Chapter Eleven
Lark
All my attention narrows on Dante when he walks back into the witch’s cottage. I barely spare her a glance. His eyes are red, his shoulders hunched, and panic creeps up in my throat. Was he crying out there? I thought he was simply angry, but I have hurt him far deeper than that.
Grant sits quietly in the corner, eyes closed.
He approached the witch after he came back inside, asking for advice.
I heard them speaking in low tones in the other room.
His magic is subdued now as he strives to control it.
I know he is powerful and, someday, his skill will far surpass even most fae I have met.
But for now, he is young, basically untested, and the fae court is not full of beings who should be trifled with.
“Have you come to a decision?” the witch asks. Dante takes a seat at the far end of the sofa and does not look at me. “Time is running short, Your Highness.”
I clench my jaw. I suppose I should accustom myself to the title again. I have run around in circles in my mind, but I see no way out of this that does not leave me sitting on that throne when all is done.
As for who will sit beside me… It will not be Dante. Even under the best of circumstances, it could never be him, and in this present I have built for us, what I have done might well lead to his death.
“Give me back my power,” I say. “I will not attempt to break the deal we made.” Even if I cannot remember why I would think it a good idea. It was ten years ago, not one hundred. Surely, I am not that reckless?
“You will fulfil your destiny. Do as fate commands.”
“Yes.” She raises an eyebrow at my reply, and I sigh. “If you give me back my magic, I will do everything in my power to fulfil my fated destiny. I know the consequences should I fail.”
I dare to dart a glance at Dante. He is looking at me now, though his expression is closed. Over in the corner, Grant’s eyes are open.
“Very well,” the witch says. “Your hands.”
I hold them out. She turns them over, palms up, and her touch is gentle and warm. I am not certain her armchair was as close before, but space, at least, means little to a fae as powerful as she is.
Her magic leaps out and sinks into me, alighting every nerve deadened when I gave up my power. They spark and flame, and my body twists, uncertain as I am whether I want to lean into that feeling or jerk away.
Hold still. Her voice in my head is gently amused. She feeds my power back into me—all of it, for all that she told me she would use it as she wished—and the heady feeling of too much magic surges through me as it lights me up from the inside out.
I feel it all. The press of power from this realm. The magic the witch has imbued in every surface of her cottage and her territory beyond. The deep well of it that Grant carries, death and life swirling together in a way that feels so tremendously alien to a creature like me.
And Dante. His magic is a spark compared to all that I contain, but it calls to me anyway, a gossamer-thin thread connecting my power to his. He could never use it. No. But it is proof of our bond, proof that I saw before I left this realm and have, without my own magic, been unable to see since.
For all he may hate me in this moment, the faint tug of that bond relieves me. When my magic settles and I open my eyes again, I know that I will be able to see it.
Sure enough, it is a faint glimmer in my periphery when the room comes back into focus. Grant has pushed up onto his knees, mouth half open as he stares at me. Dante watches me too, and when I meet his eyes, he gives me the smallest smile.
Warmth suffuses my chest. I will take that. Whatever he offers me, no matter how small.
“The court will sense your return the moment you leave my lands,” the witch says.
“I know.” I do not care much. If anything, that is what we want—the faster we are swept away to the court, the faster we find Ophelia.
My magic pulses at the thought. I have missed this. I did not think I would. I have thought, this entire time, that I was missing nothing at all.
“Are we going now then?” Grant asks.
The witch shakes her head. “There is still some time until sunup. You should rest for the moment. This land is best not navigated in the dark.”
“Do you have refreshments?” I ask. Now that I have my power back, I can protect Dante better.
I would not ask the witch for water before.
She still might be able to conceal spells from me, but my magic is eager, champing at the bit, and besides, she has said she does not wish to harm either of them.
“Fruit here,” she says, waving towards a table at the back of the room. A platter of fruit appears, fresh and ripe and otherwise untouched. “There is water in the well. It will do you and your soulbond no harm to drink it.”
Dante nods, and when he gets to his feet, I follow, trailing him out of the cottage. He pauses when he reaches the well. Sunrise is closer than I thought; the sky is already lightening above us.
“I don’t—” He huffs. “I’ve never used a well before.”
