Chapter 57
Chapter
Fifty-Seven
Mortis weaves through the forest, bending around trees, leaping over streams, bounding up rocks. My fingers tangle through his grizzled mane, holding on for dear life. He howls, a signal to his master that he’s captured their prey.
The sun dips ever closer to the horizon, panic a swift drumbeat in my chest. I hope Lachlan, Aowen, Vesper, and Sabre are not following us. It’s a fool’s hope; of course they are. But I pray they do not interfere with my plan.
Mortis slows as a break in the trees appears. Beyond, on a bald white rock jutting over the vast expanse of the Eldergrove, a figure stands in silhouette against the setting sun. Five spikes shoot from his head. I see he’s taken the liberty of crowning himself already.
Torvil smiles as Mortis slinks over to deposit me at his feet.
I crash down upon the rock, sniveling. Playing my part. He doesn’t know that I know of his plans to steal the novillum seed. At least, I’m praying he doesn’t. It’s my only edge, and one I’ll need to cling to fiercely.
“Very good,” he croons to Mortis, who snaps out a sharp bark, then sits back on his haunches, awaiting further instructions. “Make sure you’ve not been followed.”
Mortis barks again, once, twice, then darts back into the forest.
Torvil helps me up, and the tears in my eyes, while very real, are born from hatred, not gratitude. I doubt he can tell the difference.
“Oh, my dear Charlotte.” He brushes my hair off my face, pulls up the collar of my chemise. “What have those brutes done to you? I was so worried when the Macán bitch stole you away yesterday.”
“She b-brought me to Desmond, but he … Sir Quinn was there. He killed the duke just as he was about to …” I trail off, squeeze my eyes shut to spill tears down my cheek. “Oh, Torvil, I was so scared Desmond was going to claim me before I could get to you.”
Frightened and helpless, I paw at him. Seeking weapons.
Or a vial.
Timothy said Torvil intended to be a king without a queen. And the only way he could achieve that is if he brought another vial of that poison to the Eldergrove.
He grabs my wrists roughly, nearly snapping bone and interrupting my search, then presses my hands against his chest. “I promised I would win you, Charlotte. By any means necessary. There’s nothing to fear now. We will end this together.”
He bends down to kiss me, my hands trapped against him, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it this time. His tongue invades my mouth and every cell in my body revolts as he begins subtly moving toward the edge of the rock.
I try to hold firm, push back, but he’s far stronger than me.
My boots slip, and stones skitter down the cliff.
I force my panic down, test his grip, but it’s vise-tight.
Not only can I not pull away, but I can barely breathe around his mouth.
I don’t want this, don’t want him, and I am not doing a very good job of masking my struggle.
There is no way he cannot sense my hesitation.
Obviously, he does not care.
He takes a huge step forward, and a gust blows up my chemise.
A howl tumbles through the trees, long and loud, followed by the unmistakable sounds of a struggle—barks and growls and swords crashing and armour clanking.
Torvil tears his lips from mine and in the split second of his distraction, I glance at my feet.
A necessity to grab the thorn that unfortunately shows me how terrifyingly close I am to certain death.
Half of my boot heel hangs off the edge, and an overwhelming wave of vertigo overtakes me.
My head spins and my vision blurs. Bending over, even to grab my weapon, seems an impossibility.
Torvil shakes me, icy with rage. “You led them to me.”
Truthfully, I did not. If anything, it was Mortis. “Never, my king. I would never betr—”
His hands are at my throat, choking off my words. “You traitorous little bitch,” he snarls, which is quite rich coming from a man who likely intends to poison me then throw me off a cliff.
He bends me backward, enough that I can reach the top of my boot to slip out the thorn.
I slice it across his wrist, and he jumps back, shocked. As if I have transformed before him once again. Not a lamb, but a viper. One who’s not afraid to strike.
“This game is over.” I level the thorn at him. “Give me the poison. I know you have it on you.”
He snickers, shaking the blood off his wrist before pulling a familiar vial of acid green liquid from his pocket.
“This poison?” He slips his hand into his other pocket, retrieving another vial, this one filled with a bubbly liquid that resembles pink champagne.
“Thought you might be more interested in the antidote, honestly.”
The thorn wavers as my hand shakes. “Antidote?”
He takes a long step forward, pressing his chest into the thorn. Confident that I won’t use it. Not yet. Not until I hear his villain monologue. How very Torvil of him. If this situation weren’t so dire, I might burst into hysterical laughter.
“I have an offer for you, Miss Fitzroy.” He holds up the green vial. “When you take this, the novillum seed will be expelled from your body and rebind itself to the ring.”
When I take it. I am half-terrified to hear why he is so sure I will.
“After which, the ring will fall off, exposing your mortal body to the glacial march of time here in the Otherworld. Your heart will slow to the point your brain will be convinced it’s stopped beating. And you will die.
“Unless”—he shakes the pink vial—“you drink this immediately after. It will halt the time expansion. Heal you. Alter the very fabric of your being. You could stay in the Otherworld forever. Marry that poor, lowly knight who was always mooning over you. Have his hideous, ginger-haired babies for all I care. The antidote would make you compatible in that way as well.”
Torvil claimed my heart would slow, but right now, it’s beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
He’s offering me everything I want. Minus the babies, of course. But I’m not surprised Torvil would assume that just because I am a woman, I must want to be a mother.
He creeps closer, the tip of the thorn piercing his charcoal hunting jacket. “I’ll give you land, a title, the reassurance that you and Lachlan will be safe. As long as you agree not to get in the way of my new world order. And give me the novillum seed so I can end this farce of a monarchy.”
