Chapter 18
Maddox
“You win more suitors with smiles than with frowns.”
— A Seelie Guide to Matrimony
“You can leave me the hell alone.”
I knew Nia would be angry, but I did not realize how upset my lie would make her. She is not the fool; I am. I stole her companionship under false pretenses. Companionship she would not have given me otherwise. Now, as expected, she wants nothing to do with me.
There is no point in fighting. This is a grave I have dug, and now I must lie down and let the dirt fall over me.
I climb onto Dusk’s saddle, my heart a shriveled mess as I steer him toward the castle.
The past days have been all light, and now the darkest night has descended with no promise of dawn.
The castle rises in the distance, shadows growing with the falling sun.
Even the peaceful gardens have lost their color.
I bring Dusk to the royal stables, letting one of the fae there take him for the night.
The energy has left my body, and I do not expect it to return any time soon.
Even the thought of greeting my Biscuits exhausts me.
This is not his fault, though, so I pat him on the head and bring him into our home.
Home.
An abandoned wooden cart I restored and parked in someone else’s garden. The contents, from the quilt to the single skillet to the three-legged chair were all found thrown out of other wagons or foraged from old camps during our many hunting excursions.
I have made a place for myself out of others’ discarded belongings, a feat that used to make me proud. This night, the whole place makes me impossibly sad.
After years of practice, I have become adept at pushing down any negative feelings.
Fae are not interested in what is bound to bring them down.
This is why I have dedicated my life to lifting others up with my smiles and my laughter.
There are times when I say things knowing they are silly.
I do not mind appearing a little foolish if I can bring someone else joy.
This day, I have brought not joy but anger and sorrow.
This day, I have lost much.
I do not want to spend the night in this barren bed with a mind that refuses to quiet long enough for me to rest. What is the point?
My empty time would be better used elsewhere.
I stuff a few necessities into my rucksack and then bring Biscuits to the castle entrance, where two guards watch over my friends. Their jaws hang when I hand Biscuits’s lead to one of the males and tell him to make sure the queen gets her goat in the morning.
Kerris Dawn’s father is a farmer of goats; she will know how best to take care of my Biscuits. He will be happier with her than with me.
I leave Dusk as well, not wanting to risk bringing him across the canyon bridge. Besides, he would not like to leave this lush grass for what little grows in the Unseelie lands. This is best for him.
The walk will do me good. Keep me busy.
The road is silent beneath my boots, but the boards of the bridge creak and whine. Two Unseelie stand from the bonfire where I spent most of my youth, watching out for our people, yes, but mostly to spend time with my friends. To feel less alone.
These young males are known to me, but I do not know them, so I nod and continue down one of the many hunting trails that traverse the dark forests.
The trees here stand as tall as the castle spires, with twisted limbs piercing the forever gray sky.
There is a stand built high in the trees where I can spend this night.
In the morning, I will hunt for any game I can find and bring it to the village.
The hunters are constantly foraging for food to help our people survive.
I have shirked my duty to them for far too long.
At least my isolation will be of use to someone.
Rough bark scrapes my spine, keeping me rigid against the tree’s thick trunk.
At the end of the branch perches a fuzzy gray squirrel.
Squirrels do not provide much meat, but some meat is better than none.
His eyes, dark like mine, lift to where I sit, and his fluffy tail jerks in greeting.
When I was little, I used to dream of having a pet squirrel.
Even started feeding one who lived in a nearby oak.
Named him Stumpy because he enjoyed sitting on this little stump.
What if this one is related to Stumpy?
I can almost hear Gryffin’s gruff voice saying that is nonsense and that I am a fanciful buffoon. Ghost Gryffin is not wrong. Fanciful buffoons make up stories about false females so they can spend time with beautiful Seelie.
When I glance back up, the squirrel is gone.
Thank the gods. I would have hated to kill it.
Far below, a rabbit hops from beneath a bush, its little nose twitching in the air. Awfully twitchy, rabbits. So fluffy too, with their tiny white tails and long back feet. Rabbits are delicious, but how can I take the life of something so cute and cuddly?
My head falls back against the trunk. This is why I need my friends. Ever would remind me that if we do not kill, we do not eat. Thankfully, the rabbit returns to the bushes before I reach the ground.
With my feet back on the earth, I head east, where I stumble upon a doe and a fawn.
I cannot kill a mother, now, can I? To leave the fawn without its parent would be unnecessarily cruel. They bound away, their lifted tails like small white flags disappearing into the fog.
