Epilogue
Gwen
“I’M COMING, I’M coming,” I grumbled to the insistent knocker at the door of Soren’s burrow, where he and the others had abandoned me.
Swinging it open, I found one of the king’s goblins, Milrot, with a wagon outside.
“Do you think I stand glued to the door waiting for you?” I snapped.
I’d held my tongue the first two times he’d come by to pick up dozens of boxes filled with books, kitchen items, bedding, and every other random item Soren had collected over his years in this burrow.
The third, fourth, and fifth times, I’d made him wait longer each time.
Now, this final round, as he came back for the last bit of furniture, I’d had it.
“Feel free to lift it yourself,” I told him, gesturing to the wardrobe. “I have places to be.”
Milrot spluttered, but I squeezed past the wagon wheel into the tunnel, leaving him and his complaints behind.
King Mordeus didn’t like Soren, but he wasn’t going to let his servants misplace the Unseelie prince’s things and risk going to war over something so trivial.
The furniture would get where it needed to go.
My job here was done.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Milrot shouted after me.
I ignored him.
“They sent ambassadors to pick you up,” he tried again.
“I’m not putting my life in their hands,” I called back with a laugh. “I’ll get to the Shadow Court my own way.”
I’d never shied away from a good hike before.
Milrot quieted, making me glance back. A strange smile rested on his slimy lips. When I glared at him, the smile disappeared, and he hurried inside to work.
Odd. If his happiness came from the thought of me shivering and miserable in the cold, he’d be disappointed. I wore multiple layers, had packed some light food, and had even borrowed Brynn’s strange human coat and boots.
Inside the tunnels, the coat was too warm, so I’d packed it in my bag. But as I climbed the stairs to the surface, the cool winter air brushed my bare skin.
I stopped to pull it on with a smirk, wishing that nasty goblin could see me now. It wasn’t quite as satisfying if I couldn’t rub it in.
Setting out across the snow, I aimed for the distant mountains.
Distracted, I almost didn’t hear the soft crunch of snow to one side.
I stopped.
Instinct had a knife in my hand in under a second. It was the small one that I kept in a sheath by my ribs, but I had four others on my person.
I listened to the woods.
They were silent.
Too quiet.
Not even a single birdsong.
That was what gave it away.
I let my heavy bag fall to the ground. I could fight with it, but the straps might loosen, and the weight was unwieldy, which could throw me off-balance.
That freed up my other hand to snatch one of my longer hunting knives from my boot.
“Show yourselves!” I called out when nothing happened.
No response.
That made the hair rise on the back of my neck.
If they weren’t attacking immediately, it meant one of two things: either there was only one of them and they found me intimidating, or, more likely, they were a large group, closing in on me strategically, waiting for the best opportunity.
My gut told me it was the latter.
Though few knew of it, I’d been on the run for years, afraid of this exact scenario.
I’d gotten lazy as time went on, thinking they’d lost my trail.
But now . . . Now I wished I’d kept up my training a bit better lately and eaten less of Peregrin’s addictive sweets.
Well, too late for regrets. Time for a plan, because I wouldn’t go down easy.
My eyes scanned the tree line.
There.
A slight movement behind one of the trees.
I let a wicked smile curve my lips.
Time to make these folk regret ever taking on this job.
I took off without warning.
Running directly at the tree, I swung around it with a yell meant to startle the assailant.
The space was empty.
“Hello, Gwen.”
I whirled, recognizing the deep male voice behind me. He’d circled the tree as I approached, knowing what I’d do before I did it.
“Ivor?” The name came out weaker than I’d have liked as I stared at him—the redcap my father had arranged for me to marry four years ago, before I’d fled.
When I’d spurned him, I’d expected to be hunted. I’d prepared for it, even, covering my tracks. When no one came for so many years, I’d begun to relax. I’d always assumed if anyone found me, it’d be one of his allies, easily evaded. But he’d come for me personally.
In my shock, I didn’t hear the other footsteps until their tattooed bodies were almost on top of me.
Even so, I fought hard.
My smaller knife flew at the first assailant, catching him in the leg. He went down with a delicious scream. The next was already on me, but my hunting knife met his blade, shoving it to the side, before I hurled it at the fae behind him.
There were too many.
A net flew overhead, and before I could dodge it, it dragged me down. I struggled against it. Such a dirty trick. I should’ve expected it from Ivor.
This handicap plus their sheer numbers proved too much for me, even with all my years of training.
I had to stare at Ivor’s vile smirking face as his henchmen held me down, one on each limb.
I spat in his face.
The spittle hit his boot.
His face turned red beneath all the tattoos. At least I had that satisfaction before he hoisted a hunting knife to bring it down on me. I honestly didn’t know which end I expected him to use. He turned it over at the last second to use the wooden handle instead of the blade.
Fortunately, I thought as he swung it down, I won’t feel it until I wake up.
The blow knocked me blissfully unconscious.
The End.
Find out what happens to Gwen in Prince of the Drowned Court . . .