Chapter Three
Lark
As soon as the sun crests the sky, I make my way to Kensington, the seat of the Wild Hunt’s base. I have already sent Drew a message, asking him not to come in today—I cited that it was a personal matter I had to deal with, but no doubt he will soon know the true cause of my absence.
It matters not. He cannot help with this, and I would not be the one to put him in harm’s way if he could. No doubt his pack will soon realise one of their members is missing. Dante will—
I dismiss the thought and rap neatly on the door. The wards that Maurice and Iagan have erected around this place allow me passage, weak as I am, but I am not one to barge in unannounced.
Not yet.
The door opens a minute or so later, and a young vampire blinks up at me. His hair is all a mess, shirt sloppily buttoned up, and he does not seem to heed that the sun has risen at all.
His eyes widen. “You’re… What are you doing here?”
“Grant,” another voice chastises from behind him. Human. Fae-blessed, but human underneath that. He is taller than Grant and looks to be older, though when I try to remember, I believe they are perhaps of a similar age. “Invite him in.”
Grant blinks at me again, then steps aside so I can pass.
The hallway is narrow, but he presses back against the wall and watches as I walk inside.
The human—Paxton, I remember, because Drew has mentioned him—gestures for me to follow him into another room.
A sitting room. The furnishings are dark, well-maintained, and old enough that I can hardly sense a speck of life in all that wood.
“Get Vlad,” Paxton says, then drops onto the sofa, still watching me.
I sit carefully in one of the armchairs. I have never visited the Wild Hunt like this before. Our paths have crossed, of course, and Vladimir was the one who came to me when I finally made my decision to come through the veil and remain, but we are not… friendly.
I am not friendly with anyone. I do not wish to be.
The paper is folded up in my pocket. Paxton says nothing as we wait. He watches me instead, and despite all the time I have spent among humans, his face is entirely unreadable.
Humans think that of us. Thought that of us. Without my glamour, my face is far less expressive than in its human form. But humans—all the creatures here who are not fae, in fact—can do one thing we cannot.
They can lie.
Grant bounds back into the living room a few minutes later, though his steps slow and his eyes widen again when he sees me. It is as though he expects me to have left. Following him at a much more sedate pace and looking much more put-together despite the hour, is Vladimir.
Another vampire follows him. He ducks around Vladimir when he pauses and settles in next to Paxton on the sofa. Their thighs touch. Jeremiah. He looks a handful of years older than Grant, despite the fact that I know he and Vladimir are of a similar age.
“The Huntsman is not here,” Vladimir says. He squeezes Grant’s arm and Grant huffs, crossing to sit in a chair further away from all of us. Once seated, he fixes his big eyes on me. “I am not certain he is in this realm at all.”
“He is,” I say because he must be. If he had crossed the veil, she would not have been taken. Whoever is scheming would have focused their sights on him instead. “But I did not come here for him.”
“No?” Vladimir raises one eyebrow, his face as impassive as that of any fae. His power flexes, and I swallow.
“I require assistance in crossing over.”
Jeremiah huffs in amusement, even as Paxton frowns. Grant frowns, too. He looks as though that is not what he expected me to say.
“I do not understand why you would come to us with that request,” Vladimir says. “You must have spoken to the Guardians when you originally crossed.”
I shake my head and my face goes hot. I did not, just as Ronan never did.
But where he used his power—both magical and political—to skirt the rules, I chose a different path.
In giving up my magic, I weakened myself.
The weaker the fae, the easier it is for them to slip through the veil because the veil is designed to keep the fae hidden and to keep the humans safe.
But I cannot get back. I do not have the magic for that. More importantly, I do not have the time.
“I did not,” I say through gritted teeth, tasting iron when I try to push different words out in their stead. “I require assistance.”
“Surely you can just—” Jeremiah begins, but Grant shakes his head sharply.
“He’s not got enough magic,” he says.
I stare at him, shocked. I can feel Vladimir’s magic, where he is attempting to intimidate me. I can even feel Jeremiah’s and Paxton’s—Paxton has slightly better control over his, but there is less of it.
Grant… I cannot feel his at all. And yet, he knows what I am capable of?
I fight the urge to growl. I understand that I am asking a great favour and that Vladimir is already disinclined to give it to me. He looks sharply at Grant, whose shoulders relax when he looks back.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s barely got anything at all,” Grant says with a shrug. “Didn’t you know?”
