Chapter 6 Locke
CHAPTER SIX
LOCKE
If the wolf grumbles one more time, I’m going to slit his throat and bury the body under the nearest hedgerow.
I mean that with love, of course.
Three bloody days on the road, and all he’s done is circle the women like a muttering storm cloud, snarling at twigs and glaring at me every time I so much as look in Esme’s direction.
It’s a wonder his eyes haven’t frozen that way or popped out of his damn skull.
The constant weight of his suspicion presses against my shoulders like armor that doesn’t fit right, and I’m beginning to think he’d rather I walked backwards the entire journey just so he could keep me in sight.
The journey might’ve been tolerable if not for the constant thudding of Sam’s horse behind mine, close enough to breathe down my neck like I’m going to spontaneously lunge for Esme if he doesn’t stay glued to her side.
His mount’s hooves beat an irritating rhythm against the packed earth, a percussion of paranoia that’s been driving me slowly mad since we left the forest. Newsflash, pup, if I wanted her, you wouldn’t see it coming.
Apparently subtlety isn’t in his vocabulary, just like sitting quietly isn’t in his skill set.
Cashira, at least, has the decency to be silent.
She’s said little beyond the occasional low-voiced word to her daughter during our breaks, murmuring comfort or guidance in tones too soft for the rest of us to catch.
There’s something almost ritualistic about the way she speaks to Esme, as if each word carries weight beyond its meaning.
Esme hasn’t spoken much either, just nods and listens with that careful attention she gives everything.
She watches everything like she’s memorizing it.
The shape of the trees with their twisted branches reaching toward an overcast sky, the color of the clouds as they shift from gray to silver, the bend in the trail as it winds through valleys carpeted in moss that glows faintly underfoot.
Eyes wide, cautious, unreadable. Always watching, always taking it in, like she’s cataloguing every detail of this realm in case she needs to remember it later.
The wolf? Gods. If he’s not glaring, he’s pacing.
If he’s not pacing, he’s growling low in his throat like distant thunder.
If he’s not doing either, he’s muttering insults under his breath like I can’t hear him, each word deliberately loud enough to carry but soft enough to pretend it wasn’t meant for me.
Spoiler alert, you insufferable canine. I can.
We’re stopped now, midway through a winding valley trail where ancient stones jut from the earth like broken teeth, resting the mares before we push through the last few ridges that separate us from the castle proper.
The air here tastes different, charged with the kind of magic that makes mortal skin prickle and fae blood sing.
I dismount, roll my shoulders to work out the knots that three days of tension have tied there, and lean against a twisted black-bark tree.
It weeps silver sap down the side like it’s bleeding light, each drop catching the filtered sunlight and throwing it back in prismatic flashes.
Esme brushes a hand along her horse’s mane, fingers gentle as she works out a tangle, then glances at me with those pale, luminous eyes that seem to see too much. “What are their names?”
“The horses?” I flick a brow, noting the way she studies me like she’s trying to solve a mystery. “You’re riding Starlight.”
She gives me a look that’s equal parts amusement and exasperation. “That’s not your name for it.”
“No,” I smirk, enjoying the way her mouth twitches like she’s fighting not to smile. “Her actual name is Rotbreath. But I figured Starlight would be more your vibe.”
She blinks, and this time the amusement wins. “You gave me a horse named Rotbreath?”
“Affectionately. She only farts when we’re going uphill.” I gesture toward Sam’s mount, a sturdy bay mare with intelligent eyes and a patient disposition. “And that’s Ass.”
Sam stiffens in his saddle, spine going rigid. “What?”
“Short for Astor,” I clarify with mock seriousness. “A royal war mare. Built like a barrel and dumb as rocks. Suits you perfectly.”
“I swear to—” Sam starts, his voice dropping to that dangerous register.
