14. The Redwoods

Micah pulled into the campsite next to Lake Sylvia at twilight. With the windows rolled down, the air outside was heavy with rain and heat. The cedars around the little clearing were tall and red but slender, and some of them were dead. He had missed their smell, he realized, as they didn't grow in Minnesota and were found more often built into clothes closets. There was a little picnic table and a fire pit with a cooking grate, and behind that were the shores of a narrow lake. A styrofoam cup bobbed against the shore next to a dead fish with a cloudy eye pointing to the heavens. There was a rope of buoys past the shallows, barely visibly in the failing light. He wished the park wouldn't allow swimmers. In the twenty years Micah lived in the Redwoods, he knew of at least five swimmers who drowned in Lake Sylvia—and he knew the Folk who were responsible.

He looked at Ingrid in the rearview mirror; she had both white hands clenched into fists. With no other reason to delay, Micah leaned over to the passenger seat and touched Andrew's cheek with his palm. "Hey." He stroked the pad of his thumb against his high cheekbone. "We're here."

Andrew took a deep breath and blinked his eyes open. His hand went automatically to Arwen, stroking her back until she purred. "Oright," he mumbled, tongue thick with sleep. "Let's go." He fumbled with his door and nearly fell out of the car. Chamomile happened to be there, squawking as she caught him around the waist.

"Hm, questionable start," said Chamomile. Andrew yawned and stood upright, patting Chamomile appreciatively on the head. She swatted his hand and left him alone as he rubbed his face. Arwen trailed after her as Chamomile rapped her knuckles on the trunk, Micah searching for the button on the dash that popped it open. She shouldered her gear after checking each of the arrows inside her quiver and testing the tension of the string on her bow. Then she slipped a leather guard onto her left forearm. All of the silly wild girl was gone from her face. Her biceps rippled as she adjusted her bow as she became a warrior instead of a childlike friend.

Andrew shook off sleep and stretched his shoulders, then touched his toes. He tightened and knotted his flannel around his waist, redid his ponytail, and adjusted the vial of Micah's blood around his neck. On the opposite side of the Saturn, Ingrid surveyed the campsite with narrowed eyes.

But Micah was still in the car. Frowning, Andrew bent to peer back inside. Micah clutched the steering wheel with both hands, his expression blank, eyes wide and staring at the dashboard. Andrew knew that expression. He crossed to the driver's side and opened the door. Crouching, he pressed his hand against Micah's sternum, where Micah's heart pounded like it was trying to crack through his ribs and climb out.

"Slow down," Andrew murmured. "Take a deep breath. You're in control."

Andrew's words were almost lost over the rushing of his blood in his ears.

"In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

Micah obeyed, squeezing Andrew's fingers. He finally said, "I just don't know if I can do this."

Chamomile appeared at Andrew's elbow. "Sure you can." She clonked Micah with the shaft of an arrow, making him jump and stick his tongue out at her.

Ingrid leaned over Andrew. Her elbow dug into his shoulder, although he didn't dare say anything. She told Micah, "You lived in there for twenty years. And you're even stronger now."

Andrew nodded in agreement and said, "You're not alone, okay? I swear on that."

With a tremulous smile, Micah cupped Andrew's cheek in thanks.

"Go prepare your weapons," Ingrid ordered Andrew. He was prepared to argue as he glared up at her, but her gaze was fixed on Micah. Begrudgingly, Andrew yielded and shrugged her off so he could stand. Chamomile pranced along beside him, whether to keep him company or to shoo him away.

Taking Micah by the elbow, Ingrid murmured, "Come on then." She drew him out of the car and onto his feet. She had a smear of blood behind her ear from her hunt, her hair barely restrained in a loose bun and scattered with wildflowers from Montana. She searched his impassive, wide-eyed face with her irises brightened to a rosy pink.

"I wish I could be more like you, Nightshade Boy," Ingrid said in a whisper drenched in wistfulness. "Your softness is your armor and you mustn't forget that when you're facing the Queen. You aren't like her. You aren't like us." She reached around the driver's seat and picked up the circlet she made.

Micah beheld the finished ornament with wide and eager eyes, sucking in a breath as he trailed his fingers over it. Fixed as the centerpiece was the bobcat skull, fangs sharpened to points, chunks of topaz glinting in the dark eye sockets. Antlers and flower stems formed the circlet, lashed together with Ingrid's glittering black thread. Pieces of amethyst and tourmaline sparked among the antler points. Framing the bobcat skull were a pair of star-shaped nightshade blossoms, spelled to stay in bloom. She settled the circlet against his head—it was a snug, strange, but perfect fit—using her fingers to smooth down his turquoise bangs underneath. The bobcat skull settled over Micah's brow, its topaz stare complementing his violet irises.

