8. Willow
Chapter 8
Willow
T he warm study is larger than I imagined—like a ground-zero war room. Nero had one like this in his private top-floor conservatory. The association makes me shiver uncomfortably. I wonder if we’ll ever be rid of war or if this volatile trait is a permanent fixture here on Earth.
Four bookcases flank the left wall like soldiers. A blazing fireplace warms a sitting area on the right. Smack in the center of the room, facing the door, is the Knight Commander’s oversized yet simple wooden desk. A tapestry map of Avorlorna hangs behind him. Red and blue pins sporadically mark what I guess is enemy activity.
Legion sits like a king, head bowed as he pores over one of the many documents before him. Emrys looms behind him, gloved leather hands clasped at his front. His black military uniform is spotless, crisp, and clean. It isn’t easy to reconcile this version with the one Styx dropped me into earlier this morning.
Speaking of Styx, he lurks in the shadows between two bookcases, nose stuck in a book, pretending not to notice my arrival. It’s a lie because we all see each other—my mates and I. We sense it in the minute shifts in the atmosphere. Their comforting scent fills my lungs. It feels so right in here, surrounded by four of them. It feels safe despite the other strangers doing business with the knights.
Two ruddy-cheeked city guards sit in the guest chairs at Legion’s desk, waiting for him to read their report. Both have elfin ears, brownish hair, and pale skin. A third, unfamiliar male waits in the sitting area, arms folded and glaring impatiently at the guards as though they stole his time slot. His afro hair is cropped close to his scalp. No jewelry adorns his dark, fae ears. He keeps his chiseled face in profile, eyes locked on Legion. I’m taking a stab in the dark and guessing he’s a House of Stone Radiant. That style of plain clothing was precisely the type Sylvanar favored.
If he’s here and decidedly unhappy, it’s likely about the Lord’s death—perhaps he’s the new Earl.
I want to slink into the shadows with Styx, but Bodin slams the door behind us with such force that my spine rattles. Multiple sets of eyes snap my way. A scratching and wet gnawing sound fills the silence. It seems to be coming from somewhere near the bookcases. The sound stops abruptly when I glance in that direction. My nose twitches with another detected scent . . . raw meat. Maybe Emrys brought some of his work home after all.
The House of Stone Radiant takes in my presentation with disapproving raised eyebrows. I fight the urge to comb my wild strands into order. Varen’s coat comes down to my knees, and I am shoeless. If I’d known there would be people here, I’d have fixed myself before entering the room.
The second guard cants his head curiously at me. I lock eyes with him and startle. It’s Briar—the guard who was kind to me when I arrived in Avorlorna. The last I saw him, he sent me up and away on a Dandelion Drift.
“Briar?” My lips stretch into a warm smile.
He does a double-take and hesitates.
That gnawing and grinding wet sound grows louder again, coming from the same direction as before. I glance that way again, still seeing nothing unusual.
Confusion pinches Briar’s brows. I guess he would see so many people passing through those gates that he wouldn’t recognize me. Still, I’m so excited to see a friendly face that I rush toward him, heedless of his growing alarm, grab his shoulders, and grin stupidly in his face.
He laughs nervously. “Um . . . have we met?”
“It’s me, Willow O’Leary Nightstalk.” I squeeze his shoulders. “I was the last exhibitor through the gates before it closed for the Gentle Interlude.”
“Willow?” Shock splashes over his features, and he cups my elbows, holding me at arm’s length so he can inspect me with rapt attention. “Ah, ’tis a joy to see you again. Alive and no longer afflicted by your unfortunate countenance. I must say, you are even more remarkable . . .” Appreciation darkens his eyes as they dart over my face. “How? Wha—wait. Was I correct in assuming you are of the Folk? Captain Sorrel, did I not tell you?”
The captain rounds on me and gasps. “By the Holly King’s horn! So you were indeed a trixie-pixie, after all. What a cracking jest—almost as good as when he turned the entire Court purple for a week!” He then nods knowingly to Briar. “Glen has truly outdone himself this Interlude. I am eager to see what the crafty lad comes up with for the Solstice Ball.”
Briar gives his captain a mollifying look before turning to me and rolling his eyes. It seems the captain thinks everyone is having a jest. I almost want to meet this Glen fellow.
I smile back. “I’m still mortal, sorry. Just no longer cursed.”
“It was a curse?” Briar’s eyes widen, then soften as he grazes his knuckles on my cheek. “’Tis a travesty to hide such beauty.”
His touch lasts a second, and then Bodin shoves him away from me and snarls, “You overstep, guard.”
“Ill-mannered swine,” Emrys sneers as Briar stumbles into the desk, knocking a report from Legion’s hands.
