Chapter 32
Lysandra
MAX
Edawdles on our way over, giving Nick ample time to catch up, flirting and making jokes.
“At this pace, Nick will beat us there,” I grumble, trying to hide how exhilarated and terrified I am. It’s a strange feeling, wanting to scream and laugh at the same time, but then again, I’ve always had a fear of heights.
“I love the sight of you in my arms,” E says huskily.
“Of me entirely dependent on you, you mean?”
“You’re enjoying it. I can tell.”
“Lady isn’t,” I joke, petting her through the carrier.
I’m enjoying most of it, but I would much rather be able to see him and look into his eyes than feel like I’m floating in a bridal carry position all by my lonesome. Below us, the narrow trail Nick is hiking is perfectly visible from our vantage point.
“He’s got a bandage on his wrist,” I say. “What happened while I was out?”
E sighs. “Oh, that. Nick wants to tell you himself.”
The strained tremble of his voice convinces me not to press the matter further for now.
After about another ten minutes in a slow, upward flight, the rapids become a river again as the forest levels out, and the canopy obscures the trail below. The orange and red trees begin to show signs of yellow, then baby green, then a deep summer green.
A flock of bright birds cuts through the branches in flashes of red, purple, and yellow, their high-pitched caws rippling through my chest as they flee.
While the Red Forest felt heavy with secrets, these woods buzz with life, like the land is on the verge of spilling over.
From what I’ve read over the years, beasts of all shapes and sizes hunt these trails, and like the snake that bit me, most of them are lethal.
When E finally flaps his strong wings and veers toward the forest, I hold my breath.
The ground rushes closer in a blur, and I clutch E’s arm at the sudden change in temperature.
The chill from the flight evaporates in an instant, the rush of wind fading into the softer hush of trees. The air is warmer and thicker here.
My boots brush the earth as E sets me down carefully.
The scent of floral blossoms invades my nostrils, laced with a hint of burnt, exotic spices, as though the rainfall that left the leaves and earth slick is cradling a trace of fire within the dew.
The waning light filters through the green canopy ahead in molten emerald streaks, highlighting a handful of lost red leaves peppering the vibrant underbrush.
Here we are.
The border to the Summerlands.
I let out a shaky breath, my hands half-curled around E’s invisible arm like I’m still bracing for the fall that never came.
“You didn’t drop me,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Well done.”
I begrudgingly let go of him to stand on my own two feet.
“How do you feel?” he asks in a muted tone.
A spell of dizziness lurks at the edge of my vision. “I’m okay, but you'd better stay close by, just in case.”
His hand slips into mine, warm and strong. “Are you flirting with me, little fox?”
I draw a deep breath, willing the trees to stay still for a second, and grip him tighter. “I wish.”
A scoff echoes behind us as Nick stumbles out from the trees at my back, his boots crunching over taut ferns, his chest heaving from the climb. His gaze flicks from me to the empty space where E stands, then back again.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his red hair. “Yesterday, he couldn’t even hold a cup, and today he’s fucking flying. While I have to carry our bags like a fucking bellhop.”
I huff a weak laugh, still catching my breath. “You can’t deny the wings came in handy.”
He steps closer and shrugs out of the straps of my backpack, which he had slung across his chest.
“Yeah, well,” he shoots back, though there’s a crooked edge to his mouth now, “next time you want to be swept off your feet, maybe pick a guy I can see. Would make it a lot less creepy for me.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how close I still am to E as I let go of his hand.
Nick tilts his head back and gulps down the rest of his water, shaking the bottle until there’s nothing left. “Seriously, though. The ghost gets wings, and suddenly I’m the runt of the litter, holding the group back.”
“You were always the runt of the litter,” I shoot back, a smile tugging at my lips.
“Rude,” he says, but he’s grinning now, even as he eyes the invisible space at my side with something that’s not quite irritation and not quite relief.
“Just saying. If you’d been wrong and Casper had splashed down in that river, friend or not, I wouldn’t have drowned trying to rescue an invisible ghost.”
“That’s fair,” E chuckles.
Nick tucks his bottle back inside his bag. “Now, try not to freak anyone out by mentioning your wings to the people we came to see.” He retrieves the map and checks the angle of the sun, then jerks his chin to the right.
“We’re almost there. Half a mile at most.”
We walk for about ten minutes before finally reaching the rebel camp. The lush, green trees suddenly grow sparse, and two guards appear in the distance.
They stand at attention and angle the sharp edges of their thick javelins in our direction.
The curved horns on their strange helmets give them a crude, barbaric look.
Strands of copper and dark brown hair escape the edges, some braided tight against the scalp, others left loose.
Their eyes are sharp and steady, watching without blinking.
