Chapter 42

Forty-Two

Jaromir

R osie has been scheming since she and Drystan returned to camp, and now, in the predawn darkness, I watch her whispering into Lore’s ear and frown at how big his answering smile grows.

When the redcap looks that happy, he’s usually off to kill someone.

“Let her,” Bree says from his spot on my left. “She needs to do this.”

I eye him critically. “Do you know what her plan is?”

The púca shakes his head. “No. But look at her. See how much she’s changed? That’s not the same Rose who was shaking with nerves at the thought of walking into the throne room at Pavellen.”

No. It’s not.

My heart crunches slightly in my chest as I remember her innocent questions and gentle touches as I led her into Faerie. That Rose would never have dreamed of storming into Calimnel.

“Have we failed her, then?” I ask. “We should’ve protected her well enough that it wasn’t necessary for her to lose herself like this.”

“Oh, shut up,” Caed mutters, teeth chattering. “You think her being stronger is a bad thing? Ancestors, and you call the redcap mad…”

“She’s grown,” Bree accepts. “But I wish it had taken less of a toll.”

“Fewer deaths would certainly have made things easier to bear,” I mutter, giving the Fomorian a pointed look. “Why are you over here with us? Shouldn’t you be trying to woo Drystan for his forgiveness?”

He should be trying harder. Rose wants him, but he’s barely talking to her. If keeping his distance is his plan to win Drystan’s approval, then someone has to tell him that the best it will do is earn him a slightly quicker death.

“I doubt even getting on my knees and offering to suck him off would get me on his good side,” Caed mutters. I grimace. He’s probably right. “Besides, I’m at peace with it, and it’s not like everyone else has forgiven me, either.”

“They’ve not?” I ask, frowning.

The Fomorian looks pointedly across me to the púca, who shrugs. “He’s been avoiding her, avoiding being alone with her. How is he supposed to earn my trust if he’s never around her?”

Caed stills, shrugging. “I just…”

Whatever he might’ve said is lost as Bree continues. “I’ve yet to see a full apology for everything that happened to her in Fellgotha. The festival was a good start, but you’re still cutting your hair. I caught you doing it at Winter’s Fork. I thought you said that was a mark of dishonour.”

Caed flinches subtly, but I don’t defend him, curious about his answer. Bree is right. He’s been avoiding all of us since Illidwen, sticking at the back of the group as we ride and turning down my requests to spar, which is a shame because he’s actually pretty damned good. As for Rose, he’s acting like there’s a ten-foot ward around her that he can’t cross. I thought they bonded at the Lantern Festival. Was I wrong?

“It’s also a symbol of being cut off from the Ancestors,” he argues. “Do you really think I want to be connected to Balor or any of his fucking spawn right now? I’d rip my father apart to keep her safe, if I could.”

All truth.

The conversation drops as Lore lets out a piercing whistle. From across the fire, a pile of snow wiggles, then moves, and Wraith bounds from beneath it with an excited yip. Lore and Rose fuss over him for a minute, and my wolf howls with jealousy in my mind, wishing she’d pet us like that. Fur breaks out on my arms as I fight back the shift with everything in me.

My wolf is determined to feel her fingers scratching his ears. His teeth in her neck. Her bond in?—

Later, I promise desperately.

Then the redcap blinks away, returning with the saddle, and a piece of the puzzle falls into place

Shit.

“She’s going to ride Wraith to Calimnel.”

And what a sight that will be. A Nicnevin on a barghest, marching up to the icy gates.

“Which means I need a horse,” Lore singsongs. “Care to share, wolfie?”

“No.” Rose rides up beside us, the fire glinting in her eyes. “Jaro, I need you to shift.”

I stiffen, and my claws erupt, shredding my thick winter gloves. “Rosie, that’s not a good idea. If anyone threatens you…”

Slaughter. Prove. Mate.

The wolf’s mantra hasn’t disappeared because of her charm. It’s still there, still driving me quietly insane. She’s safe from being mated, but if Cedwyn so much as breathes wrong in her direction, my wolf will attack.

“I know.”

She knows? Yet she’s asking this of me anyway, recklessly risking a diplomatic incident?

Maybe Lore’s madness is catching.

Or maybe she’s just as fed up with this bullshit as the rest of us. No one can deny that a Nicnevin on a barghest, with a feral wolf beside her, is an imposing vision.

I wonder idly if the third Nicnevin suggested it or if this is all Rose’s idea.

Without meaning to, I look over at Drystan, waiting to see his response. Surely, he’ll object to this?

But he clenches his jaw and says nothing.

Shit. I guess we’re doing this.

With a groan, I start stripping off my coat, grumbling as the icy temperature hits, and my dick tries to shrivel up into my abdomen in response. The fog of the night before has given way to a crystal-clear sky that’s somehow even colder.

