Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lark
Abit of a problem is an understatement, but I believe that is Grant’s way of pushing his own anxiety away. Not many fae are out here with us. Those who are… well, they are furious.
Oisin meets my gaze. He is breathing hard; he felt the bond between us, the one linking us to the crowns, shatter just as I did. Now the only bond that exists for me is the one between me and Dante.
He looks at me apprehensively. I know the deal he struck.
The oak showed it to me. We will find the rightful people to wear these crowns, or we will be forfeited.
It is a better deal than I would have made under the circumstances and quick thinking on his part.
Now I look in the direction Grant is facing.
The witch. She stands further down the path, her face like thunder. Dante lets out a shaky breath.
“We need to go,” he says.
“The Guardians cannot open their gate here. We cannot—”
“Grant!” Dante calls, just as the witch spreads her arms wide and roots erupt from the dirt around us. They are not the oak’s roots; that stands steadfast between us, and she will no more touch it than the rest of the fae here.
I drag Dante out of the way as a root crashes into the ground where he was just standing, smashing through Oisin’s wards as though they are not there at all.
They whip through the air, sharp and heavy.
Oisin has Ophelia close in a similar fashion, while Grant fends for himself, though he is faster than either of us.
He leaps up into the oak’s branches, ignoring the horrified cries of fae below.
“You want me to try to open it?” he shouts back. The witch narrows her eyes and strides forward, but she cannot reach him up there. Not without damaging the oak. She might want this realm to fade, but harming the oak is like lying. We simply cannot.
“If you could!” I drag Dante out of the way of another root, then use my own magic to cut through it. It does not stop moving, but the end I have cut off falls to the ground, dead.
“Fuck’s sake,” Grant mutters. Then, louder, “Yeah, okay. Hold on!”
There is nothing to hold on to. I raise wards as best I can around us, but the witch unleashes more of her power and the roots smash them to ribbons.
Dante wriggles in my grip, reaching into his pocket.
The witch has focused her ire on Oisin and Ophelia first, probably because they are closer, without the tree between them and her.
“Catch!” he yells, and Ophelia does not hesitate, reaching her hands out for whatever Dante has thrown. A small bag—the bag the witch gave him in her cottage. She has almost reached them, and in a sudden movement, Ophelia pushes Oisin aside.
A root is heading right for her. The witch smirks. Dante tenses in my arms, but he says nothing as Ophelia dips her hand into the bag and makes her own move, rushing a few steps closer to the witch.
She raises her hand and uncurls her fist, then blows lightly. Grey specks float through the air, and when they land on the witch’s face, she screams.
Oisin grabs Ophelia around the waist and pulls her over to the oak.
He winces when he does it and Dante makes a wounded sound.
Iron. I smell it in the air. The other fae fall back, less eager to help than a moment ago.
Above us, Grant drags on all the power he can, and he is full of it, drawing it from the suns as they creep higher in the sky.
“Throw me the crowns,” he shouts.
To my surprise, Oisin does not hesitate. He takes the crown from his head and tosses it up into the branches. Grant hooks it over one and leaves curl around it, holding it in place. Dante turns and carefully lifts mine from my head.
“You should probably chuck it up there, though.”
I do as I am told. Grant sets that next to the first. None of the fae will take them. It is not even that I believe they will not dare; the oak rattles its branches menacingly.
The witch howls again. Her face is streaked red—blood or burns or both—and she charges towards us, roots flying. I raise more wards. Oisin does the same, but he knows as well as I do that we have little time.
“I hope you’re all ready for this!”
That is all the warning we get before a mighty crack rends through the air. It splits just next to the oak, and magic explodes out of it as it widens until there is enough room for one person to get through.
“The roots,” Dante whispers. “We can’t let her through.”
He is right. And so I push all of my power into the nearest root, feeding it into that network, trusting that the witch is so distracted by this broken gate that she will not notice.
She does not. I lash out, knocking her off her feet, and Oisin pushes Ophelia through the gate first.
“Go!” Dante yells at him, and Oisin looks at him in surprise. Dante gestures and he hesitates only for another second before he follows her through. “Grant?”
“Right behind you. Can’t exactly power it from the other side, can I?” Grant is crouched in the branches above, ready to leap. His face is pale, sweat dripping from his forehead and down to the collar of his shirt. His knuckles are white where he is holding on.