Clasping her hands in his own, Micah told her, "Thank you. But you know you're not like her, right?"

She stared down at him, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows. "I—"

He grinned. "Silly Red. Look where you are. Tell me if the Queen would even dream of being in your position."

Casting her eyes toward their feet, Ingrid opened and closed her mouth in silence for a moment. She glanced back up, her eyes finding Andrew over Micah's shoulder preparing for a fight on Micah's behalf, despite…her. "You give me too much credit," she said to Micah, shaking her head.

"Just because I can lie," Micah said, "doesn't mean I do."

Ingrid let out a little sigh. "Why are you so stubborn?" Abruptly, she threw her arms around his shoulders and squeezed him tightly against her chest, dimpling her cheek against the sharp points of his circlet. He gasped, but then wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her sweet-smelling shoulder. As if needing to stymie her overwhelming emotions, she moved away so quickly that she stumbled over a jutting stone. In front of the trunk, sniffing slightly with eyes downcast, Ingrid pulled out a rapier and drew it from its scabbard, revealing a blade black as night. Andrew hummed in admiration, leaning closer to inspect the blade as Ingrid hooded her gaze and smiled slyly at him. She strung a black braided holster around her hips. Then she fixed two small daggers to her wrists.

Andrew reached past her and strapped his sword between his shoulder blades. Then he picked up his crossbow. It was small and sharp and black, made from steel. The bolts were the length of two fingers, lined up and ready to be shot off with savage speed.

Chamomile appeared at his elbow. "You should let me use that."

"No! You have your own bow." Andrew lifted it out of her reach.

"Well, are you any good with it?"

"One time I almost shot off my big toe."

"Mm, so, no." To Ingrid, Chamomile said, "Don't trust this man with a weapon."

Andrew cast her a dubious look and said, "I don't know…I got a sword to your throat pretty quickly, didn't I?"

Chamomile scowled, swatting Ingrid when she stifled a snicker. "I believe all you have going for you is the element of surprise—from your diminutive physique," Chamomile said in a growl.

Andrew gazed down at her. She was barely tall enough to reach his navel. "You're one to talk," he told her dryly.

Chamomile huffed at him and stamped her foot, making him laugh as he resumed checking his weapon. She looked up when Micah slunk around the side of the Saturn, hands in his pockets. Groaning, she said, "Micah, for real?"

Andrew turned to him. "What?"

"He doesn't have any weapons," sighed Ingrid, arms crossed where she leaned against the Saturn. "Of course."

Micah shrugged, looking sheepish. "They're just not really my thing. But, uh, you three look pretty cute, gushing over all your ouchie makers."

Chamomile scoffed. Then her eyes went round. She raised her bow and shot off an arrow over their heads. But she swore and spat, "Missed. Move—"

With a shower of leaves, a body dropped from the canopy and thudded behind Micah. He gasped and flinched away, but too late; a charcoal-colored arm pinned his hands behind his back and a bronze dagger appeared at his throat. Micah yelped and froze, eyes bulging as he felt the blade against his skin.

He was held against the body of a towering male faerie wearing red slacks and no shirt, adorned with oiled bronze cuffs and a choker. The male had a head of seafoam green curls he tossed back over leaf-green eyes, which danced with cruel delight as he clicked his tongue and said, "Ah, ah, ah."

Swords drawn and aimed at the male stranger, Andrew and Ingrid froze mid-lunge.

Micah's expression darkened. He knew that rumbling voice, the scent of this male, and the dark gray skin scalding hot to the touch and taut over bulging muscles. "Sivarthis," he spat.

Sivarthis smiled, showing sharp white teeth behind full lips. He bent down to Micah and said with his mouth against his neck, "How sweet. You still recognize my scent."

Micah squirmed and elbowed the male, but he barely flinched. Instead, the male slid a hand around Micah's stomach and up under his shirt. "You must have missed me," the male purred.

"Unhand the son of the Redwood Queen," Ingrid exclaimed.

Sivarthis lifted his angular head enough to blink slowly at Ingrid. "Beg pardon, Your Ladyship, but I cannot."

