Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
The guest wing hallways are hushed, everyone barricaded in their quarters.
Behind closed doors, laughter burbles, music plays, and conversations flow. They’re completely oblivious to whatever emergency has gripped the castle.
I have no idea what it is, but all I can picture is Lachlan lying on the floor of a salon, bleeding out on one of the duke’s fancy carpets.
Is he alone? Where are the other celestial knights?
Why did no one protect him? And what sort of threat could have injured a man as skilled in combat as Lachlan?
Fueled by a regrettable amount of biscuits, my adrenaline spikes as I creep down the main staircase into the entrance hall.
As soon as my boot touches marble, a growl rumbles through the castle. A warning from some extremely large and very hungry creature. And it seems to have originated in the east wing.
I brush hair out of my eyes with shaky fingers, then straighten my shoulders and head in that direction.
I come upon a hallway lined with suits of armour that ends in a pair of tall doors. A crash booms behind them, and I race toward the room, pausing to grab a sword from one of the statues.
God, it’s bloody heavy. Lachlan swings them around so easily.
Still, its hefty weight makes me feel slightly less vulnerable as I open the doors into a space with an uncanny resemblance to Statuary Hall at Harbridge.
A mezzanine rings a vast room filled with sculptures and free-standing walls covered in framed artwork.
Clouds smother any moonlight trying to peek through the glass ceiling, resulting in plenty of shadowed corners for beasties to lurk.
I see no hint of movement, and everything looks—
There. At the bottom of the opposite staircase. A large statue has been toppled, its head gently rocking several paces from where its body has fallen. An unmistakable moan of pain emanates from behind it, and my heart seizes.
Lachlan.
I adjust my grip on the sword, then scurry down the staircase to the tune of get to him, get to him, get to him.
It’s not quite loud enough to mask my simultaneous mental scolding.
If he’s gravely injured, how on earth am I going to get him out of here?
He’s easily twice my weight, if not more.
And whatever made that growling noise is in here somewhere.
Where the hell is Aowen? Or Vesper, for that matter?
She’s deadly enough to claw out an eyeball or two for me, surely.
I weave around walls covered in grand portraits of stone-faced, silver-haired faerie men. Names and dates are stamped on golden plaques beneath each frame—the years of their reign over House áine? Odd, though, I do not see an open-ended pair that might correspond to the current duke.
I round a corner, and the next section contains a series of landscapes. There are several large pieces depicting Tír na Lune’s castle and surrounding city. Smaller works fill the gaps between their frames, one barely the size of a book cover. My eyes rove over it, and the ring warms.
Of all the sodding times to get a hint.
The small painting depicts a bell-shaped hill rising above a lush, green valley. Neat, thatch-roofed buildings gather around variously sized lakes. The metal grows faintly hotter as I step closer, searching for an inscription or a title or even the artist’s—
A deep snarl burbles, far too close.
Something loosens in my gut, and as soon as I turn, I wish I hadn’t.
Standing behind me is some hideous cross between a lion and a hairless dog.
Its snout is thick and its face wrinkled, haloed by a pale white mane.
Shiny, pupilless eyes that look like mercury swirled with ink track me; there’s a puckered grey scar slashed through the left.
Cuts shine on its belly, one deep enough to release blood in its wake.
Is this the creature that wounded Lachlan?
If so, he got a few good blows in beforehand.
A long tail swings above its hind legs while another growl rumbles past the largest, sharpest teeth I’ve ever seen.
I take several slow, unsteady steps backward, hiding the sword behind my back and raising my palm to let the creature know I mean no harm.
The beast sniffs the air then tilts its head. Curious. Maybe it can be—
It releases a deafening roar, blowing back my hair.
I curse myself for disobeying Lachlan and hold the sword out with shaking arms.
The beast chuffs out a breath. Almost a laugh, as it stalks closer.
As if it’s got all the time in the Otherworld to gnaw the flesh from my bones.
It’s all sharp teeth and clacking claws and wrinkled, hairless skin—hideous in a rather breathtaking way.
If it didn’t look so intent on eating me, I might consider drawing it.
The creature shifts its pace from languid to swift, catching me off guard and swiping at my sword. Metal whines as a claw glances off the blade I barely manage to angle across my chest.
