32
Aspen
Even if we came up with an excuse, the ruse wouldn’t last. This man would snuff it out eventually, if not by tactic then with all those brews at his disposal.
From one deceiver to another, I would have admired his technique and asked to pick his brain if I weren’t busy piecing together how to proceed.
Not helping matters, Aire reached his tipping point. Stewing in enough fury to roast a side of beef, the knight prowled forward, likely to rip off the asshole’s head.
I snatched Aire’s wrist. None of us, including Nicu, had experienced any hazardous symptoms. That method wouldn’t have made sense since Lyrik meant to track us. Otherwise, he could have garnished our meals with poison instead.
But no. The bastard wanted information more than he wanted us dead.
Since bloodshed would get us nowhere, the giant warrior to my left strove to calm down, drafting oxygen through his nostrils. “You contaminated Aspen and violated the Royal Son.”
“‘Contaminated’ is a bit overkill,” Lyrik contradicted.
“As for the other thing, trust me. If I ever ‘violated’ your little songbird, you’d know.
But don’t worry, the vapor won’t kill you.
Hell, it won’t even tickle. The effects should wear off by midnight.
” His lips quirked. “Just in case you two feel like finding another rendezvous spot.”
Mortification scorched my flesh. He knew about the swing, had monitored our presence there.
One. Two. Three.
Aire lunged. I grappled to pull him back while he seethed, “I will gut you like a trout!”
Lyrik waved that off. “Cool your heels, hero. Whatever pornographic fuckery happened last night, I’m no voyeur. Not unless I’m invited.”
“He’s baiting you,” I coached, tugging on Aire’s forearm until he relented.
I’d hardly call myself shy or discreet, but that night with him mattered to me, thus intensifying my desire to chop this scoundrel to pieces. Still, Lyrik hadn’t dropped by to watch the smut unfold. Instead, he must have scanned a map of this forest and took note of us at that same hour.
Regardless, we had more important things to deal with. This rogue acted too independently to be in cahoots with treasonous soldiers. As much as he fancied backdoor deals, Lyrik didn’t like following orders or bending over for the elite classes.
I hedged my bets. “How did you know about the knight encampment?”
“I’ll ask the fucking questions,” Lyrik clamored.
“Your suspicions are misdirected,” Aire groused.
“You said you didn’t see any soldiers loitering near this place,” I pointed out.
“Didn’t know or trust you,” the prick answered. “Don’t know them, either. But yeah, I’ve seen their outpost from a distance while foraging for ingredients. Besides, people who ask about other people usually have shit between them. I want no part of it.”
That tracked with him too.
“We’re not spying on you,” I explained. “We’re spying on them.”
“The troop has committed treason against the Crown,” Aire defended.
Lyrik raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Blimey. Treason. Groundbreaking concept.”
My molars compressed. If we didn’t give him more, he’d find a way to pump us with another brew later, something containing potentially noxious ingredients to accomplish the job.
And that extended to Nicu.
Aire drew the same conclusion. “My brethren have sided with King Rhys.”
The statement dropped like a bomb. Shock flashed through Lyrik’s pupils, the orbs widening, and his posture tensed. Because even the most solitary individual knew about the conflict between Summer and the Seasons, no one in their right mind would take that intelligence for a lie.
“For fuck’s sake.” The bloke clocked his gaze toward the woods, then kicked his head in that direction. “Any signs that Summer or this troop know what you’re up to? Where you’re hiding?”
“Assuming they’re not intimidated or overly superstitious about the enclave, the troop would have invaded here by now,” I answered.
“As for Summer, I’m pretty sure that Royal windbag is too busy holding a grudge with one bejeweled hand and stroking his cock with the other to notice anything beyond the obvious.
At any rate, he’s only got so much room in his noggin to retain clues. ”
“Good. The last thing we need is a king showing up here.” When Lyrik checked our inquisitive gazes, he spread his arms. “Hey. I’m hardly dabbling in legal substances, even if he’s the monarch of a different nation.”
