CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Taylor scrambling around to straddle me gets me halfway erect, and as soon as her legs wrap around my waist, there's no longer any "halfway" about it. My cock aches for her so intensely my stud comes to life as well. The large piercing senses her nearness and stretches outward with its magic to feel what her sensitive nub will like best.

She jerks away, and I swear desire flashes across her expressive face, only to be replaced by amused shock, her lips shaking with it. Then my bride presses against me again, her forehead burrowing into my chest, and my arm tightens around her.

Selfishly, I hope it takes her a while to find her magic so I can continue to hold her like this.

Storm slows to a canter as we cut through a stand of pine, and my knees grip his sides as I adjust my seat to match the new rhythm. We follow the barest suggestion of a trail, one cut by the passage of regular animals instead of purposefully made by fae. The path steepens before us right as the trees open up on rock formations such as I've never seen before.

Twenty yards ahead, hexagonal columns of smooth gray stone stand packed together, cleaved in two by a narrow chasm running down the middle. It's as if a giant poured molten rock into a massive vertical honeycomb and let it harden. The crisp edges of the top cut across the much brighter sky like the teeth of a saw blade. Even the ground of the passage holds the same pattern, hexagonal rocks fitting together perfectly like a flagstone path laid across the floor of the world.

Taylor must feel the jolt of shock that runs through me. She leans back and twists around, her thighs tightening on me to hold her in place. My bride's mouth falls open, her eyes filled with wonder. "Oh. My. God. This is amazing! Was this made with magic?"

"I don't know," I say.

"The dragons might," Mist says. "They're the longest lived of the fae and have many historians."

"The Moon Goddess only brought the dragons here three-hundred years ago, same as the rest of us," Storm grumps. "These rocks are far older."

"They still might know." Mist flicked her tail.

"Well, however this was made, it's really effing cool." Taylor's expression is awestruck, her enthusiasm sparking my own. "What's this place called?"

"The dragons call them Honeycomb Hills," Mist says. "I didn't know exactly where they were."

"You talk to dragons," Storm says, his tone conveying extreme doubt. It's understandable. Until Dravarr's moon bound bride befriended a dragon, the massive flying fae held themselves apart, living in the Dular Mountains and not interacting with the rest of us much. Our new alliance between orcs, human witches, and dragons is unprecedented.

"Not me, personally." Mist's tail gives a dismissive flick. "My grandcat. She formalized an agreement with the dragons, and they use the Honeycomb Hills to mark this edge of their territory."

"Orc, you're certain the quest gives us permission to cross dragon land?" the unicorn turns his head to spear me with one sharp blue eye.

"It does." Or at least I assume it does, since the dragons gave King Aldronn the location of the violet trifolia.

His front hoof strikes the ground. "Then we'll travel on dragon land, and no fae will be foolish enough to attack us there."

Which is exactly why the ogres attack now.

A gourd sails over our heads and hits the rocky ground in front of the passage, sending up a cloud of orange.

"Deathsleep!" Storm bellows.

"It's too far away to reach us," I yell as I slide from his back, bringing my bride with me.

"As if that's good news," Mist hisses. She faces the way we came, the hair on her back rising until she looks half again as large. "The vile herb blocks our only escape."

Ogres boil from the trees behind us like angry wasps. It's a war party of six, each hefting either a battleaxe or mace.

They caught up to us so quickly and quietly due to their mounts. Kelpies stand beside them, covered in yellow-green scales and with dark-green kelp-frond manes and tails. Though they lack unicorn horns, they make up for it with mouths filled with numerous sharp, pointed teeth. Where pooka are mischievous in mostly benign ways, these equine fae radiate malice. We're horribly outnumbered.

Just as my mother was all those years ago.

My lips pull back from my tusks, and my arms tighten on my bride as a growl rumbles in my chest.

"Orc dog," yells the ogre from the standing stone, recognizable by the diagonal line I sliced across his torso, "give us the magical human."

"Never!" A wash of rage rolls through me. The ogres will not touch her! I refuse to let them take anyone else away from me. I lower my bride to the ground and shove her behind me so I can draw my sword.

"Get these things off me," Storm snaps.

Taylor crouches beside him and works at the buckle. As soon as it opens, the unicorn rears, bucking the saddle and saddlebags from his back.

Storm stands to my right with Mist to my left, a pitiful number in the face of so many. Taylor tries to push forward, but I throw out an arm to bar her and growl, "You can join us if you can call your magic."

She grabs her crystal, her face scrunching in determination. Then panic flickers over her features, and I know what she's going to say before she even opens her mouth. "I can't like this. I need peace and quiet."

"Then you're nothing but a burden," Storm says. "Get out of the way so we don't have to watch out for you while we fight."

Taylor's features pinch with hurt as she looks to me to countermand what he said. But I can't. As much as I hate to cause her pain, it will be much worse if she's actually injured.

"Go toward the passage," I say. "If you have to, run into the deathsleep. They won't be able to follow." Or at least they won't until it clears. A snarl twists my lips at the thought.

"But—"

"It doesn't affect humans," I say. "Go!"

"Go," Mist echoes me, headbutting Taylor's side, all of her feline mischief fallen away.

I'm glad for it, because the seriousness of her tone penetrates the last of Taylor's protests, sending her spinning away from us toward the promise of safe haven.

In the very nick of time.

The ogres bellow a way cry, brandish their weapons overhead, and charge the three of us like an avalanche racing toward a lone mountain hut.