67. THE DINNER PARTY #2
My stomach hollowed out, and the look on Niall’s face told me his had done the same.
“Skadi’s shadows . . . they discovered me—” He launched into a coughing fit, then caught his breath again, but struggled to get through his words. “I made it into . . . the main camp . . . Lyceius was there . . . and so was Killian . . . And . . . the human king is in danger.”
“What kind of danger?” Niall pressed.
“The kind where . . . you’re silenced . . . for knowing too much—” Another groan of pain cut his words short.
Niall glanced up, meeting Aremis’s stare as he and Roirdan settled closer to listen.
“Broderick uncovered . . . some sort of information that he plans on exposing . . . and somehow . . . Killian knows more about it than we do.”
“What information?” Roirdan asked.
“He just said . . . the king knows ‘the truth’ . . . And Lyceius wants him dead for it.”
I shook my head in confusion. What could the king possibly know that would make him a threat to Lyceius?
Beside me, Roirdan shifted uneasily on his feet. By the looks of his hardened brow and balled fists, he was ready to launch into action.
“And his armies . . .” Folquin paused for a breath, managing to lift his head and look Niall in the eye. “He has hundreds of thousands, Niall.”
The words were a sobering strike in the gut. So much so, that none of us responded.
“There’s more,” he continued, his voice now as rough as gravel. “Lyceius made . . . a blood oath . . . to Skadi.”
Aremis looked between Folquin and Niall, genuinely confused. “Why would he do that?”
Folquin sucked in another sharp breath as he tried to turn and face us. “Don’t know . . . But Skadi—fuck—” He squeezed his eyes shut as Niall helped him to sit upright against the door. “She’s using it . . . to fuel her power.”
As he caught his breath, Maeson pushed forward, bunching her dress up to crouch before him.
“Where are you hurt?” she asked, hands already roaming—seeking out his injuries.
He lifted his hand from where he was clutching his side, revealing a gaping hole just beneath his ribs. There was not as much blood as there should have been, which had me immediately concerned.
“Good gods, what happened?” Maeson exclaimed.
“The shadows . . . they’re brutal . . . They can harm you . . . but when you try to fight back . . . they have no form.”
She pulled his shirt back to see the extent of the marred flesh. “You’re no longer bleeding. That’s not a good sign.”
“No . . . It’s my magic . . . I shifted . . . just as I took the hit . . . The change of my form . . . stopped the . . . bleeding . . . But it didn’t stop the damage.”
I took a closer look.
His bottom ribs were completely exposed. And . . . was that his lung?
I had seen plenty of wounds before—severed heads, slit throats, punctures through chests and abdomens and about every other body part there is.
When it was a stranger, or an enemy, it was not as bothersome—it meant next to nothing.
But it was different when it was someone I knew or cared for.
It made everything feel more vulnerable.
A stark reminder that death is always just a heartbeat away, lingering for its pre-destined moment to arrive.
Maeson went to work digging through the satchel she’d magically summoned.
Folquin looked up, wincing. “I’m sorry, Niall . . . I never meant for this to happen—”
“Don’t,” Niall cut him off. “You don’t owe anyone an apology. You risked your life—you damn near lost it.” He stared at Folquin’s wound. “I am forever grateful for what you’ve done for us.”
Folquin nodded, though he still hung his head as if he was disappointed in himself.
“Here, drink this,” Maeson instructed. She placed a small, slender bottle in his hand.
“It will stop the pain. Your ribs are cracked. The flesh needs to be cleaned and sutured immediately. Since you shifted, I don’t think your current body knows it was injured.
It’s no longer bleeding, but it’s not healing on its own, either. ”
“Like hell it doesn’t know . . . I feel every damn bit of it!” He uncorked the bottle and tipped the contents down his throat.
“I can heal you here, or inside—”
“Here.” He closed his eyes and sagged against the door as the tonic took its effect.
Maeson glanced up. “We’re going to be here awhile.”
“Take your time,” Niall said. He turned to the Trium. “Council meeting. Now.”
Aremis nodded and vanished. Roirdan did the same.
Remic stared down at Folquin. “He may have escaped, but now they know that we know. They will be desperate to stay one step ahead. We need to move quickly.”
Niall turned to me, a grim tilt to his lips. “I’m sorry to have to cut your wonderful dinner short.”
“Dinner is the least of my worries. Will he be all right?”
“Yes. You know Maeson, she can practically bring the dead back to life.”
Without breaking her concentration, Maeson snorted. “I wish.”
Niall turned to me and reached into his pocket in space, withdrawing my sword and scabbard. “I must inform the council before I call the armies to war, so get ready to meet them.”
I stared at my weapon as he handed it to me. “How did you—”
“Never mind that right now. Take it. It’s a statement of authority.”
“A sword? Not a crown?”
He lifted a brow and reached back into his magical hideout. “If you prefer your crown, I’m happy to—”
“No, thank you. This will do just fine.” I strapped the weapon around my waist, happy to feel its familiar weight settle against my hip.
He offered me his hand, and when Remic gripped onto both our shoulders, we ported.