Struggling again, Micah dug a heel into Sivarthis's bare foot, but the blade pricked the soft skin under his jaw as a consequence. Blood oozed from a thin cut, and Micah bit back a whimper.

Andrew lunged again, but Ingrid grabbed him by the bicep and yanked him back beside her, sharply shaking her head.

"You, my little halfling," purred Sivarthis, lifting emerald eyes and gazing indifferently at Andrew, "smell like him." Sivarthis jutted his chin at Andrew. He held Micah as if in an embrace, dagger still poised against his tawny neck.

Andrew bared his teeth and spat at the ground. "Let him go or I'll slice you open from belly to chin," he growled.

Serrated white teeth appeared again. "That would amuse me to see you try," Sivarthis said thoughtfully.

"Sivarthis," said Micah, "you big stupid oaf, I want to see the Redwood Queen!" Knocking his jaw into the faerie's cheek, Micah growled, "Obviously she wants to talk to me too, since your dumb ass showed up. You can let me walk."

Sivarthis shook his head, but he straightened and at last moved away from Micah's face. "I cannot, little halfling."

Chamomile trained her bow on him over Micah's shoulder. "If you would please note, you're outnumbered."

Sivarthis looked down at her and said with a sneer, "Is that what you think, goblin?"

Following the sound of splashing, Ingrid turned her blood-red glare toward the lake. From the depths rose six Folk moving out of the shallows onto shore. Dripping, they raised sabers and rapiers and bows as they approached the Saturn and closed into a ring around them. They were all dressed in wisps of wet clothing which clung to toned chests and muscled thighs. Their eyes glowed eerie and cold in the oncoming night.

Sivarthis turned his head, gazed at the drenched Fae, and then whistled through his teeth. In answer, a lavender faerie twice Chamomile's height fought her easily into submission. Ingrid flinched when the faerie backhanded Chamomile across the face. Someone approached Ingrid and reached for her arms, but she fixed them with such a dangerous stare they remained motionless, long-fingered hands hovering over her in a stand-off.

Sivarthis drawled, "Now that you understand the circumstances…"

Then he pulled back the dagger and cracked the butt of the weapon into the back of Micah's head. Yelping, Micah's violet eyes rolled back. He crumpled. Sivarthis caught him with his forearm across his belly, slinging him easily over his shoulder.

Sivarthis smiled, cruel, bemused. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Micah!" cried Andrew. He lunged at Sivarthis and evaded the grasping hand of another faerie. He swung his blade in a glorious arc toward Micah's captor, but then Ingrid checked Andrew in the chest with her shoulder. She was strong and solid, gripping his biceps. She jolted him enough to snap his teeth together, his sword flailing as he tried to stop it from touching her skin. As soon as he froze, so did she.

She said softly in his ear, "Be still. For his safety."

Someone grabbed Andrew by the elbows and hauled him off Ingrid. Still held by the lavender-skinned female, Chamomile bled from a scrape over her brow, and her face was hard and bright with fury.

The sight of Micah dangling over that male's shoulder made Andrew sick and hot and ready to murder everyone. The only relief was that by some magical force, the bobcat crown stayed fast to Micah's head.

With a prominent swagger, Sivarthis fell into the front of the pack of Folk. As if he felt Andrew's burning glare, Sivarthis looked over his shoulder and flashed his sharp teeth at him, his tongue darting out over his lips. Andrew growled at him till the male faerie hanging onto his elbows gave him a vicious shake, kneeing Andrew in the small of his back and urging him forward. The darkness became thick and inky. Blindly, Andrew fought and spat curses till his lungs burned. He knew better than to believe he could escape, nor did he have any intention of leaving Micah dangling unconscious over someone's shoulder. But he'd be damned if he was going to stop fighting. Nobody had taken his weapons, cementing the impression they did not consider him a viable threat. That may be the case, he thought, but he was going to be a viable pain in the ass then. The yellow-eyed faerie who held him kept grunting, pinching his arm, jerking him around—so he knew it was working. Sivarthis turned and spat an insult at him, understood by tone and expression, but with words incomprehensible to Andrew. His faerie captor growled and wrenched Andrew's elbows at a terrible angle. Andrew bit back a groan of pain and finally gave himself a rest. Motionless in the manner of a poisonous snake, Chamomile watched Andrew with a smirk of amusement while her lavender captor held her by the nape of her neck.