Their stance is firm, controlled, as if they’ve been standing guard far longer than we’ve been walking.
“Halt. Identify yourself,” one of them says.
“I’m Nickolas Morgan Bloodsinger, and this is my sister, Maxine. We’re here to see Lysandra of the Vale.”
The guard squints at Nick’s red hair. “Password.”
“Sael lunara, vae threnis.” Nick enunciates carefully, as though he’s practiced those words many, many times before.
The men’s shoulders relax, and Nick and the taller of the two guards clasp forearms in a quick, practiced greeting—grip tight, a single firm pull, then release. “For the Tides,” my twin declares.
“For the Tides. Come on, I’ll take you to Lysandra.”
None of them notices E’s bite of power—or maybe he’s so close to me, with his damn hand buried in my pocket, they can’t distinguish his magic from my own. The simple pressure of his hand against my backside is almost too much to bear.
“What did you say to him?” I whisper to Nick, feeling like I’ve heard this phrase before.
“It’s an ancient language spoken on the Islantide, way back when. Lysandra speaks it almost fluently. It means, by the power of the moon, the tide rises.”
A smirk plays at the corner of my lips. “I think you’ve underexplained your relationship with that woman,” I add in a teasing tone. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“Don’t be daft. You know I don’t do commitment.”
Despite his scolding tone, my brother blushes, and it shakes me to my core. I can practically feel E suppressing his laughter next to me.
By the Dark One… The hardened bachelor, Nickolas Bloodsinger—only good for one-night stands and strictly transactional relationships—blushing? I’ve been so caught up in my own romantic woes that I need to pay more attention going forward.
Twilight casts a golden glow over the low tents and trampled paths of the rebel camp.
A handful of wooden structures form larger buildings, giving the camp a village feel.
Weapons lean within reach, dozens of javelins stacked against posts, and a myriad of blades laid out on crates.
Ropes and ladders run up into the trees, where figures perch on high branches, half-hidden among the leaves, watching the sky as much as the ground.
Nick is right. E really shouldn’t be flaunting his wings around here. Good thing he’s invisible.
I’m about to risk a quiet instruction to that effect when a beautiful redheaded woman runs in our direction.
She’s tall—taller than me and almost as tall as Nick.
Leather pants hug her curves, worn soft with use, and a fitted green coat cinches at her waist. Her hair falls loose around her face in a beautiful shade of burnished copper.
High cheekbones, a sharp nose, and plump lips complete her look, and while there’s warmth on her face, there’s steel underneath it.
The brown, reddish tattoos running up and down her tanned arms are too complex for me to make out the pattern, but I grin knowingly.
She’s my brother’s type, alright.
Lysandra slows as she nears and pecks him on both cheeks. “Nick, I’m so glad you made it.” She turns to me, her slender brows knitting into a faint frown. “And this is…”
“Lysandra, this is my sister, Maxine. Maxine, this is Lysandra.”
Her brown eyes clear. “Maxine, welcome.”
She doesn’t seem to notice E, but now that I think about it, I can barely feel him. There are so many new, different bites of power, so many full-blooded Fae moving around camp, that his essence almost gets lost in the crowd.
“How did you make it to Faerie without being caught?” she asks.
Nick winks in response. “I told you I’d find a way.”
“Well, you’re in luck. Everyone’s gathering in the tavern to discuss another raid. The Lord of the Tides’ second-in-command is here himself.” She slips her arm under Nick’s and tugs him along. “Come.”
She leads us toward the largest building, most of her peers heading in the same direction.
The rebel camp is filled with redheaded women—witches—and men wearing accessories similar to the guards. I’ve never seen so many witches in one place, and my heart grows three sizes. All Nick’s dreams and obsessions, his longings, seem possible here.
The men’s fashion is peculiar, to say the least. Thick metal torcs circle their necks, dull with age.
Leather bracers, studded with spikes, wrap around their forearms. There are metallic beads braided into their hair, and small charms hang from their belts, made of bones, teeth, or bits of polished stone.
I quickly squeeze E’s shoulder as we’re about to enter the building. “It’s too crowded. Wait here,” I whisper under my breath.
His warmth leaves my side as I get caught up in the movement and enter the tavern on Nick’s heels. The small building consists of a long bar with stools, tables, and chairs scattered around the hearth. There’s a staircase leading to a second floor, and a raised stage along the back wall.
By the Dark One and all his whispers…
An imposing Fae is standing on the stage, thunderclouds rolling over his shoulders. His shadow stains the wall behind him, pitch black despite the warm light from the fireplace.
I’ve never seen such an unapologetic flaunting of darkness. There’s something terrible in it, but beautiful, too.
Like the eye of a storm.