“Go,” I murmur in Dante’s ear. He looks at me once before he runs through the gap.
I glance up at Grant, just to be certain that he will follow. He nods, then his expression shifts.
I leap aside as another root impales where I was just standing. The witch is on her feet again and now the air is thick with her magic. The clouds move quickly overhead. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
I do not have the power to face her; I know that. But if I do not do something, she will stop Grant from leaving. And he will suffer in my stead. I raise wards around him, ignoring his cry of dismay, then push the rest of my magic into the roots again.
I am Seelie. I am one of you. I have always cared for the trees and the flowers and now, I ask you to listen.
The roots quiver, and when I open my eyes again, they have all frozen. One is mid-air, perhaps an inch from my face. I take a careful step around it and towards the gate.
The witch shakes where she stands. She can move, but her magic is wrapped up all in the roots, which are wrapped in my magic and their own inherent awareness that they should be deep in the earth, seeking nutrients, and not doing… this.
“Grant,” I murmur. He will hear me. I cannot leave him behind.
He slips to the ground and grabs my arm. “Come the fuck on,” he hisses, and his vampire speed and strength are enough for him to propel us through the gate, me slightly ahead of him.
It slams shut behind us, magic flaring behind my eyes, and I land hard, sprawling on…
Carpet?
I roll onto my back with a groan. Hands run over my torso, gentle, as though checking for damage.
I open my eyes. Dante leans over me, breathing hard, his own eyes too wide and worried.
“Are you okay? Jesus, when you didn’t—Are you okay?”
I grab him by the back of the neck and haul him down until his mouth meets mine.
He makes a muffled sound against my lips and I laugh because we are both alive and I can feel the steady hum of his magic deep inside him and our bond might not be cemented yet—there is so much still to do—but we are alive.
“Holy fuck,” someone mutters, and Dante pushes at my chest as he ends the kiss.
I look up and immediately realise where I am. Grant has brought us home, which for him, is the Wild Hunt base. Jeremiah stands in the doorway to the kitchen, for once dumbfounded.
“Hey,” Grant says. He gives Jeremiah a wave and a tired grin. “Is Vlad—”
I hear nothing at all, only see a dark flicker of shadow, but then Vladimir is leaning over Grant, on his knees on the floor, hands gently tipping up his face.
“You’re here,” Grant breathes. His next breath is almost a sob. “Fuck, I thought—”
Vladimir crushes Grant against his chest and Dante sags against me. Ophelia is sitting on the sofa, still tense but clearly calmer than she was in the Otherworld. Oisin stands against the wall, almost hiding in the shadows.
“How did you even make it back?” Jeremiah asks. He takes a wary step into the room. “You were supposed to go to the Guardians.”
“Yeah, things went to shit,” Ophelia says. She sighs. “Thanks for the rescue, though. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
Dante starts laughing. Ophelia catches his eye and then she’s laughing too, and I do not share quite as much in their slightly hysterical amusement, but my lips twitch all the same.
I get to my feet and pull Dante gently over to the sofa she’s sitting on.
Ophelia rests her head against his shoulder.
Grant lifts his head from Vladimir’s chest. His eyes are red and his hands are still twisted in Vladimir’s shirt. “Let’s not do that again, okay? Like, not anytime soon.”
“You are not leaving my sight for the foreseeable future,” Vladimir growls, then glares at me as though this is my fault.
I suppose it is. Grant pats Vladimir’s chest absentmindedly and settles more against him. He does not seem to mind that they are on the floor, and even if Vladimir might want to move them, I think he would stand on his head if Grant asked it of him right now.
“Want me to call your pack?” Jeremiah asks.
Ophelia and Dante exchange glances. “Yeah,” she says finally.
“Is Sam still with the Guardians?” Dante asks.
Vladimir nods. “I only returned with Soren because we were having fae trouble. Otherwise, I would have been there too. I planned to go back tonight.”
“Fate,” Grant says, with a little grin. “Magic.”
Vladimir hums, sweeping his hand up and down Grant’s back. His eyes sharpen when they land on Oisin. “Who are you?”
Oisin does not bristle; under the combined attention of Vladimir and Jeremiah, he looks rather as though he would like to melt into the wallpaper.
“He’s mine,” Ophelia says, and her tone brooks no argument. “I’ll take responsibility for him.”
Vladimir nods first, and Jeremiah raises his eyebrows. “I guess your alpha will have something to say about that.”