Chapter 3
Ruskin Blackcoat, the name I’ve been avoiding, silencing in my own mind, ever since leaving his realm behind. A sickening swirl of emotions threatens to overwhelm me, but my discomfort is nothing compared to the soldiers’ fear. They frantically back their horses up, heads jerking around for the source of the danger. I catch a glimpse of one of them lying on the ground, his neck at an odd angle, then look away as his horse panics and tramples over him. Another scream pierces the morning air.
They’re right to be terrified.
“Remember your weapons, for God’s sake!” the captain barks as he spins his horse around, putting his back to us in the cart. “He cannot withstand them!”
The fear of the soldiers is palpable around us, I can almost taste it on my tongue, and yet in that moment I feel afraid for another.
“Ruskin!” I shout into the air, not knowing where to direct it. “They have iron!”
The captain looks at me with betrayal in his eyes, but I ignore him. I’ve seen what cold iron can do to the fae. I wouldn’t set up anyone for that kind of torture.
There’s another cracking of bones and a horse’s shrieking whinny. I see a flash of black as the rows of soldiers thin. One swings his sword just in time to connect with the dark figure, only to have his weapon yanked from his hand.
Ruskin appears in front of the cart, standing between us and the captain, holding the iron sword he just liberated.
He doesn’t look at me, but I can’t help but stare at him. All the anger, all the pain, comes rushing back to me, hitting me like a tidal wave. And yet, he’s magnificent as ever, tall and strong, pulsing with power as he drags his bright, Unseelie eyes across the sword he’s holding.
“And what exactly is this supposed to do again?” he asks, balancing the blade across his palm. The captain’s eyes widen in horror. It’s not the right kind of iron, I realize, not the secret formula that makes it fatal to fae. Albrecht must’ve believed the stories and thought regular old iron would be enough to stop this fae demon from besting his men again.
As the captain begins to comprehend just how much danger they’re in, my own relief takes on a fearful edge. I open my mouth to say something—to warn the humans just like I warned Ruskin—but the fae prince is too fast.
He leaps forward in a bound impossible for any mortal man and swipes the iron blade across the throat of the captain. Blood spills from his neck, a river of crimson, as he slides from his horse. One foot remains in the stirrup, and I flinch as his animal panics and bolts, dragging the captain’s limp body across the grass.
Where a dozen men once crowded around us, now five remain. Three still stand their ground, holding their horses’ reins tight, wielding their useless blades. The other two have realized their best chance at survival is fleeing.
He deals with the bravest first.
“Ruskin, don’t!” I shout, but he’s like a storm of death, ripping men from their saddles and throwing them under their terrified horses, pinning them to the ground with their own swords. I might as well be shouting my request to the stars for all he heeds me. When the men in front of us are dead, he vanishes into the brush in the direction of the fleeing soldiers. There’s a distant, bone-chilling shout, then silence.
“Nora,” Dad says, his hand clutching my arm, his voice shaking with fear. “We have to get out of here before he comes back.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” I say miserably. I can’t meet his eyes. “He won’t hurt us.”
Even as the man I fell in love with brutally murders around us, I know this to be true. I might not know how Ruskin feels about me leaving Faerie without a word of goodbye, I might be frustratingly in the dark when it comes to the secrets he’s keeping from me, but I’m certain of this much. Even if I didn’t hold his true name, and therefore the ultimate protection against his wrath, I don’t believe he would ever lift a hand to me after what we’ve shared.
That doesn’t mean he’s not a monster, though.
Dad only gapes at me as Ruskin appears again between a copse of trees. His yellow eyes are fixed upon me for the first time since he appeared. Though the rest of his face is a mask of deadly calm, his eyes are burning with an emotion I can’t name.
“Hello, Eleanor,” he says. His black coat of roses is barely ruffled, though a troop of dead men lies scattered around us. There’s a splash of blood on his hand, though, its wetness catching the light. He sees me looking at it and glances down, then wipes it away with a casual flick of his wrist.