Why is there fog only on our side of the canyon?
I used to think fog was smoke from a great fire.
Then Gryffin told me it was the clouds. I did not believe him until he gave me a Seelie book about clouds.
He has books about everything hidden around his wagon, although he is not very generous in sharing them.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly rise.
There are eyes in this fog. Watching. Stalking.
I slow my gait, listening for the sound of footfalls. There. The snap of a twig. Closer than it should be. I keep moving until I reach the nearest tree and unsheathe my dagger. A dark shadow emerges from the bushes, bloodred eyes trained on me.
Small for a wolf, but the fangs bared are just as deadly.
This is a beast I do not mind killing.
One that will feed many fae in our clan for days. One that, if left to live, could take the life of someone I know. Someone I care for.
The bone hilt is familiar in my grasp, worn smooth from many years of doing my duty. The beast’s muscles bunch beneath its thick coat of white fur. It lunges.
I am ready—
My boot catches on the tree’s twisted root, and I’m thrown to the dirt.
Razor-sharp claws rake down my ribs; pain explodes like fire. The coppery tang of blood floods my nostrils.
The wolf rears back, its gaping maw black with the promise of death.
I plunge my dagger into the wolf’s red eye, yank the blade free, and carve across the beast’s throat before it can do any more damage.
The wolf dies with a whimper, its legs twitching and bloody eye trained on me. The foolish part of me feels guilty for taking its life, even though the beast would not have felt any guilt over consuming my flesh for supper.
My heart continues to race as I fall to my knees to take stock of my wounds. There are three gashes. Not deep enough to see my ribcage but deep enough to burn like hellfire. If I did not have a flask of Seelie healing water, I would be worried, but since I do—
My pocket is empty. Where is my flask?
It must be in my rucksack.
Which is also missing.
Dammit. Where did I leave the fucking thing?
The tree. I hung it on a branch, and then the squirrel distracted me. If these wounds are not healed, I will not have the strength to drag this wolf back to camp.
I will need to retrieve it and return.
Through the woods I stumble, blood splattering the dirt as I make my way back to the tree where I saw the squirrel.
Climbing with fresh wounds is as enjoyable as sleeping on a bed of hot coals.
Which is to say, not at all.
I end up having to pour all the water over my side to heal the gouges.
Unfortunately, there is not enough, and my wounds continue to seep and pull as I climb back down.
I should return to camp, but then all of this will have been for naught, so I go to the wolf instead—only to find the carcass already ravaged by scavengers.
With the meat tainted, I cannot possibly bring what remains to camp. The thought of arriving empty-handed does not sit well with me, but it would be foolish to stay out any longer without access to healing water.
Side aching and heart in tatters, I start for the Unseelie camp where I spent my whole life wanting desperately to be chosen only to be abandoned time and again.
The camp sleeps in silence, tucked beneath its quilt of fog and darkness. Gryffin is not on his stairs, which is of no surprise at this hour. My hand trembles as I grip the railing leading to the small stoop that hangs behind his barrel top.
My fist feels too heavy to raise for a proper knock. Perhaps I should wait until morning to wake him. He is not very congenial, even when well rested. When roused from sleep, he might very well be as deadly as that wolf. I will sit here for a moment. Give my eyes a chance to rest.
In the distance, the creaking of a hinge reaches my ears, followed by a gruff voice. “Why are you covered in blood?”
There is a lot of blood, isn’t there? Who knew a fae could bleed so much and survive? “Wolf.”
I blink at my friend. One moment, he is standing; the next, he is crouching in front of me, his rough palm pressed to my forehead, forcing my eyes to remain open. “That is all you have to say? One word. No heroic tale? No ‘it was the size of a mountain?’”
“The wolf was small, but its claws were sharp.” I press my hand beneath my wounded ribs. “I left my water behind, and by the time I returned, something else had eaten it.”
His scowl deepens, and his hand falls away. “Where?”
Why won’t my head stay upright without his assistance? I prop my ear against the side of his wagon. There. That is better. “Eastern trails. About four kilometers past the last stand.”
He bobs his head and disappears into his wagon, reappearing a moment later with his flask and offering it to me. I drink until my wounds have healed, but the ache remains. When I look up again, Gryffin has a short sword in his fist and a bow on his back.
I let my eyes fall closed for a moment, just for a rest. Five minutes, and then I will go home.
Five minutes . . .