Chapter Ten

When I was a child and first began seeing the threads of magic that traveled in the air like glittering dust motes, I rushed to tell my grandmother.

Grandmother Eva was not excited by much. She would tell grand stories of creatures made of stone or horses with enchanted shoes that allowed them to run forever. Of stags that could make you follow them until your legs wore down to nubs.

While I learned basic arithmetic and English behind a laptop screen, most of my learning was from dusty journals my grandmother had written before her memories faded.

Grandmother Eva had always spoken of the Aos Sí, the home of the Fae, as a beautiful but dangerous place. Where the air smelled sweet, and flowers always bloomed.

She'd often expressed a desire to go home. To return to her family on the edge of the Forest of Beasts. She spoke of my grandfather rarely, as a brief memory. The Beast-King was long dead. The coin he had given her never left her hand. It was her most treasured possession.

My grandmother could weave reality. She could weave time and space. However, there was a code amongst Weavers.

Never weave with something you cannot afford to lose .

When grandmother got too drunk on Fìon Fola—blood wine—she spoke of her own demons, and she told me that when she was gone, the coin would protect me.

She had a plan.

I just had no idea what it was.

I woke up on the back of a horse, my hands tied to the saddle and my body swaying with every step as the Dullahan's mount carried us across a pristine lawn spanning acres. The grass was too perfect, with alternating green lines.

The air smelled like honeysuckle, but the trees loomed on the edge of the lawn like waiting claws.

The Huntsman walked before us, his bloodied sword in the sheath on his belt and a silver wolf at his side. The Dullahan's horse stopped, and I slumped forward, my head threatening to split open with pain. Blood touched my lips, and fire blazed through my nose.

I looked up at the sun beating down. Not that much time had passed, surely? It had been midnight when I'd stepped out of the motel, but in the Aos Sí, it seemed like midday.

The Huntsman caught my confusion, waving a hand toward the sky. "Samhain lasts several days in the Aos Sí, though a single night in the Human Realities." His strange eyes flashed maliciously. "Though the walls between worlds are thinnest now, you will be confined to my castle until you see fit to serve me. Not just as a hound."

My nose wrinkled in disgust, but the Huntsman had already turned away. The Dullahan clicked his fingers, and the horse continued forward.

Further away, fat blood-red roses sat in shallow flower beds leading to a staircase. As my eyes drifted higher and higher, following the walkways that stemmed from the garden like branches, I tried to make sense of it all but couldn't.

A castle with towers that sat at strange angles, defying gravity and moving like pieces of a clock amidst a sky of orange and purple. The colors were all wrong. Too vivid. My head hurt. The building made no logical sense. Just luxury and whimsy combined with an MC Escher painting.

It occurred to me, as I watched the slowly shifting cogs of a castle that it seemed more like a clock, connected together with moving parts. A strange block-like building, half buried in the ground, sat at the botton of the staircase.

It was hard to wrap my head around the sheer scale of the buildings when my only frame of reference was Locket, Tennessee. The castle in the distance was bigger than anything I'd ever seen—unless you counted the Empire State Building on TV.

At the top of the steps, a disk spun ever so slowly. Ringed with various doors of all shapes and sizes. The Huntsman's walk did not slow as he led us towards the moving entranceway. The Dullahan's horse stopped at the bottom of the steps, the headless horseman reached for my waist, and I closed my eyes, wincing as the durrach pulled me from the horse and deposited me at the bottom of the steps.

Kaleb nudged the back of my legs with his wolfy nose, glancing at the Huntsman on the steps. I understood, staggering to catch up. My hands prickled with pins and needles, and my head swam.

We were in the Aos Sí.

I couldn't believe it.

My grandmother had mourned Faerie. Her home. For many years. She had lamented that she could never return. She had woven too much to escape from the Huntsman and didn't have enough magic to protect herself if she returned.

As the Huntsman led Kaleb and me through the castle, traveling further and further into the stone depths, it became clear that while the moving palace was elegant and clean on the outside, the inside was a different story. The stone bricks were damp, the walls were covered in lichen, and the glass was dusty. The air smelled stale, though it was thick with magic.

I had no idea what the Huntsman's plans were for me.

I was a Weaver, and not a very good one.

The Huntsman had seen through my facade in seconds. The part of myself I'd hidden all my life.

The wolf.

I had seen it in the Huntsman's face—the compulsion to claim another ‘hound' for his collection.

I didn't remember getting on the Dullahan's horse or even the journey from the Human Realities to the Aos Sí—and that terrified me.