Yep. Out for himself.
“There’s more,” I hinted.
“There’s always more,” he remarked.
“Not just from our side,” Aire contradicted. “You’re stewing. The maleficence is oozing off you like acid.”
“Oh, my mistake,” the rogue mocked, pushing off the tree trunk.
“I forgot how sheltered you castle folk are. Must be nice, being insulated among all that pampered finery and whatnot, but lemme break it down. The ‘little people’ in this kingdom actually live a tough life; being angry doesn’t make us unique, it makes us typical.
If I’m pissed off at the world, that means I’m average. ”
“You assume too much. I refuse to advocate for Rhys, but neither will I tolerate insults to my Autumn kin. Do not presume to understand or underscore the trials of a Royal.”
“Then allow me to set a lower bar. The Summer King doesn’t exactly inspire cozy feelings from anybody these days. Call me a selfish motherfucker, but I’m no fan of wankers who inherit their titles without earning them.” The spiked earring glinted along the curve of Lyrik’s ear. “No offense meant.”
“No offense achieved,” Aire bit out.
I seconded that. Although this might be the first time our moral compasses all pointed in the same direction—about titles being earned instead of gained through bloodlines—Lyrik knew zero about Briar, Poet, or Nicu.
They fought for and deserved their place in this nation, regardless of what this instigator assumed.
But Lyrik did score one point. If the system had been different from the beginning, Rhys wouldn’t have been on the throne, and the fates of countless born souls would have been spared by now.
Something else darkened Lyrik’s expression. “I take it, the songbird knows.”
“We keep no secrets from him,” Aire replied, his tone fixed.
The statement turned my stomach. Once again, I made a liar of this knight.
I kept my gaze neutral as Lyrik’s attention cut from the knight to me. He contemplated us, then nodded. “All right. Do what you gotta do.” Backing up and turning away, he called over his shoulder, “But if you get caught, I’m not bailing you out.”
We stood there, scrutinizing Lyrik as he vanished toward the misty platforms, that long coat flapping behind him as if he’d just disembarked from a pirate ship.
I grimaced. “If he’s watching us that closely, we’ll watch him back.”
“Indeed,” Aire murmured. “If we don’t slay him first.”
The subject dropped that night as we approached the fire pit from our respective cabins. Nicu and I arrived after Lyrik, who stoked the flames, the blaze sketching his stubbled jaw.
By comparison, Nicu looked all the more fae-like in this woodland, with his angular features and jade eyes. Tonight, he’d woven a braid down one side of his head. However, the weave slumped, errant strands loosening.
As he reached up to fix it, another set of fingers brushed his own aside. Materializing next to him, Lyrik netted the hair back into place, his movements impassive. “There, little songbird.”
At the touch, Nicu’s eyes bloated to the size of cymbals, and a blush mottled his throat. He opened his mouth, clamped it shut again, and hastened to the pit.
I swung my gaze to the rogue, daunted by the intrigue scrolling across his profile.
Watching Nicu flee the scene, Lyrik huffed in amusement. “Lively elf.”
“Hey.” I grabbed the lapel of his coat. “Hands off.”
The man’s head snapped to mine, derision twisting his countenance as if he found my assumption preposterous. With a dry scoff, he replied, “I don’t fuck virgins.”
“Keep it that way,” I warned.
“Noticing the wrong things again, are you?” He strutted ahead while mumbling, “Besides. Not interested.”
Bullshit. I kept an eye on our host as we huddled around the fire pit with blankets draped over our laps and salted pheasant laid out on plates. As Nicu lapped at his dripping fingers, Lyrik fixated on him and then tore his gaze away, his eyes clinging to the flames.
Aire selected a persimmon from a basket, cut a wedge with a paring knife, and handed one to me. I held the morsel between my fingers, my skin warming. I’d never said aloud that I liked my fruit in slices, yet he noticed at some point.