“Here.” I reach past him and lower the bucket slowly into darkness.
Dante does not move away. He stands close, watching me.
Despite all the walking we have done today and the fear and anxiety he has experienced, I breathe in the warm, familiar scent of him, and it settles something deep within me.
My magic curls around the faint thread of our bond.
Not to feed it or to strain it, just as somewhere to rest and protect.
“I thought you might say no,” he says as I begin cranking the bucket back up again. My hand almost slips, but I catch it at the last moment.
“I-I could never.”
“You seemed like you didn’t want to. Don’t want to.” He frowns and looks away, into the trees. “Is it really your fate to stay here?”
“I would prefer that both of us did not die, so I do not see how it could be anything else,” I reply. I pull the bucket out and reach for one of the wooden cups that sits next to the well. A quick flicker of magic assures me that it is clean, and I offer it to Dante. “Drink.”
He takes the cup and dips it into the water. “You need to drink too, don’t you?”
My mouth feels dry as soon as he says it. Yes. I have not eaten or drunk anything either, and I might be fae, but we are not vampires. I pick up a cup for myself and fill it.
The water that passes my lips is cool and pleasant and utterly benign. Dante drinks his first cup slowly, the second a little faster. After a third, he leans one hip against the well and turns it in his hands. The sky has lightened even further. We will be able to leave soon.
“I’m sorry,” Dante says, out of nowhere, and I look at him in surprise.
“What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”
He reddens at my words, and his eyes dart away. “I don’t… I don’t know. I didn’t want you to be stuck here. Don’t want you to be. If you don’t want to be here.”
“Ophelia would not be here if not for me. Neither would you nor Grant. If this is the price I have to pay—”
“We’ll find a way out of it,” he says softly. “I mean, I’ll try. I’m sure Grant will too, if I ask him.”
My stomach flutters. The feeling is novel, reminding me of the first handful of times I set my eyes on him. I have trained it out of myself in recent years, but perhaps I should not have done that.
“Thank you, but the path ahead is clear.” I set my cup down on the edge of the well and move a little closer.
Dante does not move back. He is not much shorter than I am, but he still tilts his face up to look at mine, and his dark eyes are wide and wary.
“I am sorry. Truly. But I will not have you suffer here. I would never take you from your pack and the people you love, and I will not put you in danger when it comes to the crown.”
“And what if I want to help you? You’ve made a lot of decisions for me already. You… Why did you agree to that deal? Why suggest it?”
He presses his lips together at the end of the sentence, frowning as though he did not expect the words to escape. I cannot help myself. I reach up and gently cup his jaw, running my thumb over rough stubble and soft skin.
“I truly do not know what I was thinking, except that I wanted anything other than to be in this realm, sitting on that throne. And as for the other… I would never be able to refuse your help,” I murmur, and the bite of iron is nowhere to be tasted; I do not want to lie.
“But if you would do me the honour, I would prefer you never put yourself in danger where I am concerned.”
Dante’s breath catches. He stares at me for a moment in the same starry-eyed way I have seen him do before, and like all those times, it makes my head swim. I do not know what he sees in me that makes him look at me like that. Goodness knows I have not earned it.
“I’m not going to promise that,” he says eventually. “I could. I could lie. But I’m not going to.”
I run my thumb over his skin again. A bird twitters somewhere amongst the trees, and I finally drop my hand, taking the smallest step back. “Thank you for your honesty then.”
His lips twitch. “Anytime.”
I return the bucket to its resting place and Dante sets his cup alongside mine. He waits for me before we approach the cottage again, and for the first time since I received the note about Ophelia’s kidnapping, the knot in my chest loosens.
It does not even tighten when we walk back into the cottage. The witch is moving around, putting things into a small bag she carries, and Grant stands by the window, looking out into the trees. He stretches his hands above his head and lets out a sigh.
“Did the meditation work?” Dante asks.
Grant whirls around and gives him a grin. “Yeah! Well, I think so. I guess we’ll see?”
“You will do admirably, vampire,” the witch says. She tugs the drawstrings of the pouch in her hand closed and holds it out to Dante. “Here.”
He hesitates. “That…?”