The temperature drops as if the fire has been doused, yet it crackles and burns brightly as before. No one dares breathe. That scratching, gnawing sound has even stopped. The captain’s lips flatten at his soldier. Briar’s panicked eyes shutter, and he slips on a practiced mask of forced politeness.
“I should not have touched her. You have my deepest regrets.” His apology does not affect Bodin’s temperament or his fist, which slowly tightens at his side until his knuckles crack.
“Bodin,” I whisper harshly. “I touched him first. The fault is mine.”
His dark, angry eyes simmer. Fear flips my stomach. That look is unhinged. Primal. What’s worse, as I glance around the room, it seems no one will stop him from hurting Briar. The House of Stone Radiant watches it all with amusement from his seat by the fire. Just when I think Bodin will ignore me, he warns Briar through his teeth, “Do not presume such familiarity within our house again.”
A small shadow breaks loose from the bookcases—the baby Wild Hunt streaks toward Briar, his fangs out in a snarl. I glimpse blood on his skull muzzle and realize the little dragon must have been eating meat—that was the gnawing sound. And he’s still hungry.
“No!”
I tackle the tiny monster as he launches into the air, wrapping myself around his slippery-scaled body. Curved, bony horns almost hit my face, but I dodge. We tumble to the ground. Razor-sharp fangs snap at my face, testing my dominance.
This triggers an alpha urge within me, and I slam him to the ground, growling darkly in his face, “Stop it now.” Black, wide eyes roll my way, and I reinforce my command: “He is not yum-yums. Do you hear me?”
The baby Hunt whines and thrashes beneath my solid grip. My muscles strain under the weight of his resistance. I almost lose control. Has he grown another inch overnight? He is no longer the size of Tinger but more the size of my sisters in cub form. And just like them, he is strong-willed and mischievous. Unlucky for him, I have four years of practice corralling those little monkeys into obedience.
“So help me, Baby Hunt. If you don’t submit, I won’t feed you scraps under the table. Do you understand?”
The coiled tension relaxes beneath my fingertips. The dragon twists his slippery body. Before I can stop him, he’s upon me, licking my face and whimpering apologies. The smell of raw meat on his breath is pungent. I cast a nervous glance around and wipe drool from my face with the back of my hand. The House of Stone Radiant watches with avid curiosity. Briar’s jaw has dropped. Bodin’s nostrils flare, and his eyes flick to Legion, whose expression has gone cold.
I guess I shouldn’t have done that. Manhandling a dragon isn’t something an ordinary “mortal” exhibitor—even an esteemed Shadow—would do. This faerie society has laws and codes about acceptable behavior and etiquette according to societal classes. They even have rules about handling dragons. Not only have I arrived in attire decidedly not presentable, but I’ve behaved out of line amongst superiors. Peablossom would be horrified. Heat floods my cheeks. At least I didn’t flash my naked ass at anyone this time.
I don’t think so. Shit. Did I?
“Out,” Legion clips, his eyes on me.
Biting my lip, I collect the spectacles I dropped sometime during the tackle. Who knows what punishment I’ll receive for this? But as I straighten, I frown. It’s not me being kicked out. Bodin already ushers the others outside.
“You don’t understand, Commander,” the House of Stone Radiant protests. “Goodfellow already has Titania’s vote by proxy.”
“That sycophant’s been planning this for centuries,” Emrys growls to Legion. “He’s positioned himself perfectly—the queen’s advisor, now a dragon host. Two votes already in his pocket.”
Legion’s jaw tightens. He nods with understanding. “If Goodfellow gains control of the Shining Host, he’ll have the power to rewrite our laws, restructure our defenses, even alter the Old Code itself. All while Queen Titania slumbers.”
The Radiant’s eyes bore into Legion. “The House of Stone stands with you, Commander. But we need your support. Your vote could be the difference between maintaining order and watching Avorlorna descend into chaos.”
“I am well aware of the dangers to Avorlorna, Ser Larkspur,” Legion grinds out, eyes flashing.
Bodin takes the Earl’s shoulder and guides him forcibly to the door, but he breaks away and slams his hand on Legion’s desk. “We don’t have time for this to wait,” he insists. “The Shining Host convenes at moonrise. If we don’t act now, it’ll be too late.”
“You are dancing precariously close to breaking the Old Code Protocols.”
After a beat of tension, the Earl composes himself and plasters a fake smile on his face.
“Good day,” he says, then inclines his head. “Your careful consideration of my visit has been most appreciated.”
His smile falters when he looks at me. Then he strides out.
“Ensure he is escorted out of the keep,” Bodin instructs the captain.
The gloomy hallway swallows the Radiant’s appeal as the captain tugs him away. Briar’s eyes lock with mine, and then Bodin shuts the door in his face.