While tossing and turning that night, I clenched my thighs hard.
Under the thick blankets, my thoughts strayed to Aire kneeling before me, his hot tongue sweeping up and down the raw trench of my pussy.
To prevent my hand from diving between my legs, I focused on more dire matters, such as everything we learned at the encampment. And the mysteries that had piled up.
Trade tools, sharp enough to be wielded like makeshift weapons. However inferior to army blades, those instruments would enhance disguises, as Aire and I had guessed.
Resting on my back, I replayed the camp scene. That run-of-the-mill sickle in Dame Muriel’s lap, when someone of her rank owned a priceless sword instead. And the words she’d spoken…
“The next best ambush will be possible when the fires are lit.”
Disguises. Makeshift defenses. Burning fires.
References to calendars and revels being only occasional in Autumn. As if this dictated their next move.
A special event. A ritualistic one.
Conceivably, they planned to ambush clusters of Autumn’s deployed army during a time when they’d be celebrating along with everyone else. Which meant…
I shot upright. “Reaper’s Fest.”
Bonfires. Costumes.
With that annual holiday approaching, it would be the optimal time to stage an attack. Out here, any troops stationed in this region would be caught off guard.
Less than ten days remained between now and Reaper’s Fest. That wouldn’t give us time to alert the clan, much less to receive backup from the castle. Aire and I hadn’t gathered enough intel yet, but delaying would guarantee a bloodbath.
This couldn’t wait. I recalled Lyrik’s chemical stunt when he tracked me and Aire, which brought to mind what else that man could create with his brews.
Originally, Aire accused Lyrik of being an explosives expert.
Thinking about the supplies in the knights’ tents, I brainstormed the risks versus the losses.
Lyrik said he wanted no part in our conflict, but that was before we revealed Summer’s role in things. After that, he hadn’t objected.
“I’m no fan of wankers who inherit their titles without earning them.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
My next move would take finagling. The rebel might keep to himself, but he also had a problem with authority. If I played that angle, so much the better.
The next morning, I strolled into Lyrik’s alchemy chamber and leaned against the jamb. “What’s the price for your skills and my silence?”
Matching Aire’s height, Lyrik towered beside the cauldron. His back faced me, a fitted shirt clutching the muscles knitting across his back. At my proposition, his head lifted slowly. And while I couldn’t see his reaction, I imagined an impulsive gleam flitting across his pupils.
Still turned away, he murmured, “Depends on the target.”
Smoothly executed. That whole misanthropic act had its limits.
I conspired with this asshole for an hour, spent the next few days acclimating myself to the enclave, debating how best to mark the paths so Nicu would remember how to get around, and training at different intervals from Aire, who practiced on his own or with Nicu.
When enough time had passed—ensuring the knights encampment wouldn’t tie an accident to me after my visit—I called it an early night.
After waiting until everyone retired to their cabins, I changed into pants woven from some extinct textile conceivably involving tree roots.
Fascinated, I paired this with a hooded cape as light as mist, yet more effective than wool.
After securing my axe inside the ancient harness, I strapped my waist with an archaic smith belt from one of the tool sheds, then crept from the enclave dressed as a nomadic bandit.
The temperature dipped, and blasts of air pushed from my lips. I skulked past trees glowing in the dark, their trunks embroidered in lichen, and retraced my path to the encampment.
A cluster of fires crackled beyond the hedges, illuminating the tents like globes. Squatting behind a shrub, I reacquainted myself with the men and women from the other night, their outlines hunkering around the flames, murmurs floating through the air.
In the center, that broad trunk rose into the sky, the great boughs spreading wide. I winced as the symbols across my flesh stung, then focused on the scene. Just then, a new figure stepped into view, oil-black hair spilling down the folds of his linen mantle.
The blood leached from my pores.
The great oak rose proud. The camp was right there.
And so was Rhys.