The trees seemed to spread as they got deeper into the woods, the branches dripping with moss. All traces of humanity were gone. They'd left behind the campsites and the walking paths, stepping over the trunks of fallen trees and avoiding rabbits and confused deer that intercepted their path. Lizards skittered past, ferns climbed up to their knees, and leaves brushed them with beads of rainwater as they passed.

Ahead, in the slats of darkness between the trees, something gleamed bright and sinister, making his stomach turn. He blinked and for once stopped struggling, his eyes trying to convince him nothing was there. When he glanced to the side, to Ingrid, the red sheen in the air brightened on the periphery of his vision. Ingrid cast her glowing ruby eyes toward him and sighed through her nose.

So he wasn't imagining it.

As the misty red barrier grew nearer, it clarified into a great arching tree draped in moss and decay. It was almost a full circle. Andrew frowned as Sivarthis lifted a long elegant hand and traced the arc of the tree into a tighter and tighter spiral. Fiery sparks chased his finger. Beyond, the Redwood Queen's domain emerged. Andrew couldn't cut off a gasp of awe. It made Ingrid sigh louder.

He beheld splendor of a thousand faerie lights floating, plentiful as raindrops, soft white and faint red like stars. Their trembling light cast manic shadows on the faces of several dozen Folk standing at attention, lined up shoulder to shoulder to make a clear processional aisle that stretched forward a hundred yards. The ground changed from packed dirt to bronze cobblestones.

Great mushrooms colored cream, red, brown, and green climbed out of the dense red soil off the cobbled path. All around them Redwoods soared toward the heavens with trunks so wide they were like pillars in a giant's manor. It would take fifty people at least with fingers stretching to link together. A soft, warm drizzle started, raindrops catching in Andrew's lashes and forcing him to blink rapidly to keep his limited vision clear.

From every direction, the Redwood Folk watched them with myriad eyes, some bright and gleaming like when headlights catch a dog's stare, others small and black and beady. Many showed rows of pointed ivory teeth as they gawked at the prisoners and gestured with sharp clawed fingers. Some looked in surprise at Ingrid, walking erect, staring straight ahead with her brows low over her scarlet eyes.

Overhead, in the boughs of the massive Redwoods, domed houses decorated with windows and gleaming lanterns and dripping strings of yellow light perched. Sloping bridges closed in with shoots of thick vegetation strung between the Redwoods.

The largest of all the Redwoods was a true obelisk, easily the square footage of a manmade skyscraper. Set back in a circular cobbled plaza, stairs of mossy redwood ascended to the doors of a massive domed manor with arched windows all lit from within by blinding light. Ivy climbed over bright fire-colored logs. Explosive blossoms of all hues grew in the crevices, and tiny fireflies blinked in and out as they landed to rest on the petals.

At the foot of the stairs beneath the manor was a dais of redwood and gold. And at either end there was a tree trunk turned into a torch bearing floating orbs of blood-red and nightshade purple. Both cast eerie colorful shadows onto a dozen steps leading to a large throne carved to depict hounds and branches all gilded with gold. On the step beneath it was a smaller redwood throne, and finally beneath that was a backless seat carved from a stump into a flurry of leaves. Both of the smaller two thrones were mossy with disuse. Andrew assumed these belonged to Ingrid and to Micah, and seeing a throne for the people he'd spent the last thirty hours traveling with was surreal.

Two enormous golden doors groaned open as they approached. A tall silhouette appeared against the brilliant light from within and strode down the steps toward them. The Folk behind Andrew crossed fists over their chests. Slightly to the right of the dais, the Folk who had captured them pushed Andrew and Chamomile roughly to their knees. Andrew exchanged a look with her as she pressed her rosy lips into a thin line and then lifted her gaze to the trees.

Sivarthis dumped Micah onto the cobblestones at the foot of the staircase. Micah landed with a sickening thud on his stomach, groaning. Sivarthis bent and pulled Micah to his knees using a fistful of his hair. He gave him a savage shake; Micah cried out as he regained consciousness. He clawed at Sivarthis's fist, writhing in pain. Andrew twitched with the urge to run to him, but the yellow-eyed faerie grabbed him by the collar to keep him in place.

"My son," said a female voice, deep, contemptuous, angry, and startlingly pained, as if her feelings had been hurt. The Redwood Queen stepped down the stairs and into the plaza. The Queen's eyes reflected both of her children. Her right eye was blood-red, like Ingrid's, the pupil so small it was barely visible. Her left was deep plum, like Micah's when he was angry. The impression of her stare struck Andrew like a blow. She had really borne Ingrid and Micah. She was really their wicked, feral mother.

