That rumor would get Gillian strung up, and no amount of magic would stop it. Gillian could try, and she might take out a few, but Gillian’s magic tended to be more about helping than defending. And no matter how often Bronwyn trained with sword and knife and bow, she couldn’t stop the troops by herself.
“Can you think of any way to quell such a rumor?”
Bastard. “I think no one would believe it if her sister married someone as important as the mayor.”
He had her in a corner, and he knew it. They would be forced to flee, but not before the harvest. Everything they had was invested in that wheat, and until they had the coins in their pockets, there was nothing to do but agree and pray that planning a wedding took lots of time.
“Excellent.” He sat back, completely satisfied. “Pass me one of those lovely sandwiches, dear. And pour me some tea.”
Feeling like one of the clockwork dolls her cousin, Dante, had loved to bring her from the Vampire plane, she moved as though wound up and set to a task. Pass sandwich. Pour tea. Don’t thrust the knife in his neck.
“See, you do that with such grace. An excellent wife indeed. And I was describing you to the Queen. What a beauty. She’s eager to meet you, dear. I believe she’s planning a visit in the next few months.”
She passed him the tea and prayed Gillian found something stronger. She was going to need it. And she was going to need to run. The last thing she could do was meet the queen. Bronwyn had already met her—on the day the queen had pledged herself to Beck and Cian. Queen Maris had eagerly entered their uncle’s bed.
The mayor chatted on, but Bron prayed for darkness. Sleep was the only place she felt safe.
* * * *
Lach took his seat at the far end of the table, a bit of bitterness spreading through his veins.
“Don’t.” Shim sat down beside him, smoothing over the clean tunic he’d donned for this meeting. “You know why he does it.”
King Fergus sat in the middle of the long table on his throne. This was the room he used to receive his guests. It was a large hall that could hold a banquet or play host to a series of negotiations. Long ago, the twin smaller thrones that should have been set for the princes of the realm had been moved out, leaving room only for the king.
“Father is an idiot. He makes us look weak.”
“Because he thinks we are weak.” Shim sighed and looked up the table at the host of Fae their father considered more important. Including the Seelie twins. “He thinks we’re dying.”
For a long time, Lach had thought Shim would die, too. It was unspoken between them, but Shim had never fully regained his previous strength after that fateful night and the long period of a fugue-like sleep that followed.
Maon, the king’s seneschal, walked up behind them. He looked down his patrician nose, his voice just the tiniest bit shrill. “Because you two are bloody dying and you know it. This is a power play. If you give in and take a bondmate, your father will restore your rightful place.” He softened a bit. “No one wants to see you here. You should be at his side. Your cousin Julian can bring you a mate within days. Say the word and it will be done.”
A bit of Lach’s rage quelled. Maon, for all his snobbishness, really was loyal. It would have been easy for a truly ruthless man to let them fade. Maon would likely be king since as far as everyone believed, Gillian was dead and he and Shim would fade. Still Maon pushed them, ever devising new manipulations to force them to take a mate and live. There was only one problem with the scenario.
“We already have a mate.” It was the only reply Lach could give.
Maon stood, and his mouth flattened in a derisive frown. “The princess in the tower. Yes, I’ve heard the tale. And you two wonder why you’re relegated to the bottom of the table. You’re lucky he allows you to be here at all. Your minds are going. And tell that damn gnome to keep quiet.” He tapped on the table. “Yes, we all know you’re here.”
Duffy’s squeak could be heard through the room.
Maon walked away, taking his place among the important men of the kingdom.
Duffy’s head came up. “I tried to sneak in quietly.”
Shim scooted over. “It doesn’t matter, Duffy. Come on up. They know you’re here.”
The gnome huffed a little as he pulled his body up and into the chair beside Shim. “Don’t know as I like the way everyone talks about you.”
Lach shrugged. “I do know how I feel, but no one seems to care.” He stared at the Seelie twins. They were everything legend would have them be. Perfect in form and function. They looked like twins. Neither of them had a ruined face and everyone took them seriously.
His hand slid over the left side of his face, touching the ruined flesh there. He stole a glance at Shim, who’d gone pale, his eyes sliding away, guilt evident every time Lach reminded him of that terrible day.
“So we’re meeting the Host, eh?” Duffy sat forward, watching the door with a fierce look on his face. He’d used the formal name for a group of sluagh. The Host. No one wanted to deal with the damn Host. Duffy’s tiny hands clenched into fists. “I think I can handle them. After all, they’re nothing but shade, right. Warriors of the Fae should be able to take them down no trouble.”
“They’re non-corporeal dead, Duffy. I doubt your axe is going to work on them,” Shim pointed out.
If Duffy could hoist his axe at all. Lach worried for the little gnome. Not because he thought Duffy would flee in a real battle, but rather because he knew he wouldn’t. “Let father handle the sluagh.”
Three faces turned, shock alighting on them. The guests around Lach gasped.
“Please, Your Highness,” one of them begged. The other two glanced back at the door as though the very fact that Lach had said the name might conjure them up.
Lach shook his head. “I can’t bring them down on our heads by saying their name. They’re already here, so why don’t we act like we’re not scared of the buggers.” He leaned over to one of the men, a sidhe from the village outside the palace. Madden was the king’s liaison to the villagers. “Do you know if they came from the caves?”
There had been a nest of sluagh living in the caves by the beach for as long as anyone could remember. They, along with the Planeswalker demons, could slip on and off the planes as they pleased, though none had figured out how. It was a deeply held secret. To discover it, one had to become a sluagh and no one came back from that. Lach glanced down at the box at his feet. It was filled with crap. Trinkets from his travels. A cheap broach he’d picked up, several combs, a set of cards from the Vampire plane. It was a load of junk he’d picked up and didn’t need, but it would be enticing to the sluagh, who lived for such oddities. He’d meant to offer it to his father, but he’d been told to take his seat.
He supposed no one had need for his negotiation skills.
“I hear they’re from the Seelie plane,” Madden explained. He threaded his fingers together, glancing back at the door. “They have news.”
Shim leaned in. “Why would they help? Sluagh don’t take sides.”
No. Sluagh took people. They took lives and slaves. They took rotted corpses when they wanted a meal. They did not take sides.
A sudden chill fell across the room like a wave slowly crashing on the shore.
The Host was close. Lach could feel it. A spark of power shimmered through him. Yes, the dead were coming. It was an odd thing, but he felt more comfortable, his body relaxing as though he’d finally found his place. He leaned back, his eyes focused on the door.
Madden shivered. “I don’t like this. Perhaps the king should bar the door.”
Lach felt a smile on his face. Oh, but he was suddenly hungry. “It wouldn’t work. They have no need of doors.”