Chapter Nine #2
Shea glowered. “Hilarious.”
Together, they sifted through the underbrush until they found delicate sprays of heath-fruit.
Cradled in her hand, they looked almost like blueberries, with a little indentation on the bottom that looked like an open eye.
Their skin was a blue so deep and rich, it was nearly black.
Shea bit into one tentatively, and it burst across her tongue with a tartness that made saliva flood her mouth.
That definitely was not anything like a blueberry, but it wasn’t bad. “These aren’t poison, are they?”
“You ate one and then asked?” Ciara said wonderingly. “I will never entertain talk of you being a genius again.”
“Shut up,” Shea muttered. “They’re not, right?”
“Fortunately for you, no.” When Ciara smiled, her cheek dimpled. “In fact, it is tradition to bake them into a cake and present it to the one you fancy.”
“Have you ever made one?”
Ciara shuddered. “I do not bake.”
“Of course not,” Shea replied dryly. “But you’ve gotten tons, I’m sure.”
“Nosy, are we?” Ciara had adopted a haughty tone—but she didn’t answer the question. Instead, she plucked another few berries with determined focus.
The tips of her fingers were stained the color of heavy, dark wine.
Shea had the errant thought of placing them against her tongue—and violently suppressed it.
As though Ciara was aware of the turn of Shea’s thoughts, she placed a berry in her mouth.
Her lips closed around her stained fingertips, and Shea’s mouth went painfully dry.
All she had to do was survive a few days of this alliance.
It was becoming a taller ask by the minute.
By the time they descended the mountain, the Otherworld was blue and black and purple beneath the twilight, all shadow and heather.
The players emerged from the trees a little windblown and muddied—but none as much as Shea, who did her best to ignore the sidelong looks and snickering.
She couldn’t wait to burn these clothes.
Midir waited for them beneath the canopy.
In the evening light, Shea understood how he’d once been revered as a god.
His hair gleamed like poured gold. His skin glowed like the morning sun.
Pale, bell-shaped flowers bloomed at his feet.
His perfection was almost repulsive. He held a goblet of pure silver loosely in one hand.
Even from here, she caught the wild and indescribable scent of faerie wine—and the rich acidity of fermented bilberries.
“Come forward,” he said.
Shea and Ciara went first. Hatred pooled steadily within Shea as they approached him.
She did not bother to conceal it. Ciara’s expression, however, remained as cool and smooth as glass.
It unnerved Shea a little. When Ciara played chess, calm waters always concealed something dangerous underneath. She really did resent him.
When they stood before Midir, Shea dropped her basket at his feet. A few of the bilberries spilled over the side and rolled across the ground. Ciara followed suit. Midir’s gaze slid back and forth between them. Faint amusement glittered in his single green eye.
“Take care when you stray from the trails.”
Humiliation roiled within Shea. “Noted.”
The mockery faded from him. The full weight of his stare landed on his sister. An entire conversation passed between them in the silence. “This is your choice?”
“It is,” Ciara replied.
“Then you have chosen your downfall.”
Ciara’s smile was bladed. “It remains to be seen if I am as unlucky as you.”
Shea frowned, puzzled by the exchange, but Midir seemed to understand her barb. His lips thinned. Obviously, he wanted to say something more. In the end, he only said, “Clasp hands.”
They did. Wind stirred the heath into motion, all the leaves and branches clattering ominously around them. At first, nothing happened. And then, Shea heard a splintering sound.
Their wooden fetters had sprouted new growth.
Horror made her blood run cold. Before Shea could jerk away, vines twined up their forearms, trapping her in place. Magic passed between them like an electric current, so bright and hot it seared her very soul. Just when the sensation swelled to the edge of pain, it faded.
The panic bled out of her slowly. What was this? Delicate young branches bound them together, wrist to wrist, like the ropes in a handfasting ceremony. Midir really did have a sick sense of humor.
“It is done,” Midir said. “The next round will begin in five days.”
Five days to endure Ciara. Five days to devise a strategy. Five days until she was another step closer to Aideen. It filled Shea with an icy determination.