With easily over six feet of languid height, the Redwood Queen had the long and slender face like a deer, lips painted black, curled and sneering. She wore a dress like scarlet spiderwebs and just as insubstantial, revealing peeks of small breasts and rounded white hips. The crown atop her head of floor-length wine-red hair was an echo of the Redwoods with golden branches and leaves burned into oxidized copper. It was an immaculate piece of jewelry, layered and tangled and almost like a living thing. She was flanked by two red hounds on bony legs with eerie long faces and blinking golden eyes. The Redwood Queen waved Sivarthis off and he dropped Micah back to his hands and knees.

Sitting back and straightening his spine, Micah jutted out his chin and glared up at her. "Your Majesty." He clenched his fingers into fists. He could have gone a hundred years away from this wretched female and it still wouldn't have been long enough. Not to mention the stinging throb of his scalp was a distraction he didn't need right now.

The Redwood Queen looked toward Ingrid, mismatched eyes reproachful. Her gaze lingered with a quirked eyebrow on the flowers in Ingrid's hair. She lifted her fingers, long and tipped in green with sharp pointed nails. Plucking a purple aster from Ingrid's curls, the Redwood Queen crumpled the blossom in her fist and let it rain to the ground. "What is this costume you're wearing? For shame, daughter."

Ingrid stiffened visibly, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. Micah narrowed his eyes.

"Go and get her dressed appropriately," the Queen said to a tall green nymph standing at her elbow. Floating on creamy green moth wings, the nymph grabbed Ingrid by the shoulders and steered her past the Queen and up the stairs to the manor.

Ingrid roughly shoved the nymph off. She planted her feet and whipped out a dagger from her wrist when the faerie reached for her. "Touch me again and I'll take your hands. I know the way." Leaving the nymph behind, she swept up the stairs to the manor and disappeared inside.

The Redwood Queen watched her leave with a faint smirk. Then she turned back to Micah. Reaching down and grasping his chin so hard that he bit his tongue, she lifted him to his feet like he weighed nothing. She made him look small, like a preteen boy rather than a grown man. Staggering, Micah shoved her hand off his face and stepped away. Sivarthis snatched Micah's bicep with a dark hand.

Micah spun to face him. "Back the fuck off, Sivarthis." He jabbed a finger into the male's chest. "I don't care if you got a promotion. You're not allowed to touch me anymore."

Sivarthis scowled. The Queen shooed him away. Reluctant, muscles in his chiseled jaw jumping, Sivarthis bowed and stood back at the foot of the stairs, his venomous green eyes burning.

Micah turned back to the Queen and demanded, "Where's Julian? Give him back and let us leave."

The Redwood Queen showed pointed teeth and laughed. The sound was cold and hollow. "I think not," she said. "But you're welcome to see him. He has been quite happy since his return." She twitched a hand.

A small rose-skinned pixie stepped out the doors of the manor and tugged on a long golden leash, which looped around Julian's neck like a collar. His wrists were bound with glinting thread—thread Micah recognized immediately as something Ingrid had woven herself.

"How dare you," Micah said in a voice drenched with horror, sharp with rage.

Gold smeared Julian's lips and his amber eyes were glassy, unfocused over his drooping smile. His button-down was rumpled and smeared with dirt. He stumbled barefooted down the stairs, the faerie using his leash to keep him from falling—but barely. Micah dashed over to catch him, to reach out and hold him, even if Julian didn't know what was happening. But the Queen raised her arm and struck Micah with the back of her hand. His head snapped to the side and his body twisted away so he staggered and landed on his knee. Stunned, seeing stars, Micah lifted his head and wiped away a trickle of blood from his lip.

Erupting with protective fury, Andrew bent his knees and ducked. He twisted his arms and clasped the wrists of the yellow-eyed faerie, who yelled in surprise as Andrew pitched the faerie over his head and onto the ground at his feet. With a vicious kick of his boot to the faerie's chin, he lifted his crossbow and shot off an iron bolt with a resounding thwang.

The Redwood Queen flinched out of the way at the last second. The arrow pierced a fluttering hem of her spiderweb dress and shredded it. It clattered against the foot of the dais.

The Queen's eyes widened. She picked up the torn edge of her dress over her ribcage and inspected it in silence. If she hadn't dodged, Andrew would have gotten her in the lungs.