His nonchalance makes me aware of the anger I’ve been holding at bay.
“You didn’t have to kill them,” I yell, my voice bouncing off the surrounding trees.
I’m aware of Dad gripping my arm tighter, afraid of what my aggression will provoke. But I want to provoke him, I realize. I want to rip that maddening mask of indifference right off his face.
Ruskin simply raises an eyebrow.
“I think I did.”
“Why?” I bite back. “Have you not had your fill of bloodshed today, is that it? Just had a violent itch that needed scratching?”
“What do you think those soldiers would have done if I’d left any of them alive, hmm?” he asks, and his voice has an edge to it that tells me I’ve succeeded in annoying him. I’d feel good about that, if I wasn’t struggling to answer his question.
“Well, they…”
“They would’ve gone straight back to their master and told him that the rumors are true, and the Gold Weaver he’s still hunting is indeed back—close to the house where she lives, if he wishes to destroy it. In the village where she was raised, if he wants to burn it to the ground in petty spite.”
I swallow, picturing how relentless Albrecht would be if he knew for certain I was out here, somewhere, in Styrland. These men had just been responding to the same vague sightings that had brought them to Dad, I assume. But those who saw me today, with Ruskin, would now be convinced I was back. If any of them had lived to tell the tale, that is.
“You have magic,” I say sourly, but the conviction has faded from my voice. “You could’ve found another way.”
“None as foolproof as this,” he says firmly, gesturing to the bodies around him.
I feel sick and what’s worse is I know it’s not just a reaction to the violence. When I look at Ruskin—his proud face lifted to meet my gaze—I still see a person I want and desire—even now, even with traces of blood still lingering on his hands—but my longing for him is so tainted with hurt and suspicion it feels toxic, churning up my insides like a poison.
“Come on, Dad,” I say, picking up the reins and tugging on them. “Let’s go home.”
Parsley jerks into motion and the cart trundles along the road.
“Do I not even get a thank you?” Ruskin falls into step beside the cart, his long strides easily keeping him abreast of it.
“For what? I didn’t ask you to come.” I find I don’t even care to know how he found us at just the right moment. Certainly not by chance, yet for once I feel no urge to know the answer. Not when my mind keeps replaying the betrayal that drove me away from him in the first place. He knew Mom, he knew I was her daughter when we first met, and yet he hid all of that, deliberately. Not even a ghost with her face could force him to tell me. I want to scream about it, I want to demand the truth. Now, when I’ve had some distance to help build up my defenses against him—against my feelings for him—I feel ready for it.
Yet it’s not fair to do it in front of Dad. Not when I don’t know for sure what answer I’ll get in return.
“Why are you here anyway?” I ask instead.
Ruskin’s stare is almost unbearable, the intensity of it making me feel ready to crumble.
“I’d rather discuss that in private.”
I release a bitter laugh at the stiffness in his voice. As if he’s earned such a request. His privacy has been all that’s ever mattered. More important than me, certainly. More important than us.
“I won’t be leaving Nora alone with the likes of you.”
I throw Dad a surprised look. His voice is stern, almost intimidating. He wraps a protective arm around me. Even though he’s just seen Ruskin slaughter a dozen men, he glares at him like he could knock him down with just a look.
Ruskin dips his head in what I suspect, with wonder, is a sense of awkwardness. Dad’s actually making him feel bad.
“My apologies, Mr. Thorn, but it really is a matter of some importance.”
Well, that confirms that his reasons aren’t just about me, our relationship. If chasing me down was his top priority, he’d have done it two weeks ago.
“We’ll speak at home,” I say abruptly, turning my head to look straight at the road. My father makes a noise of disapproval, but before he can protest further, Ruskin is bowing his head once more.
“Very well. I will see you there.”
He stops keeping pace with the cart and drifts back into the trees that line the road.