Blind instinct takes over, and I swing the sword with fiercely protesting arms. It catches the creature on the nose with a smack, but the blade does not bite.
It’s decorative. Dulled.
Shit.
Still, the blow startles the creature enough to rear back, and I’m off.
I zip between walls and pedestals, shouting through the diamrhán, Please tell me where you are! I feel a flicker of surprise shoot back, but no words or full sentences.
I run and twist and look over my shoulder to see the creature weaving toward me again, and I’m hauling this ridiculously heavy sword which I probably should have dropped about four turns ago, but it was the only thing that stopped the dog-lion from chomping me even if it was mostly due to surprise, and if that was my one and only move then I’ve just used it up, and oh hell what was I thinking trying to rescue Lachlan because I was not made for fighting off deadly monsters or even running for that mat—
Something booms to the floor behind me, swiping dangerously close to my head. I turn, staggering backwards, to see the creature’s knocked over another statue.
And as I slam into the corner of two free-standing walls, I realize what the clever thing has done.
It’s a trap.
I grip the sword in both hands, breathing heavily as the creature climbs languidly over the fallen statue. It knows it’s won. And dinner awaits.
I toss the heavy sword aside and scramble for the left wall. There’s moulding at the top. If I can reach it, I could pull myself out. The wall isn’t so tall that such a task seems impossible, only a few feet above my head.
It is covered in artwork, though. I jump, clinging to the moulding and glancing over my shoulder to find the creature has gotten its tail stuck within the toppled statue’s rubble. It cannot reach me. Yet. It struggles forward, growling and snarling, closer to freeing itself with every pull.
I beg my muse for forgiveness as I try not to damage canvases in my struggle to pull upward, curling an elbow over the top of the wall.
Relief swoops through my stomach. I’ve got it. I’m going to—
The creature seizes my calf, and I barely get my other elbow in place before it’s yanking me down.
Something hard and sharp tears through my lower leg.
Claws or teeth, I’m not sure I want to know.
There’s searing pain, along with a ripping sound that I pray is fabric and not flesh as I try to struggle free.
My grip on the wall loosens and I am yanked again, barely able to hook my fingers over the edge and hold on for dear life. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for a miracle.
The faerie gods must hear me, because something thumps onto the wall, steel sings, and there he is.
Lachlan swipes his massive, and very much not decorative, sword down onto the beast.
The pressure on my leg releases, followed by a pained yowl. Lachlan grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me up.
“Get on my back,” he commands, crouching.
I wrap my arms around his neck, but when I try to move my right leg, blinding, white-hot pain shoots through it.
“I can’t,” I pant. “Can’t get my … ”
He wraps a single large hand around both of my forearms at his neck, his sword gripped in the other. “Hold on.”
It’s all the warning I get before he leaps from the wall.
The jolt of the landing bounces my teeth together and sends another scorching blast of pain through my leg.
Then he’s rushing through the gallery toward the staircase.
Behind us, the creature’s frustrated roar shakes the room’s foundation as claws scrabble across marble.
There are so many things I want to scream at him. Why didn’t you answer me? I thought you were injured. Are you injured? Because if you are, I can’t see it.
An injured person couldn’t possibly move this fast. He’s not even winded, curving around walls and between statues. The staircase is right there, but the path is anything but straight with all this damned art in the way.
I cling to him, pressing my face past his soft, auburn hair and into the crook between his neck and shoulder.
I try not to whimper against his skin, but my leg is throbbing.
Am I going to lose it? Could the celestial kingdom get behind a one-legged queen?
I’ve barely won over a single territory with two.
The thought has me choking on a morbid giggle.
I fear I might be delirious.
I must be, because for a moment, I swear I hear two howls rising. Perhaps my mind has fractured, and I—
Thump.
Lachlan skids to a halt, gripping the thigh of my uninjured leg to stop me from falling off his back.
A second beast has landed right at the base of the staircase, cutting off our escape route.
The creature behind us huffs as the pair circle us. Herding their prey.
Lachlan holds me close, whirling to keep eyes on both creatures. They swipe at us slowly, lazily. Taunting. Lachlan knocks their paws away with his sword as they inch closer, trying to tire him out. Encouraging him to drop me and deliver their meal.
He’s flagging. I can feel it in his shallow breaths, in every wince as he twists to the left. He is injured. And in his wearied state, he can no longer ignore it.