As soon as they were out of earshot, she asked, “What was all that about?”
Ciara glanced over at her, her expression preoccupied. The delicate shadows of the leaves patterned her face. “What?”
“What did you mean when you called him unlucky?”
“Oh, that?” Ciara seemed a little surprised.
“I suppose that was unkind of me. Midir cannot seem to hold on to a thing he loves. He has made enemies of friends and kinsmen by choosing the wrong sides in arguments. He was married twice before, neither of which ended well for him. Not to mention, none of his children have survived.”
“Jesus,” Shea muttered.
“As I told you before, he has suffered. Much of it is his own doing.” Ciara frowned. “He has a habit of placing his trust in the wrong people—and in his own infallibility. There is a reason they call him Midir the Proud.”
So that was why he kept Aideen hidden. He was afraid of losing her. Well, she looked forward to giving him another lost love to mourn.
Shea lifted their bound wrists. “And what is this thing?”
“I don’t know,” Ciara said warily. “I am not sure yet what sort of enchantment he’s wrought, but I can sense that it’s a strong bit of spellwork.”
“Great.” One way or another, she supposed they’d find out. “We better not be stuck like this. If I can’t wash this mud off in the next hour, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Fear not. I’m sure I can free us.” Ciara didn’t sound as confident as Shea would have liked. “I’ll have a look when we’re back at the castle.”
Screams pierced the air, and Shea’s blood ran cold.
She turned to see that the next pair—two faerie grandmasters—had dropped to their knees in front of Midir.
Vines sprouted from their fetters and began to engulf them, like a spider wrapping its prey.
Midir only watched with cold detachment.
It took Shea a moment to notice the baskets at his feet.
Each was tipped on its side, only half full of berries.
Dear God. He’d kill them all for the smallest infractions. Her fingers dug into her own fetter. She imagined those vines burrowing into her skin and—
“Come along now,” Ciara said brusquely. She gave a sharp tug on their tether and all but dragged Shea away. “You have seen enough, I think.”
Shea could do nothing but stumble after her. Through her haze, resentment and gratitude both pricked at her. She did not need to be protected. And yet, it’d been so long since anyone bothered to try. They did not speak again until they arrived at Shea’s bedroom door.
“You look pale,” said Ciara, with dismay more than concern. “Are you going to be sick?”
“I’m fine.” Shea pressed her fingers into her temple. “I’m just … I don’t know. I thought grandmasters were honored members of the court. Why would he…?”
“We are.” Ciara’s expression was grave. “But as representatives of Tír nAill in the mortal realm, we are held to a higher standard than most courtiers.”
“So why aren’t you?”
“I am his sister—and a grandmaster of world caliber,” Ciara replied guardedly. “I test the limits of his forbearance.”
Shea’s thoughts swirled with questions, but she was far too exhausted to press the matter further. She reached for the doorknob. “Right. Well, let’s get this off.”
Ciara’s nostrils flared. “Hold a moment. Something is wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” The moment Shea touched the cool metal handle, a charge passed into her skin and a chill prickled along the back of her neck.
Slowly, she pushed open the door. The smell of low tide wafted out: sulfur and salt and things left out to die on the rocks. She curled her lip and pulled the collar of her shirt over her nose.
“What is that?” Shea asked.
“The smell of sorcery,” Ciara said darkly.
“Sorcery?”
Ciara stepped through the threshold. Shea had no choice but to follow her, dragged along by the vines binding them.
The sconce by the door guttered to life.
Eerie green light traced the shape of the furniture, and golden motes drifted through the air.
It felt like standing in the middle of a haunted grove.
All the shadows were long. All the branches holding this room in its grip were sharp and sinister.
Shea’s gaze landed on a chessboard that had been left on her vanity.
The pieces were not on their home squares as they were supposed to be.
Despite her unease, she drew closer to study the position.
Instantly, it was familiar. This was her game from last night, frozen in the final move.
And burned into the board itself were two words, crackling with malice.
DROP OUT.