Chapter Thirty-Seven Kion
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kion
Minutes before totality, a royal-sounding trumpet blares through the air, summoning all Unseelie to the “starting line,” which is really just the edge of the mountain.
Keeping behind Banes and her two gangsters, and thanking Merlin that Jacks seems to have slunk off in defeat, Kion and Taissa stand in the line.
Kion’s shoulders brush against an excited-looking lanternman.
The air is filled with excited chatter as the remaining dregs of dusky light begin to fade.
“Welcome,” a rich voice booms, “to the annual Wild Hunt!”
A cheer rises up from the crowd as Puck’s voice—somehow magically amplified—carries throughout the fairground. The king himself is lost amongst the hundreds of Unseelie, but his voice still sends a shiver down Kion’s spine.
A close fucking call, earlier. They’d been so near to the reigning Unseelie monarchs and the glamour-immune dullahan.
If Pike, or Jacks, had so much as glanced sideways, for only a moment, all hope would have been lost.
And even though he knows that Magis Elder is somewhere, keeping an eye on the team, fear still grips Kion by the throat. They’re far from the finish line.
“Here on Sliabh Réaltach, we are finally free from the Seelie’s iron hand,” continues King Puck.
“We are finally free from the doors shut in our faces and the jeers sent our way! Here, tonight, we are FREE!” Raucous screams and the stomping of feet remind Kion of an arena.
“The only rule for tonight is that THERE ARE NONE!”
“Are you ready?” Kion whispers to Taissa. Even glamoured, he can see the vicious look on her face. The one that means Merlin help anybody who gets in her way.
“I will be.”
Fuck, she’s fierce. His heart aches. He aches for her.
“My queen and I will lead the race! Through bog, through brake. Through bush and briar. Follow us, and do not tire!”
The world plunges into darkness as the sun is swallowed by inky black. This is it. Kion flexes his hands at his side, keeping a close eye on one of the Withers.
“GO!” roars Puck, and he sees him, atop a stallion, racing down the mountain with Pike at his back. All at once, the Unseelie leap forward, hurtling down, down, down. In a burst of shadow, all three púcas shift into black horses with shining golden eyes and wild manes.
There’s no time to think. Damn it, there’s no time to do anything but react.
Blood roaring in his ears, Kion sprints toward one of the horses—Taissa close on his heels—and launches himself atop it, aided by the Strength, Stealth, Balance, and Endurance glyphs inked all over his arms. It’s a messy business, that’s for sure.
The horse bucks angrily beneath him, but Kion’s wrapped his hands in its mane, and won’t let go.
Not for the life of him.
He can feel the púca’s quivering rage as he realizes he’s falling behind in the race by trying to get him off his back—every Unseelie wants to win, for the acclaim and respect it brings if not the wishes—and so he gallops forward instead, harshly enough that if Kion relaxes for only a moment, he’ll be thrown off.
Gritting his teeth, he twists his head to see if Taissa has managed to get onto Banes, and is rewarded by the sight of her gaining on him.
Good. Kion turns back, lowers his head, and applies a firm inward pressure to the horse’s flank, urging him to go faster. The púca huffs, obviously unamused, but obliges, anyway. Kion wonders if Banes warned her men that the Stymphs would be coming.
No time for idle thought. He’s at risk for breaking his neck.
The craggy mountain isn’t good for riding, much less hurtling downward, bareback.
Already, some Unseelie are falling: tripping over their own feet, and then one another.
Kion sees a vampire get a nasty gash on the head from a protruding rock.
His eyes water—shit, shit, shit, he forgot a Shielding glyph—as he wraps his arms around the púca’s neck, better to hold himself steady. Panting faces rush by in a blur, and up there—that’s King Puck and Queen Pike.
Hells.
He’d better hope it’s too late for Pike to do anything about the Seelie infiltrators in her midst, because when he passes her, she’ll see him for who he really is.
Over the dark wind roaring in his ears, Kion hears the pounding of hooves, and then he, Taissa, and Knox are neck and neck. A grim smile tugs at his mouth, making it ache, as Isla and Bronte join them. Then óríon. Then Mahina. Then Adriel.
The NCL Stymphs, each atop a dark horse, ride in a perfect Parallel Position, thundering toward victory. Something more potent than love surges in Kion’s chest at the sight of his team, come together, fighting to save the sport that binds them.
Fighting to save carriwitchet.
It’s been so long that they moved as one that Kion forgot what it feels like.
To be part of something stronger than fate itself.
To be part of a unit that knows itself so seamlessly.