Vladimir eyes me speculatively. Perhaps he cannot sense it without trying because I feel his magic press against me now and I bite the inside of my cheek so that I do not bare my teeth.
“Well,” Vladimir says finally, pulling his magic back. “This is a predicament.”
“I simply need to cross over,” I reply.
“Why?” Jeremiah asks.
Vladimir is no fool, but Jeremiah is sharper when he speaks. I bite back the words. Saying that I need to cross over is no lie, but if they probe further…
“You need us to take you to the Guardians,” Jeremiah continues. For all that his tone is designed to cut, his body language is easy, and Paxton merely watches the two of us. “And you need it quickly, clearly. Why is that?”
“I must return.”
“Why?” Vladimir asks. I sigh. They will not help me if I do not tell them, but if I tell them, I risk the pack finding out before I am ready for that. I want to cross over, retrieve Ophelia, and send her back. Return myself, should I find the opportunity.
I do not say any of that. Instead, I pull the note from my pocket and hand it over.
Vladimir opens it and scans the words. His eyebrows rise, but he says nothing as he hands it across to Jeremiah.
Jeremiah’s reaction is far more violent. He would leap from his seat if not for Paxton’s hand on his shoulder, and Paxton’s face is pinched and pale as he reads, too.
Grant holds out his hand, but Paxton hesitates. Grant reaches across and snatches the note from Paxton’s hand. He frowns at it.
“Your soulbond…”
“They are incorrect,” I say. “They believe they have taken my soulbond, but they have not.”
“Do the pack know she’s missing?” Jeremiah asks. I do not ask how he knows who the fae have taken. He spends time with Dante’s pack, and especially with Drew. Drew has come to his own conclusions, but that does not mean they are false ones.
“I am not certain,” I say. “I want to cross over to get her back.”
“But you—” Grant snaps his mouth shut when we all look at him. His cheeks redden.
“I what?” I ask. My voice is icy.
“You do not have the power to get her back, I would imagine,” Vladimir says. His tone is lazy, but his eyes are piercing when I meet his gaze. Grant squirms in his seat as though he wishes to get away from all of us. “If you truly have no magic—”
“I can retrieve it,” I growl. Even if that damns me to a position I never sought, I will do it if it ensures Dante’s safety.
At some point, those fae will conclude that they stole the wrong witch.
He is not safe, not even behind a mage’s wards.
“I will send her back. I merely need help with the crossing.”
Vladimir sighs. “I need to make a call,” he says, and I curl my hands into fists, anger washing through me.
This is… demeaning. I am not even human, and this would be weak if I were.
I should not need permission to return to the realm that is, ostensibly, my home.
I should not require assistance to cross back over, not when I am already here.
But I do. Jeremiah is on his feet too, pacing, and Paxton watches me in the same manner he did when we both entered the room earlier.
“Does he know?” he asks finally, and Jeremiah stops mid-step, glancing between us.
I do not need to ask him who he means. What he means. I taste acid, as though I have touched iron. “No.”
“You were waiting?”
“Yes.”
He nods. I do not know if he understands, but Jeremiah acts as though he does not, despite the fact that he and Vladimir should understand better than most.
All fae have a soulbond. We deal in bonds, often fleeting, temporary, used to give us the advantage when the need arises. A soulbond is different. We are born with them. One, perhaps two, and they are not always romantic—I have seen strong platonic or familial soulbonds among other fae.
They are not limited to other fae, either. Rare it might be, but a bond can exist between a fae and another type of magical creature, though they primarily manifest between various species of fae.
Fae and human soulbonds are rare. Rarer still is what happened to the three of us. Three brothers. Three high fae—royal high fae. Three fae-human soulbonds.
Fate has a sense of humour. I feel as though she mocks me with it.
Of course, I was the last to cross over.
It takes time for the bond to develop, and when I first came to the human realm, Dante was already twenty.
I made the trip a few times over the next few years, and when he moved to London for good, settling with Ophelia and Sam, I made my decision.
I cast off my past. I cast off the role I had never been moulded for.
I abandoned everything, and I decided to wait. Why would I not? If he accepted the bond, then we would have an endless lifetime ahead of us. I have already had centuries, and he deserves that time to discover who he truly is.
