Chapter Fifteen Simran #3
Heavy footsteps echoed from the grotto behind her. The man she’d marked emerged, sleeves still rolled up. He looked bigger than he had before—grim-faced, and ready for battle. He held a broken bar from the cell in his hands, bending the metal in his powerful grip.
“You will not run, fox,” the fae maiden said coldly. Fae magic infused her voice. “You ate at my table. You belong to me.”
“I’m no plucky young hero, built to trick the fae,” he agreed.
“But I will not be yours, Lady. I will fight to the death. I will not remain here. I was a woodcutter before your witches stole me. I know what it takes to fell a great and ancient thing.” He curled his hands into fists. “Let us see who wins.”
One of the witches loosed an arrow with a panicked shriek. That began a battle of arrows and magic—and the man using a rod of the prison gates to beat his way through the crowd, teeth bared.
This was the best distraction she was going to get.
She shoved through the crowd, using her elbows viciously, until she was at Vina’s side.
She grabbed her by the biceps. Vina was dressed in new clothing, part silver cloth, part filigree silver armor, and it was cold and strange under Simran’s hand.
A bow the color of moonlight was strapped to her back, a matching sword at her belt.
“Vina,” she said. “Sir Lavinia. Knight. Come with me.”
Vina stared at her uncomprehending. Of course it wasn’t going to be that simple.
“Vina, you’re better than this,” Simran said sharply.
“She’s enthralled you—clearly she has—but you’re an incarnate.
You should be able to resist. You were built to resist her!
You belong to your tale, which means you—you belong to me.
” If her voice went a little high and her face flushed as she said that, well, clearly not even Vina was in any state to notice.
“You—oh, godsblood, you’re not even hearing me, are you? ”
It had to be the charm, blocking even Vina from feeling the pull of their tale.
It was a risk to remove it, but Simran had no choice.
An arrow whistled over her head, and Simran kneeled down and unbuckled her boot.
She pulled the charm free and laid it on the ground.
When she did so, she felt the pull of her tale rush over her.
There it was, the familiar tug of the tale at her breastbone, strong and firm, drawing her toward Vina and toward their fate.
But now, as she focused upon it, she felt how strangely frayed it was—torn and twisted, as if someone or something was trying to pull the knight from her.
That could be… good, surely? The tale dying, freeing them both? Hope kindled in her chest—then sputtered and died when she realized that she couldn’t leave Vina in the mire she’d found herself in.
“Vina—”
“Hush,” said Vina. Her voice was deeper than Simran had ever heard it—not softened to make her seem smaller or less significant. The angles of her face were harsh with love and hunger; her voice was a rasp. “My lady acts. Watch her.”
Simran turned her head, and watched as the fae conjured a lance of light in her hand. She raced forward on her white horse, the witches parting around her. She threw her spear forward.
The man stumbled. Blood was pouring from his chest. But he was smiling.
“The others—got away,” he heaved. “Bought them—time. You’ve got. No hunt.”
He fell forward. He crashed to the ground. Birds screamed, rising and flying away from the trees.
He was dead.
She’d carved strength into him with limni ink. But it was his own strength that had killed him—made him too slow to run, too brave to flee. The inevitable price of limni ink, this time taken swiftly. Guilt shot her.
Maybe he’d known the risks, as he’d said. But what he’d known, or hadn’t, was beyond her now. She just hoped his soul wouldn’t remain here, a ghost among dozens of other writhing specters.
“Lavinia,” the fae maiden said. “I want her.”
Simran let out a shuddering breath—which meant there was no breath in her to scream when she felt Vina’s fist meet her stomach. She flew back, falling with a thud.
Simran was on the ground, arms abraded, winded. When she looked up, she saw Vina above her, cold-eyed and unsmiling, sleeves rolled up to bare her arms. Her right hand flexed—a beautiful, menacing display of tendon and muscle. Those hands were truly made for murder.
Well, there was some hope in this fucking mess. She knew Vina was perfectly capable of killing her in a blow, if she wanted to. And she hadn’t. Instead, Simran was painfully alive.
“Ah, witch,” the fae was saying, her sweet voice traveling sinuously to Simran’s ears.
“I see you now. I have your scent. Don’t try and run now.
Wait a moment, as my witches prepare.” The maiden was no longer on her horse.
Her footsteps whispered against the ground.
Ghosts were wings of light and shadow at her back. “We need a fox, after all.”
Oh hell.
