Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
WAKE THE PRINCE
A plague o' both your houses!
—Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 1
S o eager for death, Darkan says, a strange tonality to his voice . I will teach you the folly of courting it.
My stomach clenches as my breath catches; he'll be with me at the end.
Dark angel.
Dark Fae.
The subtle scent of glaciers and crushed blackberries and frost on fir menaces the air, but when I inhale I once again scent a haunting note of lavender—then it's gone, and I think my nose is just imagining things.
The mage hesitates, turning his head to gaze through the forest as he stands.
“I would rather not draw this out,” I add. But he isn't paying me any attention.
“Kill her,” the female says, moving toward me with the ire of someone taking my murder a little too personally.
He lifts his hand. “Don't you feel it?”
Yes. Yes, I do.
“It doesn't matter. We have a task to complete.”
“You won't survive ignoring when the players on the board change.”
A presence flows through the old forest, the weight and breadth of an alarming alien power that tastes familiar approaching. I shiver, chilled by the arctic edge in the air, flinching when the female gasps, clutching her head. I sympathize.
The magical barrier surrounding us rips apart. I bite back a groan, the pressure in my head shifting to throbbing pain.
Something is coming. Something is hungry. Something is displeased.
Some one .
The stronger the mind, the deeper it burrows into sleep. The longer it takes to wake, the more destructive the ripples when triggered to full consciousness.
The female steps toward me again, but the male jerks his head around. She curses at him, her hands frozen.
“I said I wouldn't if I were you,” he repeats.
“Release me.”
He ignores us both. She's all mouth and flash, but he's stronger, the one to fear.
A Fae male emerges from the tree line .
If the mages' power is an acid tang, his is a glacial maelstrom, with him in the deceptively calm eye.
I catch my labored breaths as his otherness sweeps through me, sick heat between my temples, throbbing, mocking my strength. The mages freeze, his prey the way we were theirs. They are High Fae, he. . .
Yes, I know this face.
Sharp, aquiline bones, crafted in ageless, cruel perfection.
Light brown skin now a pale ivory from decades without sun.
Ancient eyes stare at us, a color somewhere between moonlight and a summer sky, alternating between bright and colorless as if the glittering irises can't decide their hue.
A white silk shirt drapes broad, strong shoulders and chest, his black hair shining with blue loose to his narrow waist.
The sensual, but currently colorless, lips. The sinuous grace in the long, muscled planes of his lean body.
Not just High Fae, but an Old One. Finally awake after centuries of sleep, and years ascending from the depths of his hibernating mind to emerge fully onto the living plane.
Halfling girl. Juhainah's child.
A Prince. Accustomed to power, accustomed to rule. Don't wake the fucking Prince.
You called me.
Realms. Light bursts behind my eyes and I grit my teeth, willing the jagged migraine to slink away. Not now. Not now.
Darkan? Where's your damn advice now?
Silence.
Prince Renaud's head angles toward me, so slowly I wonder if he's relearning how to use his damn neck. He surveys me, unblinking, then dismisses me. Lurching to my feet, I stumble forward a step, then collapse back to my knees.
This is not how I want to meet my enemy.
“Your Highness.” The male mage bows, the female silent.
“Depart.” The word slithers through the air. Renaud's lips don't move.
The High Fae bow again and leave the field. They do so quickly, without arguing. There’s information to pull out of that.
The Prince's remote, wintry gaze travels over the clearing. A silent percussion of power rams strength and energy into my body. I arch my back, biting through my lip to stifle a scream.
Moments later, the burn evaporates. I push to my feet and flex my injured but functional hand, wrapping an arm around ribs that ache under light, invisible pressure akin to a stabilizing wrap.
The scratches on my face and hand stop bleeding, even the blood from my bitten lip.
It's as if my wounds have ceased to affect me, in stasis though not healed.
The gleeful stabbing in my temples eases. Just enough for my temper to reemerge, but not enough for strength to quite control it. All over the field, Fae rise and fighting breaks out once more.
“Cease,” the Prince says, voice quiet but distinct. At least to my ears.
“Retreat,” I rasp, frustrated. My people are trying to obey, but they have to defend themselves.
Several warriors on both sides don't get the memo. The fighting surges to life. Perhaps the Montagues assume their High Lord's presence is approval.
Numair and Juliette stagger toward me, intercepted by enemy combatants. A Montague warrior darts toward me and cries out when he meets Juliette's throwing star, slumping to the ground dead.
“Cease.”
The word slices through the air. The Prince flinches, a barely perceptible motion except I am hyper-aware of him.
This time the punch of power brings pain without stabilization. Pain as punishment. I drop to the ground in agony, digging my nails into the earth to keep from screaming. A split second later the pain cuts off, though I think only for me. My arms tremble as I check them, the skin undamaged.
“Enough.” His voice sounds almost normal, as if every time he speaks he relearns how to string together his words like a big boy.
Almost normal. It's softer, and I'm not entirely sure I imagine a feather stroke of strain. As if—as if he has woken too soon, and this display of power drains him faster than he'd planned.
This time when the pain fades away, no one moves. I curl on my side, my blurred vision creeping into focus.
Black shoes approach my line of sight, the Old One's steps silent. Moonlight filters through shades of emerald, incongruent with air crisp like a winter morning. My breath frosts, a dot of sweat dripping over my temple.
The shoes stop in front of me, soft leather boots, and I gather enough strength to roll onto my back so at least I can stare up at him.
Into blue, blue eyes .
“Prince,” I say, biting off the word like a curse, the drip drip drip of pain wearing down boundaries. I stare at him, tense and unblinking, watching his face for any tell, any opportunity to get out of this alive. “How unexpected to meet you here. Your nap was eventful.”