Chapter 8 #3
The tallest somehow dwarfs Drystan and is twice as broad, at least. Face set in a stern look, he steps forward and thumps a fist to his chest. “Threnn.” He doesn’t so much as spare a glance for me.
One of the women comes forward and bows her head, right fist over her heart.
“And we are my lady’s guard now, too.” Her eyebrows are lighter, the color of driftwood, but her full lips have been daubed with the same crimson as her long hair, which is worn in a thick braid, with one side of her head shorn.
“I am Astrid, second in the Twylth, and I pledge to serve my future queen.”
Drystan nods approval as the others introduce themselves and mirror her gesture. It’s only when she straightens her right arm that I realize the other ends just below the elbow.
I take a step forward before she backs off.
“May I ask…” I lick my lips, conscious of the need for manners while also consumed by the needs of my own curiosity.
“Your hair—the color.” I glance at her companions, who, now I look more closely, look nothing like her beyond the hair.
One has a long, narrow face. Another has broad cheekbones and a pointed chin.
Astrid’s complexion is amber brown, where the others range from as pale as my Pa to the same rich brown as the burnt umber paint in my brother’s watercolor palette.
“I was going to ask if you’re all related, but… ”
She shares a look with Threnn. They laugh, and inwardly, I cringe at the group’s mocking tone. Have I made a foolish mistake in the world of fae etiquette?
Drystan’s expression betrays no reaction—not even amusement—and a moment later Astrid’s laughter subsides to a warm grin, and she shakes her head.
“I can understand my lady’s question. Tales of us maybe haven’t made their way to the surface world.
We are redcaps, His Majesty’s warriors, and our hair is the same color because we bathe it in the blood of our enemies. ”
For a second, I think it’s a joke. A way to shock and terrorize the human.
But only for a second.
Because no one is laughing.
Because that is exactly the kind of thing fae do in the stories.
And most of all, because that color… it is the exact shade of freshly spilled blood—kept that way by some kind of fae magic. I have no doubt their corded arms and broad shoulders are for more than just show. They are beautiful lethality personified.
At my side, Drystan is still, his chin in the air, like a statue carved from ice.
“Well.” I nod like Astrid has just told me a fascinating story.
How much blood is required to allow someone to wash their hair in it?
That times thirteen fae. A tremor runs through me, and I try not to let the remaining biscuits rattle on the plate.
“That’s… You’re right, tales of your… prowess have not reached us. ”
Drystan turns to me slowly, a sculpture waking, but his gaze remains flinty. “Pray for your people they never experience it firsthand.” There’s none of the earlier tease in his voice.
Our moment of warmth and intimacy from earlier is entirely gone. Instead, beside me stands the King of Death, cold and hard, a threat in his words.
This is the natural order of things, his tone says. A mouse quakes in the hawk’s shadow. It knows its tiny, too-fast heart is made to be nothing more than a tasty morsel.
I should’ve known that even something as seemingly innocuous as a pretty color would come with a deadly origin story.
I may have shared a human moment with Drystan, but he and his people are not human.
They have two eyes, a nose and mouth like us, their bodies are shaped like ours, but their beauty is not a thing to be enjoyed—it is a thing to be ensnared by.
I continue with the presentations more gravely. Not even more biscuits can cheer me up.
When no one remains to bow to us, Drystan lifts his chin and eyes me sidelong. “You don’t like it here.” It’s clipped, matter of fact—not a question.
This realm is strange to me, disturbing even, but it’s his home—one he’s stuck in thanks to the unseelie’s ancient banishment.
From his behavior, it’s clear he’s proud of his kingdom, his people.
So I temper my response. “My problem isn’t Mordren.
It’s a magical place—far more so than the surface. I just want to go home.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Why are you so desperate to return to that little hut and your treacherous family?”
“My father had no choice,” I blurt. “He would’ve died if he hadn’t…
” I swallow and take a breath. If I can only make him see, maybe I can find some speck of pity in his cold heart.
“I need to get back to my brother. He’s stayed at home, putting his life on hold for me. I need to tell him he can leave—live.”
The king sighs. “I asked, and yet I find that I just don’t care.”
First my mouth drops open—humans would at least pretend to give a damn—then irritation prickles over me, and I chew my tongue before it spits out something the fae would consider most impolite.
“Family is the first lie we’re taught to believe.” His gaze drifts over the reveling fae. “You should thank me for disabusing you of such a foolish notion.”
How can one man be so wrong? “They love me,” I grit out.
He scoffs, all detached amusement and utter certainty.
My gods, I want to throttle him. “Why am I not surprised that’s a concept you don’t understand?”
“The one who lacks understanding here is you. No understanding of the way either of our worlds work. And as you whine about wanting to go home, you do it with no understanding of how your mere existence has caused me more suffering than you can ever know.”
I can’t reply. Did he just say all that so casually, so cruelly, without even looking at me? How can I have caused him suffering? I’ve barely been here a day.
My mind is still stumbling over the words when he sniffs and finally turns, spearing me with the full force of his intense gaze. “Luckily for you and your terrible judgment, you’re stuck here. You, a little nothing human, will be my queen and my bride. Whether you or I like it or not.”