brackroth,” a sultry, feminine voice spoke from beneath a crimson hood. “What a pleasant surprise.”
The female approached them, and when she came fully into view, Creslyn was shocked by her beauty. It was not a hag who stood before them, but a witch. Midnight hair fell past her shoulders, and though her skin was alabaster in color, her cheeks were flushed and rosy. Her lips were the color of ripe cherries, and her smile was laced with venom. She wore a bodice of black that hugged her waist and ruffled skirts hung around her like a waterfall of inky satin. An assortment of silver chains and charms hung from her neck, and she crossed her arms, cocking one hip to the side.
“Zaleria. It’s been some time.” Drake gestured toward Creslyn. “My wife, Creslyn Starstorm Kalstrand.”
Zaleria.
The witch who won Marius’s heart, at least until he broke hers.
Creslyn frowned, unable to keep her emotions from her face. Stars above, what this beautiful woman saw in that hideous wretch of a man was unfathomable.
Zaleria, however, did not even spare Creslyn a glance. She only had eyes for Drake.
A wedge of jealousy nestled deep into Creslyn’s gut. Whether Drake sensed it or not, this witch may have at one time been on Marius’s arm, but it was quite clear that she also admired Drake for rather obvious reasons.
“How long has it been?” Zaleria mused, tapping a pointy nail against her chin. “At least twenty-four years.”
Drake nodded slightly. “At least.”
Creslyn’s gaze darted past Zaleria, to where more cloaked witches lurked in the safety of mangled trees and tiny huts. They did not come any closer, though there were quite a number of them, yet Drake seemed undeterred by their presence.
“You’ve traveled a great distance.” Zaleria’s lush voice grated against Creslyn’s nerves, fraying them, like claws scraping along stone. “You and your faerie?—”
“ Wife ,” Drake interjected coldly.
Zaleria’s red smirk sharpened. “You and your faerie wife must be in need of rest. Won’t you come in? I just brewed some tea.”
Finally, Zaleria’s gaze slid to Creslyn, and she almost wished the witch had continued to ignore her instead. Her eyes were the color of melted gold, heated and penetrating, framed by thick, dark lashes. She stared at Creslyn, calculating, inspecting, watching her like she was some sort of curious creature. Like a bug or insect she could pin to a wall to examine at another time. To poke and prod, to break.
Drake nudged Creslyn forward, but she dug the heels of her boots into the soggy earth. “Absolutely not.”
He let go of her hand, sliding his arm around her waist. “Nothing to worry about, kearsta . Besides, it would be rude of us to refuse Zaleria’s offer.”
Creslyn scowled at the witch in question, her frustration towards Drake’s lack of concern rising as they stepped into Zaleria’s hut.
It wasn’t nearly as awful as she expected, given its outward appearance. Instead, the inside was oddly cozy and inviting. A fire crackled softly in a small hearth, warding off the chill from outdoors. Herbs tied with ribbon were hung to dry beside a smudged window. There was a wooden shelf filled with cracked leather books, a handful of crystals, bundles of sage, and a weathered deck of cards. Against the far wall was a bed topped with a blanket of fur and next to it was a worn chest etched with whorls and more random shapes Creslyn could not decipher. A rickety table took up the remainder of the space, with four chairs carved from different types of wood.
Drake pulled one out for her to sit, and its legs scraped against the coarse planks of the floor. It groaned beneath her weight, and she worried it might break beneath her, until Drake lowered himself into the chair beside her. He grabbed the underside of her seat, hauling her as close to him as possible, so she may as well have been sitting in his lap instead.
Zaleria lifted a bronze kettle from the hearth, pouring them each a cup of tea.
Creslyn lifted the chipped porcelain cup to her lips. The brew smelled of cinnamon and something slightly sweet, but Drake’s hand darted beneath the table, and he squeezed her thigh in warning.
“Do not drink it.” His voice infiltrated her mind, and she plastered a fake smile to her lips, keeping her hands wrapped tightly around the cup as she set it back down on the table.
“So, tell me.” Zaleria pinned Creslyn with another jarring stare. “Is marital bliss all you imagined it would be?”
That had been the last question she ever thought the witch would ask, but Creslyn had the unnerving sensation that if she showed any sign of weakness or frailty, Zaleria would not hesitate to pounce.
“I am quite content with my mate.” She exaggerated the last word, laying claim to Drake, and tucking a loose strand of hair back into her braid. “We have our disagreements, as most do, but I would never choose another over Drake. For me, it will always be him.”
“Mm.” Zaleria swiped her tongue along her bottom lip, her eyes flicking to Drake, drinking in the entirety of him. “I lusted after a prince once. Unfortunately for me, my feelings were not reciprocated.”
Drake’s deep green gaze narrowed, and his grip on Creslyn’s thigh tightened. “Ignore her.”
Creslyn bit the inside of her cheek.
Easier said than done.
Zaleria adjusted one of the many necklaces she wore, drawing attention to her rather full bosom where one chain remained tucked into her corset. “What is it you seek, shadow prince?”
