PROLOGUE

The barred door bursts open, screeching in protest like a soul ripped from a corpse. It hits the side of the cage with a bang which reverberates through every bone in my body. I cannot help the scream that escapes my throat as I throw my arms up over my head.

Hands reach inside: large, pale-skinned, and tipped with black talons. Grasping, eager, greedy hands. The last time they reached through that opening, they grabbed a young priest and dragged him forth, struggling and blaspheming like a heathen. None of us tried to stop them, none of us tried to help. We’re beyond such pathetic resistance.

So when those hands latch down hard on my shoulder and the front of my bodice, when those talons dig through the rough fabric of my cloak and into my flesh, I’m not surprised when no one moves to defend me. I don’t bother with either begging or pleading, nor do I cast my fellow prisoners a final, desperate glance. They cannot help me. No one can. Not anymore.

I hold my tongue, my last scream still choked in my throat. My only hope now is that whatever my captors intend for me will be done quickly. I’ve heard tales of the fae and their prisoners, stories of torments and tortures lasting for days on end. Crucifixions and bloodlettings, great burning pyres surrounded by wild figures singing in hideous harmony with the screams of the dying. I used to listen to such stories in my father’s hall, relishing the horror and the gore, hanging on each word from the minstrel’s mouth. Waiting for the moment when the hero arrived on his white horse to topple the pyres, to vanquish the foes, to make right all that was evil.

There are no such heroes left in this world. I learned that bitter truth the hard way. No champion riding in on a white horse to save me. If I cannot save myself, no one will.

But I could not save Aurae. They took her. My sister. They took her, and I could do nothing but listen until her screams were drowned out in savage roars.

Now it’s my turn.

Though I’m determined to face my end with courage, my body rebels. My knees give way as I’m hauled from the cage, and I collapse in a trembling heap. Raucous voices growl in a language I do not know, and the grip on my shoulder releases momentarily, only for those long fingers to snarl in the hair atop my head. A painful wrench, and I’m back on my feet.

“March!” snarls a voice close to my ear. Forced into motion, I stagger through the churning crowd. Strange faces close in around me. Some are hideous, like monsters born of nightmares, all greenish mottled skin, seeping warts, and gnashing teeth. Others are beautiful—pristine masks sculpted to perfection, radiating glamours that dazzle the eye and intoxicate the senses. These beings are more terrifying by far. They speak to each other, monsters and men alike, motioning at me, pointing out my various attributes, while their eyes travel up and down my figure in lewd appraisal.

It”s all too much. Too many voices in my ears, too many faces swimming before my eyes, the stench of blood in my nostrils, and bitter terror coating my tongue. We reach the foot of eight crooked steps leading up to a scaffold. They seem so big, so insurmountable. I stop, unable to make my feet obey.

It doesn’t matter. The hand on my head shifts to the back of my cloak and gown, propelling me onward and upward to the top of the scaffold, where I’m tossed roughly forward. The clasp of my cloak rips open, and I fall to my knees. Barks of laughter erupt from the crowd. Clenching my jaw, I push upright and swipe wild strands of hair out of my face as I look around. I’m alone up here—no brutalized corpses of my fellow captives for company. No sign of Aurae.

“On your feet,” the taloned creature growls. He stands at the top of the stairs, my cloak still in his grasp. When he takes an aggressive step forward, I hasten to get my feet under me, to stand tall. If this is to be my end, I won’t snivel and shrink from it. I am a daughter of warriors and kings. I will face death with dignity.

So I brace myself before that vicious throng, painfully aware of every rip in my gown, every bruise purpling my body, and the dried blood matting my hair. I draw my shoulders back and lift my chin as though even now I wear a queenly diadem and robes of royal silk. Turning slowly, I survey all those leering faces surrounding the scaffold. They look ready to rend me apart and lap up my blood. I hate them. I hate them for making me so afraid I’m ready to piss myself. I hate them for taking my sister before me. I hate them with all the force and fury I can summon. Hatred is my only remaining shield.

“Here, brothers!” the creature behind me, the one holding my cloak in his awful hands, roars, his voice rising above the din of growls and snarls. “Here is a fine specimen of human womanhood!” He speaks in a strange tongue which I do not know, but which transforms as it strikes my ear into words I can understand. “A tasty warbride for the man lucky enough to win her. What’ll you give for her, my savages?”

“Five silver heds!” a voice bellows back immediately from the front of the scaffold.

“Ten!” another snarls from the right.

Another voice and another, one after the other, and the bidding has gone up to twenty silver before my dulled brain finally comprehends what is happening. Oh gods. I’m not to be killed. I’m to be sold.

As a bride.