Gasping, Micah grabbed Andrew's waist and used him as leverage to clamber to his feet. His head spun and a wave of nausea hit him. Grabbing Andrew's arm, he hissed, "Andrew, that was great and all, but she's gonna want you dead for that."

Still pumped full of adrenaline, Andrew said with a lopsided smirk, "Why else did we bring so many weapons?" He reached out and nudged Micah's antler crown straight, and then gently wiped his lip clean with the pad of his thumb.

Sivarthis nodded to the ring of faeries who'd accompanied them from the campsite. They readied their weapons, staring down the fox-faced, auburn-haired assailant and waiting for orders. Andrew raised his blade in his off hand, crouching in a defensive pose, with a taunting raise of a single eyebrow.

The Redwood Queen smiled and wagged her head, slow, deliberate, unruffled. Her guard relaxed almost imperceptibly, glaring at Andrew like they were disappointed he was still alive. She strode closer to them, her hooded gaze inspecting Andrew with obvious curiosity. Her lids were coated with an oily black paint extending past her lashes in wingtips, with bronze studs flashing along her eyebrows. "Now, you are a surprise, human."

"So I've been told," said Andrew with a smile.

Chamomile's blue eyes glinted where she stood aside from the fray.

"Let him be," Micah said, holding onto Andrew's waist, pushing at the crossbow as if hoping Andrew would lower it. He didn't.

She circled them with an elegant finger on the point of her chin. Then the Queen reached out and touched a bolt in the crossbow with one finger and hissed. She rubbed her finger against her thumb, and her smile widened.

On his leash, Julian's eyes tracked her hungrily. He made no indication he registered Micah's presence at all.

A murmur from the gentry watching alerted Micah that Ingrid had reappeared. He looked up at his sister in the doorway of the manor with the faintest feeling of relief.

When she descended the staircase, practically floating, Ingrid looked almost unrecognizable in her royal splendor. Her eyes were smeared with black paint and lined with sharp magenta tips. They'd painted her lips deep mahogany. Iridescent rosy pink glimmered on her cheeks. They'd pulled all the flowers from her hair, oiled her curls, and arranged them in a loose veil over her shoulders. On her head they'd placed a jagged bronze circlet, studded with rubies, with the thornlike branches of the bronze burned to black. They'd dressed her in two lengths of ruby chiffon, tied over her chest like a bandeau and around her waist in a long flowing skirt. It connected over her bare midriff with silvery threads. A different nymph with quivering ivory wings held Ingrid's skirts off the ground, expression cold.

Ingrid's gaze slid to Julian. Her expression darkened, and when she looked at the thread around his wrists, a muscle rippled in her jaw. She looked at the Queen as one might behold an infected wound, her eyes narrowing. "Mother," she said flatly.

The Redwood Queen's attention finally left Andrew. He felt as if a dagger had pulled itself free from his side in a sweet and sharp relief.

"My daughter." The Queen stroked Ingrid's cheeks with her long fingers. "My heir. How much better you look now, dressed as you should be, like royalty. Welcome home."

Ingrid flinched away from her, expression hardening. She said nothing.

"I'm fascinated," said the Queen, turning slowly back to Micah as he stood pressed to Andrew with an arm protectively around his waist. "You return after twenty years with my daughter and this…hostile human, and only because your sire wanted to come back here, wanted to forget his life with you."

"It's not true," growled Micah. "He doesn't want this."

With a silent snort, the Queen took the leash from the rose faerie and pulled it toward herself. Giggling, Julian stumbled into her side, the Queen draping an arm around him. She squeezed his cheeks between her hands and asked, "Do you want to go home, my pet?"

"Stop," Micah pleaded.

His father released a shuddering sigh of pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as she held him aloft in her grip. "I am home," he breathed. "My Queen."

The Queen eyed Micah sidelong, thoughtful. Still staring at him, she said to Julian, "Kiss my feet."

"Stop it!" Micah lunged.

She was ready; she nodded to Sivarthis, who clapped his arm around Micah's chest. Micah snarled and kicked, his face blotchy with fury.

Andrew raised his bow, but an arrow whistled through the air, snicked his wrist with a splatter of blood, and struck the shaft of the crossbow so it flipped out of his grip and clattered away. He growled in pain and dropped to a knee to reach it, but another arrow shot and whipped his hand with the fletching. Andrew looked up sharply, teeth bared.

Chamomile had another arrow trained on him, crouched low to the ground, fixing him with cool blue eyes as she said evenly, "Leave it."

His shoulders sagged. "You're kidding me."