Some of that time. But ten years is nothing, and I know he needs more than that.
Vladimir comes back into the room. “I called Maurice,” he says. “I would rather we take you tonight. The Guardians cannot leave right now, and if fae have already taken Ophelia…” He trails off.
I nod, although I do not like it. Only Paxton can leave during the day—though Grant appears unaffected by the sun, I do not know how far that extends—and he is right; I would be putting him in danger travelling just the two of us.
“How far are they?” I ask.
“Three hours or so,” Jeremiah says. “Northwest of here. Fuck, we’ll have to get a car.”
“I can—” Vladimir cuts himself off when someone hammers on the door.
His and Paxton’s gazes both swing to Grant, who holds up his hands in supplication.
“Grant,” Vladimir growls.
“They should know,” Grant says almost petulantly. He crosses his arms over his chest. “They’re basically working with us now anyway.”
Vladimir sighs and goes to answer the door. Paxton shakes his head, but he wears a soft smile at the same time. “Didn’t even see you send a message.”
“Yeah, not all of us need to stare at the keyboard when we text.”
The door opens. I hear voices, angry voices, and then familiar magic.
Sam is here.
Dante is here, too.
“You—” I snap my mouth shut at Jeremiah’s dark look. Grant does not look upset or intimidated anyway. He meets my gaze steadily and his magic pulses again.
I feel it. What he has… Even compared to Sam, it is…
“What the fuck is going on?” the mage in question snarls as he stomps into the room.
He stops short upon seeing me. Kieran is directly behind him, and he stops too, but he looks less surprised.
I do not believe he is. I merely believe he expected nothing coming here, and therefore there is nothing to be surprised about.
The faint echo of magic inside me trembles when Dante appears. Quinn moves around them all as though he belongs here and perches next to Grant, which Vladimir allows with a sharp sweep of his eyes.
“Ophelia’s been taken to the Otherworld,” Jeremiah bites out. He looks at Kieran when he says it, but Sam and Dante are the ones to react. Sam swears. Dante looks as though he wishes to throw up.
Grant is still holding the note. He does not offer it to them. His eyes are on me.
“Why?” Kieran demands, a bite of command in his voice.
“They wish to use her as leverage,” Vladimir says. Jeremiah still stands, hovering. He wants to comfort this pack but does not know how.
“Against who? Us?”
Dante makes a faint sound at Kieran’s words, and Sam whips around toward him, grabs his wrist, and holds on tight. It is logical to think so. Their pack has taken any fae who has asked for safe haven. If the fae on the other side of the veil do not know that, I will be surprised.
“Against me,” I say, and all attention in the room shifts to me.
Sam studies me as though I am some specimen he wishes to flay open and have laid bare before him. Kieran’s brow is furrowed, and there may be anger in his dark eyes, but he waits, ready to hear me out.
Dante is still pale, a dull grey cast to his olive-toned skin. His newly purple hair puts me in mind of fields of lavender, and for a moment, my senses are full of the scent of it.
“Why?” Quinn breaks the silence. Unexpected to all of us, I think, for the way the mood shifts. Danger. The back of my neck prickles with it. Silver floods his eyes as I watch, and he clenches his hands into fists. “Why would they take her to get at you?”
“I—” I cannot lie. I desperately want to. I cannot have Dante believe something that is untrue, something about the person he is closest to in the world, but if I reveal the truth of our bond to him now—
Grant hisses through his teeth. I have taken too long, and he thinks me a coward for it. He holds up the note. “Here.”
Sam snatches it from his hand, softening the movement with a vaguely apologetic look. Quinn does not take his eyes off me. I have seen him more often in Hallowed Grounds of late, waiting for Drew, taking his place in his pack again.
I have heard, too, of the fierce kind of wolf he is. Exactly the kind that belongs in this pack.
“What the fuck,” Sam hisses and passes the note to Kieran, who has already read it over his shoulder. Dante angles in to read it too, and when his knees shake, Kieran reaches for him without looking, holding him upright.
“She’s… Ophelia’s your soulbond?” Dante asks, voice hoarse.
I taste iron again, words I cannot say fizzing out on my tongue. Quinn lets out a low, angry snarl.
“No,” I say. “You are.”