“Nora, are you insane?” Dad splutters as soon as Ruskin’s out of sight. “Isn’t that the creature who kidnapped you?”
I don’t need this to be more complicated than it already is, so I simplify things for Dad, giving him the story I’ve had two weeks to decide upon.
“No, Dad. He didn’t kidnap me—I asked him to take me away. Like I was saying before, I made a deal with him in return for freeing me from Albrecht’s castle. He took me to Faerie because he wanted me to do a job for him. Because of my metallurgy. When I was done, I came home.”
Dad takes a moment to process this, touching his bandage like he’s worried his injury is playing tricks on him.
“I…don’t know where to begin,” he says. Then seems to decide that, in fact, he does. “Why is he here now?” he asks. His brow creases with worry. “Are you sure your debt is repaid? You know how treacherous these fair folk can be.”
“I’m sure this isn’t about our deal. I did what he needed me to. This must be about something else. And anyway, I found a way around his tricks in Faerie. He can’t make me do anything I don’t want to.”
Nothing I’ve said is technically a lie, but the guilt is still there when I see Dad look a little relieved. It’s better this way, I tell myself, even as the hypocrisy stings. After all, isn’t this why I’m so angry with Ruskin? For keeping secrets? But Dad is so fragile when it comes to Mom. If I knew all the facts, I could find a way to tell him as gently as possible—but I don’t. All I could tell him is that Mom made some kind of deal with Ruskin years before. Maybe he knows that already…but maybe he doesn’t, and he’ll be horribly hurt to learn it. Without more detail, more context—information that Ruskin refuses to give me—I’d risk breaking Dad’s heart all over again. I silently resolve that I will tell him, once I know the whole story. But not until then.
Ruskin is already there at the cottage. I know before I step through the door, because it’s no longer hanging off its hinges. I examine the frame and see where fresh, intertwining branches now hold the thing in place. The sight hardly lifts my mood.
It’s jarring, to say the least, seeing the man I know to be a High King of the Seelie Court standing in my humble little home. Most of the damage from Albrecht’s men is gone—furniture is righted and things returned to their cupboards, but the improvement does little to hide the stark contrast between our crude belongings and Ruskin’s elegant frame as he leans against the wall.
“Sorry I couldn’t do more about the windows,” he says, gesturing to the holes now covered over with ivy.
I glance towards Dad, who’s eyeing the house with amazement.
“You need rest, Dad,” I say. “You should go lie down.”
He shakes his head, now glaring at Ruskin.
“No, I’m not leaving you alone with that…with him. I don’t trust him.”
I can’t argue with Dad there.
“Do you know that my kind can’t lie, Mr. Thorn?” Ruskin says, standing up straighter.
Dad looks taken aback by being addressed directly.
“Yes, I’ve heard as much,” he says gruffly. He looks sideways at me for confirmation, and I nod.
“Then you will know I’m telling the truth when I say no harm shall come to Eleanor from me while you rest. In fact, she will not leave this room unless she desires it.”
Dad rocks back on his heels, suddenly looking weary. I suspect his head is still paining him terribly, but he’s trying not to let on.
“You promise you’ll be careful?” he says to me.
“I promise.”
He puts his hand to my cheek, then leaves the room without another word—or look—at Ruskin.
Once we’re alone, the atmosphere shifts. There’s too much between us and the tension of it pulls taut as a hangman’s rope.
“I don’t think I made a very good first impression,” Ruskin says with a bitter smile. I can’t tell if it’s a cold joke or a genuine regret. Probably both, but I find I don’t care.
“I know you have your own reasons to be here,” I tell him, “but if there’s something you want from me, then you should know I’m not going to help you without getting answers first.”
“Answers to what?”
Is he really going to pretend he doesn’t know why I’m so upset? I fix him with my iciest stare. Then I ask the question that’s been running through my mind since the night I left Faerie.
“Ruskin, how did you know my mother?”