My mind filled with all of the terrible things he could do to me, and I would never know.

I was an idiot.

I never should have gone to Dean Hart for help. Even if the coin had told me to.

None of that mattered now anyway because Joel was dead, and I was under the Huntsman's thumb. Exactly where I didn't want to be.

I didn't ask where we were going. Clearly, I was still a prisoner because no one removed my bindings.

Kaleb moved like a puppet, a loyal dog at his master's heels.

I smelled the rusted iron before I saw it. The magic in the air was repelled by its very presence.

The Huntsman grinned, the edges of his mouth stretched to the very end of his cheeks. "You can stay in the dungeon until I can be certain you will behave, Weaver."

I didn't say a word as I looked up through the ratty tendrils of my hair, my expression empty.

"Samhain endures for several days here. Seven more hours of night in the human world." The Huntsman explained. "You will join the Wild Hunt tomorrow. If you prove biddable, you will sleep in the kennels with the others."

"Why do you need a Weaver?" My voice was dry, and my throat closed with thirst.

The Huntsman cocked his head to the side. "Why does anyone?" He answered benignly.

He was Sídhe; he could not lie, but that didn't mean he had to tell the truth.

"Kaleb," The Huntsman turned to the silver wolf. "Guard the Weaver. Ensure she does not hurt herself."

Kaleb tipped his head in agreement, and the Huntsman led us to a row of cells, each walled off with iron bars.

"No." I tripped over my feet. "I'm not going in there. You can't—" Fear clogged my throat. "I won't weave anything if you put me in a cell!"

The Huntsman chuffed a laugh. He reached out a hand and curled his fingers. "You are part wolf. That part belongs to me."

With the coaxing motion of his fingers, I felt something sickening rise inside me. Acid through my veins, racing from my toes to my throat like I'd been slowly dipped in stone. I couldn't move.

"Into the cell." The Huntsman commanded.

My feet began to move, one step after the other, until I walked past the cell bars and closed the door myself at his command—ignoring the weeping sores as the iron lacerated my hands.

Though Joel had found many ways to make me feel trapped and small over the years, I'd never been imprisoned before—confined to a cell with iron bars that made every breath painful.

When Joel insulted or pushed me into a door, I told myself he'd just been having a bad day. I'd rationalized it because I'd been the one to make him angry. Even Joel's apologies had been laced with ‘if you hadn't said this' or ‘if you hadn't done that.'

But it hadn't been my fault. Not even a little bit.

I knew that now.

But as I sat on the cool stone floor and looked at the rusted bars of the cell, the metallic smell turning my stomach with every breath, all I could think of was how I'd been the one to court danger. If I'd been smarter, faster, stronger, I could have done something about my human ex-husband without involving the wolves.

The coin in my pocket felt too heavy. I'd trusted it too much, ignoring the danger because I trusted Grandmother Eva.

I wasn't even sure who she was anymore.

My grandmother had not been a kind woman. She didn't bake cookies or kiss my forehead at bedtime. She had been militant in my need to learn—to keep my hands moving and crafting at all times.

Even when I had been ill or had broken my wrist, I had been made to weave. To be insulted for my weak magic while I tried to craft something beautiful—something to wear or keep, instead of magic that dissolved the fabric like acid.

I'd trusted my grandmother's wards to keep me safe because she had told me they would.

I had trusted that the wolves would help me because she said they would.

Instead, I was in the Huntsman's clutches. A villain my grandmother refused to speak of.

Kaleb had curled up in a ball at the edge of the cell, his fluffy silver tail over his nose. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. His dark markings made his wolf look like it was wearing eyeliner.

"Can you hear me?" I whispered, and though the wolf's ears twitched at the question, he didn't otherwise react. Dean had mentioned the Huntsman's call and the lack of control and memories. Kaleb had been pushed deep down, leaving only the wolf and his desire to fulfill his master's commands.

I wanted so badly for someone to talk to.

It wasn't Kaleb's fault the Huntsman had found me. It wasn't Melly's, Deans', or anyone else's but mine. I should have known how to set a ward or defend myself.

Though my grandmother, Eva, had taught me all I knew about knitting, sewing, embroidery, and any craft that used thread, she had focused on passive magic.

The long game, I now realized.

My Weaver heritage was lauded. Celebrated, though my magic was weak and unruly.

I kept coming back to the Gate.

The rip between the Aos Sí and the Human Realities.

Powerful Weavers could sew the fabric of reality together and tear it apart.

Maybe the Huntsman needed my help, though I was not inclined to aid someone who put me in a cage; sealing the Gate would save lives.