“Some warmth might be nice,” I mutter pointedly at the winter fae, teeth already chattering as I tug my thermal under layer over my head and reach for the laces at my crotch.

Drystan snorts, waving his hand.

For a second, the air heats… and then my chest hair catches fire.

“Shit. Shit. Shit !” I pat furiously at my body as the flames quickly spread to my beard, swearing and cursing as Lore cackles wildly. “I said warmth, not barbeque!”

Giving up, I drop to the snow, rolling until I’m pretty sure my balls are frozen and the fire is out.

Goddess, the scent of burnt hair is so close to my nose that it’s all I can smell, and my wolf emits a low growl, ready to pounce on the dullahan for the world’s least funny prank.

He shrugs but doesn’t apologise as he turns away. “Be thankful it wasn’t your pubes.”

Oh. Oh . My ire fades as I realise my singeing wasn’t intentional, but rather a magical misfire.

Lore is still laughing, but Rose is staring down at us from atop Wraith’s saddle with concern etched into her beautiful features. Her wide, violet eyes linger on my beard, then flick to Drystan, who’s pretending to busy himself with his horse, and finally land on Caed.

It doesn’t take a genius to read her tiny frown and know she’s blaming herself for not forming a mating bond with all of us. Our powers have been malfunctioning for most of the trip, though we’ve done our best to hide it from her.

No one wants to pressure her to choose the bond when Caed’s fate remains so undecided. If he dies at Beltaine and they’ve mated, it will ruin her. My ma still mourns the loss of my pa. The only reason she survived the loss was because she wouldn’t leave me—a child at the time—to grow up without my parents. She turns insensible with grief at the oddest of moments, usually when she’s unable to keep herself busy enough to drown out the missing piece of her soul.

It’s been almost a century since his passing.

It’s part of the reason that the wolf’s head tattoo is now clear as day on Caed’s arm. If there’s a choice between forgiving an asshole and watching my mate suffer that same quiet torment for the rest of her days, I would choose forgiveness every damned time.

Taking off my boots is the worst part, my toes screaming at me as I hop from foot to foot, dragging off the last of my gear and then finally allow myself to shift.

The wolf bursts free, shaking out his fur with a huff. Of course, the second he’s in control, he pads straight to Rose, nudging his wet nose against her leg before lifting his head, searching for her touch.

She obliges, hand raking through the fur of my ears and petting softly. Wraith snarls a little under his breath, twisting his neck from side to side, and Rose laughs.

“I can stroke both of you,” she promises, sliding her free hand into the barghest’s fur.

My wolf huffs out an indignant noise of disbelief at having to share our mate’s attention with a damned beast, but then she hits that one spot and his tail thumps as all other thoughts are forgotten.

If you roll over right now, we’ll be covered in snow, I warn him.

My thick winter coat will protect from the worst, but still, not the look we’re going for.

The smell of cat hits me, and my wolf shoots Bree’s cat-sìth a long scathing look before cocking his leg and?—

Absolutely not! I yank at our connection before he can land us both in trouble. At first, I don’t think he’s going to listen, but then Gryffin makes the mistake of riding up beside us.

My wolf goes from lazy, indulgent pet to protective feral in the space of a heartbeat.

Only Lore blinking between us and yelling, “Sit!” at the top of his lungs spares Prae’s mate from having his head torn from his shoulders.

Of course, my wolf doesn’t understand the command, but he does oddly seem to recognise that Lore is Rose’s—probably thanks to the shimmer of dust he somehow found time to earn himself while we were freezing our asses off—and that he’s not holding a weapon.

Both of which confuse the wolf just enough to allow the prince to retreat.

“Two murder puppies and a murder kitty.” Lore looks around at the beasts with a grin. “Oh, the fun we could have…”

“Get yourselves together,” Drystan snaps, and the vein in his temple pulses.

I don’t blame him for the brusqueness of the command, or the tension running through his body. If I was returning to Calimnel in his place, with his history, I’d feel worse.

“Let Lore and me go first.” He makes a visible effort to soften the next words. “And if you’re able, shield your aura. A lot of fae in the city will be able to read it and use it to their advantage.”

“Oh no, winter fae trying to take advantage of my silly little emotions. However shall I cope?” Lore grins.

My wolf huffs with impatience; but at least the others are moving. I’m sure Calimnel isn’t warm by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s got to be better than this. I’d give my frozen left nut for a nice warm bed where I can lie Rose down and fuck the cold out of our memories, bury myself in her heat and softness and never leave.

Not the time, Jare. Goddess, I can’t go into Calimnel sporting a wolf boner. Lore will never let me live it down.