His spittle-coated lips pull into a mad grin. “Alanthe áine was right about one thing, you know. Why should a mortal woman be queen of our kind? And why should every House have an equal chance to rule, when it is so clear that the áines are the only House capable of it?”
I am fairly certain he’s completely misinterpreted Alanthe áine’s story, but what would be the point in correcting him now?
“Once I have the seed, I will forge it into this crown, destroy the ring, and the Wild Hunt will be over, once and for all. The áine dynasty will rule the celestial kingdom forevermore, as our gods intended.
“So, Miss Fitzroy,” he shakes both vials in his outstretched arms, “what do you say? Do we have a deal? You get your blissful ending, I get a permanent crown, and we all live happily ever after.”
I wish I were a better woman. That Torvil’s offer wasn’t so, so tempting. It’s the reinvention I’ve been chasing this whole time, in a more literal sense than I ever thought possible.
And the thought of spending a lifetime with Lachlan? I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in either realm.
I close my eyes, a single tear spilling down my cheek.
Because regardless of who I am at this moment, old or new Charlotte, there is only one right answer. The same answer Lachlan would give, were he in my place.
“No.”
“No?” Torvil tilts his head, brows knit as he slips the vials back into his pockets. “You did understand what I just said, didn’t you? Do you need me to explain it all again?”
God, he really is the fucking worst.
I lurch forward and bury the thorn between his ribs. He grunts, but recovers quickly, grabbing my other arm and pulling me forward. I lose my footing, and he slams us to the ground, crushing me beneath him. His crown topples off, but my thorn stays wedged in his side.
He makes no move to remove it, focused instead on wrapping strong, cold hands around my throat and pushing down on my windpipe. I have never felt so fragile, thin-boned and eminently breakable.
My lungs burn as I suck down air that doesn’t move past his grip, and shale bites into my arm each time I strain for the thorn. I can’t get more than a finger on it before he pushes down harder.
His violet eyes sparkle, exuberant. “Was this your plan all along? To kill me? Did you hate me from the very start?” He leans in, his chest compressing my own, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth.
“I thought you were quite a little treat when I first saw you at that presentation ceremony. Too bad you turned out to be such a lying whore.”
Tears coat my face, and I can’t breathe.
He lets up a fraction, enough for the barest sip of air, and oh thank god, I—
He chokes down again, sneering and sitting back on my hips. “If you won’t drink the poison on your own, I’ll pour it down your throat. Now, be a lamb, and just”—he slams my head into the ground—“fucking”—slam—“pass out”—slam—“already.” And once more for good measure.
My head throbs and spots bloom behind my eyelids. I am no longer a person, just a fog of pain. Whatever power the novillum gifted me is likely the only reason I’m still alive. Torvil’s blows would have surely cracked my skull otherwise.
My world narrows to the pound of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears.
Torvil’s hovering face holds no emotion whatsoever. No anger, no gleeful violence, not even disgust. It’s dispassionate and sterile. Like he’s crushing a bug.
Is it because I am human?
Or because I am a woman?
I have been underestimated so many times—by George, by Desmond, by Sir Quinn, by Torvil’s courtiers, by Torvil himself.
And I am not the only one. I think of Jane, forced to stay in an unhappy marriage.
Of Lisande, desperate for the love of a man who did not flinch at her death.
Of Aowen, living in the shadow of a brother not nearly as qualified to lead.
Of Alanthe and Granny Maggie and my mother and every woman who’s ever sacrificed her joy to meet a man’s expectations.
It is for them and all the women who came before and will come after that my ember of frustration flames into adrenaline-fueled rage.
I let it consume me as I surge upward and wrap my fingers around the thorn’s handle.
Torvil roars as I rip it from his side. It’s drenched in blood, wet and slippery, but I hold tight.
“There will be no king.”
I jam it into his neck, once, twice, three times.
He grunts out a watery cough, then slaps a palm against the wound as he staggers up off me.
I push to my feet, dizzy, nauseous, as his frantic eyes search for a weapon. They land on the discarded crown, but he hesitates just long enough that I’m able to kick it over the edge. It tumbles to the rocks below with a tinkling crash.
I lunge for him again, using the thorn to punch him in the stomach, the thigh, the shoulder, rending flesh with every blow. Torvil manages to block some, but not all. I catch his palms, his forearms. I can’t get close enough to stab his face, but god, do I want to try.
Blood splatters my chemise, my skin, warm and wet, and he’s covered in it, too—crimson streaks through his white hair and a thick, sticky layer on his palms.
He’s weakening, I can feel it. And I’m too slippery to get a firm grip on. He did not expect this. Did not expect me. He brings shaking fingers to his mouth and whistles, two sharp, gurgling blasts.
Calling Mortis.
My chin hooks over my shoulder as the beast breaks through the tree line, followed by Aowen. She’s carrying Sir Quinn’s bow and quiver.
Torvil grins like he’s won, wincing as he pulls the vials from his pocket.
“Last chance!” he gurgles. “Accept my offer, and all will be forgiven. Otherwise, I fear my hound is about to end you. No bother. I’ll do this all again next year with another candidate.”
Mortis rushes toward us, head down and snarling furiously as Aowen plants herself and notches an arrow.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter.
Time slows as Mortis pounds forward.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen feet.
His raw meat smell fills my bruised, burning lungs as—
Twang.
Thwap.
An arrow explodes through Mortis’s good eye, and I leap sideways, grabbing the green vial from Torvil’s outstretched hand and rolling away.
His beast slams into him, and they tumble off the cliff.