To taste victory on the wind. Puck and Pike aren’t too far away now.
All they have to do is pass them and make it down the mountain.
Isla falls behind first with a muffled cry that pierces Kion’s heart. She’s fallen.
“ISLA!” Bronte shouts in a panic before there’s an agitated whinny, and Rihowl’s no longer in the formation.
Gritting his teeth, Kion prays that Elder really is close on their heels, and that he’ll get both girls medical help if they need it.
A few minutes later, Knox is next. This time, Kion sees him fall through the dark air, covering his body to avoid being trampled by his púca. With difficulty, Kion reminds himself of what he told Adriel and Mahina: Keep going. Don’t stop.
There are still five of them in the race.
Five shots at winning.
Come on. Come on.
Kion holds on tight, his muscles straining as his horse gallops through the bogland, undeterred by the marshy ground. His heart is beating so hard that he thinks he might be sick.
There’s a loud splash from behind him. “Fókk!” roars óríon, voice slightly muffled by the bog.
Four, now.
And they go down to three a minute or two later, when Adriel shrieks in alarm, hitting the ground. Shit. Kion’s not surprised when Mahina follows soon after, unsteadied by the loss of her other half.
It’s him and Taissa now—and the two monarchs show no sign of slowing down.
Neck and neck, Kion Locke and Taissa Cho compete against each other for what might be the final time if they fail.
His breath catches a little in his throat as he glances sideways at her.
She’s glorious. Fucking glorious. And despite everything, Kion’s mouth twitches into a small smile as he meets Taissa’s eyes.
Two moments later, both of them are speeding past the monarchs in a blur of speed.
The end of the mountain is in sight now.
He squints against the darkness to make sure.
Just ahead, the ground slopes back into evenness, into steady land.
Above them, the moon still covers the sun, blotting out any light.
Kion cuts through the darkness like a knife through butter.
He and Taissa are still tied. Old competitiveness flares up in him as he holds fast, eyeing the finish line as it comes into view, two torches wavering against the unnatural darkness.
Yet something else flares up in him, too, as he glances at Taissa—her brows set in concentration, her glamoured skin flushed from the wind.
For the first time, Kion Locke realizes that he wouldn’t mind losing to Taissa Cho.
Not one bit.
The flames of the torches gutter as both of them hurtle past the finish line.
Unlike the conclusion of a game, there are no cheers to greet them—but there’s magic.
Kion feels it, heavy and ancient, permeating the air just as sunlight begins to leak from the sky above.
Breathing hard, Kion loosens his grip on the púca’s neck as the Unseelie swarm them, chattering excitedly.
He looks to Taissa as he dismounts, moments before the púca tries to buck him off. One of them has won—but who?
In a puff of smoke, Taissa’s púca has turned back into Orla Banes.
And Taissa is now sitting on her shoulders.
“Well,” drawls Orla. “At least you figured out what I was trying to tell you in my club.” She reaches up and pats Taissa’s knee almost fondly, but mostly coldly.
“Who won?” Taissa demands with clear competitiveness, her priorities as straight as ever, but then there’s that regal blaring of the trumpet, and the Unseelie royalty is thundering toward them on their horse.
Ah, fuckkkkkk.
Pike’s milky gaze has turned to him and Taissa—and it’s narrowed. Kion grimaces as his horse shifts back into an annoyed-looking Withers. She’s going to behead them now. He just knows it. His hand drifts toward his invisible, glamoured thigh holster, where his qyl is stored…
Queen Pike dismounts. “There will be no need for that,” she says in a voice like a whetted knife. Wondering if he’s misheard her, Kion frowns, only for Pike to gesture to him and Taissa. In disbelief, he watches as Pike—queen of the Unseelie, wife to Puck, notorious murderess—smiles.
A terrifying smile, yeah, but still a smile.
“When I first saw you overtake us, I thought, ‘Hm, I should hang them by their entrails for interrupting such a sacred event.’ ”
Taissa sways. She’s still on Banes’s shoulders. Kion wonders if they should just run for it.
“But then,” says Pike, “I realized who you were. Those horny little carriwitchet players.” She points at Taissa, and her glamour melts away. “Pink-Thong Girl.” She points to him, and his disguise disappears, too. It’s like being doused in cold water. “Groping Boy.”
Well, she’s not wrong. “You read Wily Witch?” croaks Kion.
Merlin. Niamh’s PR goes so much farther than the Springtides elf realizes. He’s never been more thankful for the team’s publicist than he is right now.