Drystan takes point, Lore behind him, and Rose behind them. The valley between Mirrwyl and Calimnel is more treacherous than most, with razor sharp rocks waiting to smash open the skulls of anyone unlucky enough to trip and fall. In the distance, the enormous crystal tree towers over the rings of the icy citadel, the translucent branches glowing with a soft golden iridescence that is reflected in the snow.

It’s the closest thing to a living plant I’ve seen in days, and I finally understand how it might’ve comforted a Spring Court princess to see it. The size is simply unbelievable, branches reaching for the summit of the city’s namesake mountain.

The peak has been shaped by ice and Danu’s magic until the cave mouth near the top resembles a skull. It’s partially obscured by the branches of the crystal tree from this angle, but still the cavern of the Wild Hunt is the stuff of legends. This is the closest most fae will ever get to visiting it.

Rose has already been inside, though it’s been a while since Samhain. Apparently, when the lights of the Otherworld play in the sky at night, the view is ethereal.

Rose is just as captivated by the sight as I am, her mouth gaping open, until she remembers why we’re here and closes it again. I hate that. Cedwyn has already stolen her innocent joy at seeing a marvel of fae magic, and she hasn’t even met him yet.

It’s the same, hours later, when we finally reach the snow-covered threshold beneath the blue-tinged ice gates. She’s awestruck by the fractal swirling patterns that decorate the enormous walls, admiring the turret roofs and the enchanted rings of ice that float around them, refracting rainbows across the mountainside.

But just like before, her excitement vanishes too quickly. Her face settles into a mask of careful determination. All of Rose’s attention is fixed on the imposing gates. She sits straighter in her saddle as she stares them down like they’re Cedwyn himself.

My wolf turns his head, considering the blinking lights behind us. Hundreds of fae who followed the last leg of the pilgrimage. Hundreds waiting to see if Cedwyn will admit her.

“What now?” Caed asks when the gates don’t move.

“We ask them to move nicely with my little knife.” Lore is practically vibrating with eagerness.

Before he can follow through, a second figure appears on the back of the barghest behind our mate. Her mid-length bronze hair flows in the gusty mountain breeze as she grins and clasps her granddaughter’s shoulder in solidarity.

“Now we knock,” Rose mutters.

Nicnevin Maeve slips from the back of the beast, gliding through the snow without disturbing it like the ghost she is, until she reaches the entryway. Rose’s brows furrow, and her grandmother becomes solid, midway through cracking her knuckles.

“Knock knock, motherfuckers,” Maeve yells.

Then she leans back and punches the gates with a war cry that hasn’t been heard in thousands of years.

Shit.

The massive gates fly inwards with a smash that echoes over the mountainside. The entire Winter Court seems to hold its breath as Maeve flickers out of existence, and Rose urges Wraith forwards, taking point.

“My name is Nicnevin Rhoswyn,” she announces as we pass into the city, practically glowing with the unearthly presence of the Goddess. “Fifth chosen daughter of Danu. I am here to collect the vow I am owed. Any who gets in my way will be subject to the Goddess’s justice.”

My wolf preens, caught between the urge to fuck her and roll over in submission at the dick-hardening display of power that’s emanating from her. I’m pretty sure the others feel the same if the way they’re adjusting themselves is anything to go by.

I’m ready to summon a shield to protect her or tear out the throat of anyone who dares attack, but the fae inside the walls are already on their knees, their heads pressed to the ground.

“Goddess bless the Nicnevin,” they murmur as she passes, Wraith snarling at the slightest movement.

Even Cedwyn’s soldiers are bowing, faces turned down towards the snow in respect, and more than a little fear. Rhoswyn just channelled enough power to allow Maeve to break open a gate that must take half a dozen trolls to move on a good day.

The path up to the palace is straight, up hundreds of ice-carved stairs, but none of us break a sweat. After wading through waist-high snow for weeks, this is nothing. In fact, the ease of the stairs is a relief, and my wolf shakes out the snow from his fur as we scale them.

Someone has obviously defied Cedwyn’s edict at the palace doors, because they open before Rose can call Maeve forth for a repeat performance. Hawkith stands there—the manipulative bitch no doubt frothing at the mouth to be seen as the Nicnevin’s ally—bowing low before moving aside.

“Shall I escort you to the throne room, Your Majesty?” she asks.

“I know the way.” Rose urges Wraith forward and up more stairs.

“Your Majesty.” A high fae male with his hair hung with pearl beads speed-walks to catch up with her, his head barely level with her knee while she’s atop Wraith like this. “The King is busy dealing with an exile. If you’ll just wait?—”

“I am done waiting.” Rose waves him away, regarding the soldiers standing awkwardly by the doors with an imperious wave of her hand. “Are you going to open those, or do I have to do everything myself?”