Horrified, Micah said in a voice that broke, "Chamomile, what—"

"I can see it serves me to honor the Redwood Queen," interrupted Chamomile. She touched her forehead and cast her frozen gaze to the Queen.

Standing behind the Redwood Queen, Ingrid stiffened, mouth dropping open.

The Queen beckoned Chamomile, who rose to her feet and padded up to her. Andrew caught her eyes lingering on Julian, who swayed on his feet as the rose-colored faerie fed him a bite of moist purple cake. Then her expression resolved and she looked away, shouldering her bow, tilting up her chin. Ingrid's lips curled in a silent snarl as she glared at Chamomile.

Sagging against Sivarthis's forearm, face crumpling, Micah moaned, "We yield. Tell me what you want. Anything. Just send my father away from here. Send him back to Saint Paul."

Still with her gritted teeth showing, Ingrid's eyes grew round and fearful, which shot a cold bolt of terror through Andrew.

The Redwood Queen stroked the head of one of her hounds, looking pleased. "Have a meal with me, my halfling."

"Let him go," Micah repeated, not looking at her. Despondent.

"You must miss our feasts," said the Queen. "Human cuisine cannot compare."

Micah shook his head, silent.

"You can sup with your father. It's late," said the Queen. "You must be weary."

"I hate you," he whispered.

Andrew nursed his bleeding hands, still down on one knee. The look on Micah's face—the resignation—made Andrew nauseous. This couldn't be over so quickly.

Then Chamomile spun a copper dagger in her hand and stabbed it into the neck of Julian's captor. Blood spurted in a crimson fountain. The rose-colored faerie crumpled, releasing the golden thread holding Julian. Chamomile caught it. The Redwood Queen began to turn toward her at the sound of the body thumping to the ground.

Sivarthis yelled and lunged toward Chamomile, but Micah kicked his leg back and wound it between Sivarthis's calves, tripping him and capturing him in a headlock. Micah's feet left the ground as Sivarthis struggled, but he couldn't get the smaller man's arms off his neck.

Chamomile wrapped the golden rope around her forearm and then heaved Julian onto her back, hooking her hands under his knees, his arms flailing around her neck. Then she stuck her tongue out at the Queen. Quick as her arrows, she sprinted into the cover of trees, Julian bouncing against her shoulders as they vanished.

Sivarthis broke free from Micah's hold and turned on his heel, but the Queen stopped him with a guttural noise. Fist raised to strike Micah, Sivarthis froze. She held the captain of the guard in her gaze for a moment, and he slowly stood up and clasped his hands, chest heaving.

Fixing his circlet himself, Micah looked up at Andrew. A smile spread on his lips. The heat of his gaze shot through Andrew's quailing spirit like liquid sunshine.

The Redwood Queen snapped her fingers. Her two hounds bayed hungrily, arching long silky backs, licking long ivory fangs. Then like twin flames they careened into the woods after Chamomile.

Andrew leapt back to his feet. He drew his iron sword and thrust it toward the Queen. "I challenge you," he said.

She froze.

Sivarthis barked a laugh.

"Fight me," said Andrew.

"No, no, no." Micah clapped a hand over his own mouth, and then Andrew's mouth, grabbing his shoulder. He hissed, "Shut up! Shut up! What're you doing?"

Gaze unwavering, Andrew lifted Micah's hand off his mouth, lacing their fingers together and saying to the Queen, "I win, you let me, Ingrid, Chamomile, Julian and Micah leave unscathed."

"And when I win?" the Queen said with a sneer.

Ingrid straightened, her expression resolving. "I stay," she said firmly. "That should satiate your greed, Your Grace." She clenched her fists, the misty rain sticking her coiling curls to her cheeks. She glanced back at Andrew and told him expressionlessly, "You're an idiot."

He grinned at her. Then he cast his eyes to the taller, sharper, colder version of Ingrid. "Do you accept?" demanded Andrew of the Queen.

The Queen looked thoughtful.

Still shaking his head, Micah whispered harshly, "This goes beyond reckless, man!"

"Definitely," said Ingrid.

"I mean, yeah," agreed Andrew.

"I accept," said the Queen, folding her hands in front of her, face splitting into the smile of a shark about to feast.

Kicking the cobblestones with his heel, Micah spat a string of profanity, covering his face with his hands.