“Put me down,” I whisper in his ear.
“Never,” he growls. “I’m not going to lose my—” He swallows. “Not going to let Desmond’s queen be eaten by áine’s báshounds.”
I have never heard of a báshound, and dearly wish I could’ve maintained my ignorance. They press in closer, having caught the scent of Lachlan’s exhaustion and the end of their hunt.
What have I done? I’ve killed us both. Lachlan could have gotten away if he wasn’t forced to save me from my own recklessness.
I murmur an apology onto his skin, and he rubs his cheek along the crown of my head.
“Charlotte, there’s something I need to tell—”
A whistle pierces the air.
The báshounds back away, and Lachlan slumps to one knee, still holding me, trying to catch his breath. He’s muttering something in another language. I cannot interpret the specific words, but the phonetics of relief are universal.
He stands, then settles me on my good leg, looping an arm around my shoulder to keep me upright.
Slow footsteps clack down the stairs, and I hear a familiar voice. “Mortis, to me. Anguis, follow.”
The scarred báshound, Mortis, leads the way to their master: a tall, handsome faerie man with bright violet eyes. “I’m terribly sorry about my pets. They only follow commands from me, I’m afraid. I rushed back to Tír na Lune as soon as I heard someone had set them loose in the castle.”
Lachlan’s teeth are bared—in anger or pain, I cannot tell; probably both—and his armour is gouged in several places.
I’m fairly certain he’s hiding a gash beneath the palm pressed below his ribs.
But he’s still standing. Those death moans I heard in the hall, long since silenced, belonged to someone else.
Duke áine, on the other hand, looks completely unruffled. His elegant aubergine suit is spotless, and not a single strand of pin-straight silver hair is out of place. How long could it have possibly taken for him to return from Farlock’s Edge?
A wave of hot, frustrated anger sweeps through me. I cannot imagine Lachlan doesn’t feel the same. But he’s either too dutiful or too chained by these silly hierarchies to say anything. He holds the duke’s gaze, wearing a deep frown—the most insubordination he’ll chance.
I, however, have no such qualms.
“You might have come sooner, Your Grace. At least one of your own men perished, and Sir Cathal has been gravely injured. Tír na Strelle will expect a formal apology.”
A tiny burst of shocked pride caresses my mind.
“Sir Cathal?” Duke áine cants his head. “Is that what they’re calling him these days?
” He turns his attention to me. “You look a bit different than I remember from the presentation ceremony, Miss Fitzroy. Different, but not entirely unpleasant. Come, I’ll send for my personal healer to meet us in your quarters.
On the way, you can tell me more about my failings.
I do so enjoy being scolded by a beautiful woman. ”
I cannot help a nervous smile. Still, I am reluctant to leave Lachlan. “But—”
Go, Lachlan says through the diamrhán. Which he’s finally decided to use again. I could throttle him. You’ve piqued his interest. Take advantage of it. Don’t worry about me.
“The other healers have set up in the first-floor parlors,” the duke says to Lachlan, cruelly bored. “Might be a bit of a wait. There’s quite a few nasty injuries to deal with.” He strokes a hand down his báshound’s mane.
Another wave of righteous anger licks through me at his complete lack of remorse or accountability. It’s mirrored through the diamrhán, but Lachlan’s face is as blank as ever when I take the duke’s outstretched arm and let him guide me up the stairs.
I limp, wincing, since the duke doesn’t slow his pace in the slightest to accommodate my injury. Mortis and Anguis fall into step behind us.
I catch Lachlan’s gaze over my shoulder as I crest the staircase.
The ring signaled. Before Mortis ambushed me.
Where?
Over in the collection of landscapes. On a small painting of a valley below a bell-shaped hill. Do you know where that is?
He offers a barely perceptible nod. We’ll talk tomorrow. Focus on healing tonight.
Duke áine opens the door, but before he pulls me through, I have one more message for Lachlan. Thank you. For saving me. Again.
It was the least I could do. You came to save me first, after all. He grins, and it’s a little incredulous.
Does no one ever think to save him?
I scurry after Duke áine, two additional questions surfacing.
First, where is the land with the bell-shaped hill?
And second, what was Lachlan going to tell me when he thought we were about to die?