If he wanted to close the Gate between the Aos Sí and the Human Realities, he could ask , but I wasn't sure if my magic was powerful enough to do something like that. Not with my current lack of knowledge and the iron poisoning I felt spreading from my injured hands like shards of glass through my blood.

Rage was a metallic patina on my tongue. Anger at the Huntsman, but mainly at myself.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

The clang of the dungeon door woke me, the sound echoing down the line of cells—followed by hurried footsteps, too light to belong to the Huntsman.

A short, sharp gasp drew my attention to the bars. A young girl, barely past puberty, stood outside the cell, clutching a bowl of stew. Her wide eyes flashed to Kaleb and then back to me.

"I was told to bring your supper." The girl held out the bowl.

I groaned as I shifted my weight. My blistered hand shook as I reached through the bars, avoiding the rusted iron. The girl studied my injured hands, wincing with empathy.

"You must not be a full wolf." She said with sympathy. "Only the Sídhe are that sensitive to iron."

I glanced over to the wolf in the corner. "Do you have anything for him?"

"You'll have to share, I'm afraid." She told me. "If you give the Huntsman what he wants, he'll let you go. He doesn't like keeping people in the dungeons."

"I'm sure he doesn't," I muttered, glancing down at the watery broth in the bowl. Though I'd not eaten since the previous day, I wasn't sure I could stomach a single bite.

"My name is Kacia." The girl tipped her head. "I help the Huntsman with various errands. If you need new clothing or anything else, I'm your girl."

"Do a lot of wolves live here then?" I wondered, the warmth of the bowl seeping into my injured hands.

Kacia nodded enthusiastically. "Once the Huntsman trusts you, he'll station you somewhere in the Human Realities. The wolves only come to the castle during Samhain. Most Durrach prefer the taste of human flesh, so they prefer to hunt on the other side of the Gate."

"If you're a wolf, why aren't you in wolf form?" I interrupted. "I thought all wolves were in wolf form during Samhain?"

Kacia shrugged. "The Huntsman controls our ability to shift for these seven days. Its part of the bargain. I can't make food with paws."

I gave her a tight-lipped smile but said nothing.

Kacia exhaled a breath, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "I shouldn't tell you this."

"Okay?" I eyed her suspiciously.

Kacia cleared her throat and looked over her shoulder. "You should touch Kaleb. Get closer to him. Pet his fur. It might help with your hands. If you don't do something, the iron will kill you. The Huntsman left Kaleb in your cell because he didn't want you to die. He's just trying to teach you a lesson."

"How would—" I mashed my lips together, stopping the question before it finished forming. I watched the young wolf race away from my cell like her ass was on fire.

Kaleb didn't move when I sat beside him, placing my hand between his shoulders and wincing at the coarse fur on my raw flash. I placed the watery broth in front of his nose.

It didn't take long before the pain faded to a dull ache, but I didn't dare look at my hands.

I supposed there were benefits to being around other wolves. That was why the wild fae formed packs, after all. Maybe wolves could heal each other through touch.

Kaleb, the wolf, waited until the steam faded from the bowl before he licked the watery broth, watching me as if to ask for permission.

A stab of loneliness, so intense it stole my breath, rushed through me.

"Kaleb, can you hear me?" I whispered.

The wolf blinked up at me, his expression unchanging.

I pressed my fist to my mouth, stifling a sob.

I hadn't cried when Joel had left. Not even when I'd found out about Faith. I hadn't cried when he'd died either.

I'd held it together for so long, but at that moment, my seams unraveled, exposing the mess of fear and sadness that I'd tried so hard to hide.

My heaving sobs echoed against the stone walls.

Kaleb leaned over and licked my hand. He won't hurt you. He needs you too much .

"Kaleb?"

The wolf didn't reply.

I woke again to the sound of the cell door opening as the Dullahan rushed forward and pried my hand away from Kaleb's coat. The headless Fae jerked me to my feet.

The Huntsman strode through the door, making the cell seem so much smaller.

I had no idea how long it had been, but the Huntsman had changed clothes, so a day at least.

Though my hands were raw and painful, they no longer wept and bled. The Huntsman studied the skin critically but did not voice his thoughts.

"I will send you on a hunt." The Huntsman declared.

The Dullahan released me, and I struggled to remain standing. The iron had left me weak, and it took concentrated effort not to vomit on his leather boots.

"If you fail or displease me, Kaleb will pay the price." The Huntsman looked down his nose at me. "I trust that you will behave."