Creslyn squeezed the porcelain cup in her hands until she thought it might shatter. Zaleria was pushing the boundary between mild flirtation and excessive seduction, intentionally trying to humiliate Creslyn in front of Drake by making unwanted advances. She gritted her teeth, ready to grind them until they were nothing but ash in her mouth.
Drake dipped his chin, his face calm, void of any expression. “You know why I’ve come here, witch.”
Zaleria waggled one finger through the air. “Mind your words, for the bogs are hallowed ground. I would hate for some terrible misfortune to befall you or your sweet faerie wife.”
He leaned forward, propping one elbow on the edge of the table. “Where is she?”
The witch sipped her tea, eyeing him over the rim of the pale blue cup. “Who?”
“The hag, Zaleria.” Anger tainted each word, and his jaw popped.
Zaleria, however, did not seem the least bit frightened or annoyed by his growing rage. “What business do you have with her?”
Drake slammed both of his hands on the table, rattling the cups so the tea sloshed over the rim and seeped into the worn wood. His shadows collected, massing like a rogue wave on an angry sea.
“Relax, Drake. There’s no need for violence.” She waved away his frustration, taking another sip of tea. “Yet.”
Creslyn tensed, clutching her hands in her lap.
That singular word seemed to hold a hefty weight. It settled in the space between them like a threat, foreboding and sinister. The thought alone made Creslyn’s skin crawl with trepidation.
Zaleria sighed heavily. “You can find her on the northernmost edge of the bogs, in the lone hut surrounded by bushes of elderberries and piles of bones. You can’t miss it, the stench is intolerable.”
Drake stood abruptly and held out his hand to Creslyn.
“Though I should warn you,” she continued, the corner of her lips lifting slightly. “The hag does possess the sight, and she is not one to take very kindly to strangers.”
Zaleria tilted her head in Creslyn’s direction. “Especially those with unusual power.”
“You’re suggesting I leave Creslyn here?” Drake scoffed, a vein bulging alongside his temple. “With you ?”
“Oh come now, it’s not like I’m going to throw her into the cauldron.” Zaleria laughed, rich and throaty. “Besides, she is far safer here than she is with the hag.”
Creslyn looked up at her husband, taking in his stony expression, the way his fists were clenched tightly at his sides so his knuckles were stark white.
“Drake…” she whispered into his mind.
His broad shoulders coiled with tension as he looked down at her. “Do you wish to come with me?”
She gnawed her bottom lip, torn. “Should I?”
Hesitation held him in check. His thoughts were at war, she could feel his uncertainty tremor through the bond. He wanted to keep her safe, yet at the same time, he did not want to leave her behind. Not again.
“I have known Zaleria for many years. While I do not readily trust her, I do not think she would harm you for fear of my wrath.” Drake swallowed, debating. “This hag, however, is an unknown threat.”
Creslyn nodded once.
“Secrets,” Zaleria muttered. “How darling.”
“I shall stay.” Creslyn straightened in her seat. She did not fear the witch or the hag. No, her concern was only for Drake.
Zaleria lifted one arm, pointing toward the door. “The hag awaits, Your Highness.”
Drake pressed a light kiss to the top of Creslyn’s head, then stalked toward the door, pausing only once to glance back at her, sending her one long, devastating look before leaving. When she could no longer hear his retreating footsteps, Creslyn turned to face Zaleria.
“Tell me how to break his curse.”
Zaleria’s eyes widened, her wispy lashes fluttering back. “My, you waste no time in your demands.”
“How?” Creslyn bit the word out.
The witch considered her. She lifted the kettle, pouring herself some more tea, then eased back in her chair. Her pointy nails tapped an unfamiliar melody against the hard wood of the table. “What do you know of the prince’s curse?”
“Only that he’s been cursed with shadows and violence since he drew his first breath.” Creslyn rubbed her lips together, remembering his story, wondering how much he withheld, trying to make sense of his burden. “And that my blood was not enough to break it.”
Again, the witch’s rich laugh filled the air.
Creslyn’s nails dug into the flesh of her palms. “Do you wish to disclose what it is that you find so amusing?”
Zaleria sobered.
“No.” She took a sip of her tea, and when she set the cup down, she traced her nail along its bumpy rim. “You realize, of course, nothing is ever free. Everything comes with a price.”
So, the witch wanted to strike a bargain with a faerie. They weren’t in Aeramere, so the magic of her realm would not bind Creslyn, but the magic of her blood would.
Creslyn bristled, feigning distrust. “I would expect nothing less.”
Zaleria’s venomous grin returned, her cherry lips stretching wide. “Very well. If I can make Drake abandon you, to break his vow to you, then you stay here with me. But…”
She chuckled softly. “If you can convince him that love is greater than power, then I will tell you how to break his curse.”
Perfect.
“Done.” Creslyn’s blood rushed, the magic inside of her building with intensity. She offered her hand and when Zaleria accepted, a burst of sunbeams and dizzying rainbows whipped around them like a crushing gale, sealing the deal so a tiny eight-pointed star and twin crescent moons formed on the back of her hand, a matching mark covering the witch’s skin.
“Foolish faerie,” Zaleria snickered.
Creslyn smiled. “Wretched witch.”