Chapter 1

1

T he bright blue of Málik's eyes shrank to pinpricks of light as Gwendolyn continued to twist through the air, falling, flailing—until, at long last, she landed with a thud, disoriented, the end of her journey like that time when, as a wee girl, she went whirling, twirling through a field of sunflowers.

Spinning, spinning, everything wildly adrift—nothing substantial, until unexpectedly… there it was… solid ground… and the abruptness of the impact made her belly roil.

Closing her eyes against a wave of nausea, she lay still, trying to regain her bearings, disoriented and confused, her mind floundering to make sense of what happened.

One minute she was there…

With Málik.

The next…

She was here?

But where was here?

The air was cool and damp, the scent loamy.

Groaning, she fumbled around, encountering…

Pebbles?

Soil?

Her nails scraped against hard stone, and the sack tangled about her fingers was a painful reminder that this was no dream. Gwendolyn was alive, judging by the pang that manifested itself between her shoulder blades—but well was another matter.

Her heart shattered.

"Bloody. Rotten. Elf!" she spat, fighting yet another wave of nausea as she opened her eyes, blinking to find herself surrounded by stars… but nay… not stars…

Piskies.

Their presence transformed this gloom, and with their luminous little wings, they fluttered through the air, creating fitful patterns.

Clearly displeased.

Gwendolyn groaned and tried to rise.

"That is not a pleasant word," said an undetermined voice.

Gwendolyn blinked, her eyes adjusting to the piskie light.

The Púca?

Somehow, despite knowing his language was not hers, she understood every word he spoke. She blinked against the moving shadows, fighting yet another wave of nausea. It was a good thing she'd not yet broken her fast, or she'd be wearing her victuals right now, and that fact, along with the tone of the creature's voice, soured her mood as miserably as her belly.

"It is widely regarded as a slur," explained the creature, who now sat in repose atop a nearby boulder. "You could easily find yourself without a head in the wrong company," he said calmly. "I'd have a care with that tongue."

"I have every right to be angry," Gwendolyn apprised the odd little creature.

Because she did. She hadn't expected for Málik to shove her through that bloody portal, and that she had been planning to leave him did not, at this instant, merit her confession.

"For your own good," said the creature. "You needn't be testy."

" What is for my own good?" Gwendolyn asked. "This? Where am I anyway?"

Ignoring her now, the Púca rolled to one side, lifting one long, furry leg to lap indecorously at the inside of his thigh… as a cat would do. Its long, pink tongue stretched unnaturally, making quick work of his task.

And then, all the while it continued to groom itself, it hummed—that same tune Gwendolyn recalled from the Druid's Hall. Only this time when he introduced the words, she understood every one…

A babe was bequeathed by two Fae,

Two gifts, and a lie they say.

One younger, one elder,

One wiser, one skelder,

Then, sniggering, stole away.

"Danger!" shrieked the piskies , as they quickly scattered, taking Gwendolyn's meager light along with them, abandoning her to the darkness.

The Púca stopped singing and Gwendolyn's spine tingled with dread at the reverberating sound of heavy footfalls. Unsheathing her Kingslayer, she drew it out onto her lap only to find that the runic inscriptions on the blade were glowing… blue.

"Trolls!" hissed the cat- sidhe .