Vina hadn’t left Simran alive for the sake of their tale, or because she was still aware beneath the weight of the enthrallment on her.
She’d left her alive as prey.
Simran rose laboriously to her feet. She sucked in a breath, then another. She touched her fingertips to her abdomen. She ached, but nothing felt broken.
“You’d kill an incarnate? You’d end a tale the Isle needs to survive?”
“Your tale is not as important as my life,” the fae maiden said tranquilly. “These witches rely upon me.”
“These witches are just tools you’re using,” Simran said harshly.
“You’ll glut them with magic, give them a taste for something they’ll never get again.
It’s no different from fae food: When you’re gone they’ll starve, pining for you and the gifts you gave them.
You’ll use them up and leave them with nothing. Don’t deny it!”
The fae laughed, tossing her head back.
“You say that as if you think I am evil for what I am, and what I do! But I am not. Mortal lives are fleeting, and I have ensured they will taste unparalleled sweetness in their short lives. What does your Queen give you, in return for all she’s taken?
Do you even know what she thieves from you?
I think you don’t.” Her smile was smug. “Besides,” she continued.
“They cannot hear you. They do not care.”
Simran looked around, breath short. There was no doubt at all reflected in the eyes of the witches around her. They were already too well-fed on magic; already owned.
Simran was on her own.
“Will you hunt this fox for me, knight? Will you skewer her and bring her back to me, a prize for my love?” The fae’s voice was triumphant, her eyes brilliant as diamonds.
“I would do anything for you, Lady Tristesse,” said Vina. Her voice still did not sound like her own.
Simran didn’t bother to look for humanity in Vina’s eyes. She was lacing her boots tight, fast, breath already short. She was going to have to run, after all. And she had no plans to be caught.
Fuck dying for this fae.
“The hunt begins,” said a voice. Cora, of all people. She looked over Simran’s shoulder, as if she couldn’t stand to meet her eyes. “The foxes—the fox—will be allowed to run unimpeded until the song of the ghosts ends. But when it does, we witches and our lady will follow.”
“My knight will have the pleasure of killing my prey,” said the fae woman. She held out a pale hand, a single finger pointed to the trees. “Go, fox.”
“I’m not a fox,” Simran muttered. “I’m a witch.”
The ghosts began to sing—a song like a scream, a heraldic call with macabre trumpets. Simran turned on her heel and ran.
Trees around her. Her lungs aching. Her boots thudded hard against the ground, blood pounding in her ears. Think. Think. What could she do before the song ended? No doubt she didn’t have long.
If she’d known this was coming, she would have left her own magic in the trees—hexes of hair and blood, spit and secrets.
Unfortunately, the other witches knew everything she knew about magic, and they’d had time to leave their mark.
There were traps in the trees, spellwork hidden under the golden fallen leaves.
If she hadn’t been a witch herself, they would have been able to snare her.
Hopefully the boy she’d marked had used his deer-swift gifts to escape more easily than she could.
If only incarnate skin could hold limni ink, she thought, not for the first time.
The song ended abruptly. Her skin prickled, hot and cold. She was running as fast as she could, but she could hear the neighing of the white horse, and the sudden shrieks of the witches.
And worse still, she heard familiar footsteps: a tread so light it was almost inaudible. Whisper-soft, thoughtful, quick. The knight was catching up with her fast.
Isadora, speared through, flashed through her mind. Simran didn’t want to die at all, but certainly not like this—murdered out of sync with her tale, pointlessly, the tale dead along with her.
Think. She breathed hard, ragged. Think, think, think, think, think!
There was no magic she could draw upon. No way she could outrun Vina.
She stopped. Caught her breath, straightened her spine, and turned.
Vina was staring back at her, a bow in her hands. Angling her body perfectly, she nocked an arrow. It was aimed at Simran’s heart. She didn’t even have a hair out of place, the beautiful bitch that she was.
Their shared incarnate tale sang in Simran’s chest. Isadora, bloodied, warning her. The key was there, in the past Vina and Simran shared.
Their tale had begun like this. The knight hunting the witch. The witch had—she had—
“Fool,” Simran said. Her voice was thin, wavering. She swallowed. She raised her head. Be the witch, she told herself. Not the witch you are now. Be the cruel, laughing thing Isadora was. Be her.
Be yourself.
She took a step toward Vina. Another. She’d never walked like this—a sinuous movement, as if she wanted to be looked at and admired; as if her body were a beautiful weapon to be displayed.