“Not my fault you ride like a farmer’s widow,” I interrupt, swinging back into the saddle and ignoring the low rumble from his chest that sounds suspiciously like a growl. “All stiff-backed and clutching the reins like they’re going to save you if she bolts.”
Once the banter dies, strangled by Sam’s glare and Cashira’s pointed silence, the quiet returns, thicker than before and heavy with unspoken tensions.
The trees thin out as we crest the ridge, their dark canopy giving way to open sky and revealing the edges of the Night Court proper spread out below us like a living tapestry.
From here, the villages begin.
Thatched rooftops draped in morning mist that never quite burns off, even in the afternoon sun.
Lanterns floating midair over cobbled lanes, their light shifting colors in patterns that follow no logic.
Fae citizens wandering in silk-trimmed cloaks and velvet doublets, their movements graceful and deliberate, pausing in their daily routines to stare at our little traveling circus with curiosity that borders on suspicion.
Sam’s size alone draws attention, few mortals reach his height, and fewer still carry themselves with that particular brand of coiled violence that marks him as a predator.
It’s the women who truly unsettle them though, who make conversations stop mid-sentence and children press closer to their parents.
White hair is rarely a characteristic trait for fae. Too rare to be coincidence, too rare to go unnoticed.
Cashira keeps her hood up, but the wind is a traitor, pulling strands of silver free to catch the light like spun moonbeams. Her skin is deep bronze, sun-drenched and regal, with the kind of bearing that speaks of power held and wielded with purpose.
Esme rides just behind her, hair unbound and flowing like winter starlight, skin a few shades darker but unmistakably linked by blood and magic.
Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, proud shoulders that never bow, and something ancient and knowing in her eyes that makes my chest tight.
There’s something missing. Something that should be there and isn’t.
A flicker I can’t name, her power perhaps. No. There’s something there, faint, but she’s not powerless.
The absence clings to her like a second shadow, subtle, but present.
It’s like looking at a puzzle with one piece deliberately removed.
A whisper of something lost. Forgotten. It raises questions I don’t want to ask, implications I don’t want to consider.
I don’t want to be curious about this woman, don’t want to wonder about her story or her scars or the way she moves like she’s carrying invisible weights.
I want to know more, need to understand what I’m escorting and why her presence makes my blood sing in frequencies I don’t recognize.
I open my mouth to break the silence, to ask the questions burning in my throat, but something stops me, some instinct that warns me the answers might be more than I’m prepared to handle.
My questions go unanswered for now, but they don’t disappear.
The road bends toward a craggy outcrop where gargoyles perch like watchful sentinels, their stone eyes tracking our movement with unsettling intensity. Just past them, rising from the landscape like a declaration of power, the full bulk of Castle Noire comes into view.
I hear Esme inhale behind me, sharp, soft, like she’s trying to breathe in what can’t be understood at a glance.
She doesn’t speak, but I almost hear her thoughts as if they were my own.
Dark towers like broken teeth. Spires that twist and bend against natural law.
Balconies like claws hang over deep shadowed courtyards.
Fountains that shimmer and shift from clear to black to silver.
Obsidian walls that reflect nothing but darkness.
A castle enchanted to defy gravity, reason, even light.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. To me, it’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s home.
Of course, Sam has something to say about it.
“Great. A castle,” he mutters, and I can hear the unease in his voice despite his attempt at nonchalance. “What is this, a vampire lair?”
“I wish.” I sigh, studying the familiar battlements with eyes that see past the grandeur to the politics and schemes that lurk in every shadow. “At least vampires have manners.”
We reach the outer gates, massive structures of black iron inlaid with protective runes that hum with barely contained power.
They’re flanked by black-plated guards standing alert at attention, their faces hidden behind helms shaped like snarling beasts.
The sight should be reassuring, home, safety, familiar ground.
Instead, it feels like approaching a trap.
Lounging across the side rail like he owns the place, draped in a crushed-velvet cloak over his black leathers and flicking a jeweled dagger between his fingers with casual precision, is Rue.