Andrew gently lowered Micah's hands, hooked his finger under Micah's chin, and tilted back his head till their eyes met. "I don't care if it's a mistake," Andrew told him as he pushed back Micah's damp turquoise bangs. "I'm a fool for you. And besides, I took three years of fencing back in Liverpool. I'm practically an expert."

"I should not have brought you," said Micah, unamused.

"You could not have stopped me," said Andrew, not for the first time. "This means something to me. You mean something to me."

"Just…" Micah pressed his lips together. "Do not die."

"If you insist." Andrew's bravado only quavered when Micah drew their faces close with fingers on his chin. They kissed briefly, fearfully, with an unspoken promise that it wouldn't be their last.

Behind them, the Redwood Queen's eyes narrowed.

Ingrid gently pulled them apart and tugged Micah by the waist towards the dais. He held onto Andrew's hands as long as he could, breathing growing shallow again. Tension coiled in Andrew the further away Micah got. The circular plaza emptied out. Only he and the Redwood Queen remained.

The children of the Redwood Queen moved onto the dais, slippery with moss and mist; Micah slumped onto the smallest and lowest seat. He hugged his arms across his stomach. Ingrid laid both her hands across his shoulders, choosing to stand behind him rather than taking her own seat above him.

Glancing back at her, Micah said breathlessly, voice barely audible, "Ingrid, he's not going to survive a duel with her. I—I shouldn't have let him come here. He can't really understand what he's getting into."

"The challenge has been made and accepted," Ingrid told him. Her deep voice quavered, just slightly, on the last syllable. "You can't stop this now."

"Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me this'll turn out okay."

Ingrid said nothing, eyes downcast.

His throat tightened painfully at her silence. Micah said, "And she just let Chamomile and dad go. She could have stopped Chamomile in her tracks if she wanted to."

"She's not interested in them," said Ingrid. "She wants us."

Andrew took three measured steps away from the Queen. He still had his brown flannel around his waist, his hair back and secured by Ingrid's black thread. Raindrops beaded on his auburn locks. His heavy Docs were caked with mud, and his hands, clasped behind his back at the elbows, were both already red with his blood. Despairing, Micah dropped his face into his hands.

Sivarthis approached the Queen with a black velvet bundle. He unwrapped it, looking serious, and bent a knee with two rapiers extended toward her. She chose the one with the black and red leather hilt. As she weighed the blade in her hand, two child-sized Fae vibrated gossamer wings to float up and loop her braids through golden rings dangling from her crown, making her look like a weeping willow.

Sivarthis held the other rapier out to Andrew. His eyes were alight with anticipation as Andrew took the plum-purple hilt in his fist. It was a beautiful blade, shining white in the faerie lights, razor-thin by the tip. Andrew whistled and ran the pad of his index finger up its length.

"Tell me why you face down your death so shamelessly for my whelp of a son," crooned the Redwood Queen, tracing a patterned knot in the air with her blade. She sidestepped in an arcing circle around Andrew, who mirrored her, until they were away from the doors of the manor and in the center of the cobbled plaza adjacent to the dais. Jagged, hollow fir tree trunks filled with mushrooms ringed them in, along with large orb lights casting uneven shadows. Many duels must have taken place in this circle, blood spilled and lives lost for entertainment.

As he whipped the light blade experimentally through the rain, Andrew told her with a shrug of one shoulder, "This is what I do. I protect people who can't protect themselves. Especially when their parents are abusive assholes. Oh." He jabbed the blade in the air. "And I'm crazy for Micah."

The Redwood Queen scowled.

The crowd of Folk settled in to watch, bearing drinks and reclining on moss-covered branches or golden swings, murmuring and pointing at them. Andrew glanced up and confirmed the railings were filled with faces above. He imagined that to the spectators, the only satisfying outcome of this duel would be him bleeding out on the cobblestones. His heart climbed into his throat. He looked toward the throne and Micah stared back at him, unblinking, fingers steepled and covering his mouth. He tucked his legs up on his seat, making himself as small as possible.

Ingrid perched on the edge of her seat, hands folded over her knee, looking even more like marble than usual. The red torchlight reflected in her eyes like they were windows into a forge. When she met his eyes, she resolutely squared her shoulders. Her dark brows lowered. She nodded once, slightly, and clenched her fingers tighter.

Andrew extended his right foot and bent his left knee and bowed deeply, a mocking smile on his face. "Your Majesty."

The Queen looked annoyed again. She bent slightly at the waist. "To the death," she said.

Faintly, Andrew nodded. He swallowed and agreed, "I will happily die for your son."