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I can’t stop shaking, can’t hide my fear. “Yes.”
“Yes what?” His grip tightens.
“Yes, Master.”
“Better.” He ghosts his cold lips across my forehead and stands. Another whistle from him, and the monsters approach, saliva hanging in threads from their jowls.
The big one bares his fangs, the tips sharp, the bite a perfect match to the scars that litter my body.
It’s useless. Hopeless. My last chance at death left with the Catcher. The vampire hounds will drain me, but not enough to kill me. Granthos will never let me go. I’ll go back to being his blood bag, the anemic throwaway, the chew toy for his creatures.
“Get back.” I swing an arm out to strike the alpha in the face.
It pounces, its fangs clamping down on my throat. I scream and thrash as pain rips through me, the beast settling on my chest, its familiar fetid stink surrounding me.
“Not too much, Kizriel.” Granthos scolds, but his tone is doting. “Save some for your brother and sister.”
The other two jump on me, their teeth tearing into my calves. My scream dies in my throat as they feast on me—my nightmares come to life once again.
Granthos rises to his feet, a broad smile on his face. “Welcome home, Lenetia.”
8
Gareth
The makeshift tourniquet on my arm is soaked with blood, but I keep rowing. I can’t let up, not now that I’m so close to the bustling harbor as the moon shines high above, the silver glow playing on the water as if lighting my way. Boat thievery was a bit harder than I’d imagined, but after a brawl where I fought off a dozen fishermen, I managed to take the boat and make it out to sea before they could regroup and catch up.
Besides, I’m not truly stealing the boat. I intend to leave it in the Byrn Varyndr Harbor where its owner can easily find it, so all’s well that ends well. I ignore my moral perfidy and continue pulling the oars toward me in steady strokes as I glide past huge galleons that float just outside the safety of the harbor. Voices carry across the water, and I catch a few sailor terms that are best forgotten. The city rises before me, fairy lights twinkling and the cloying smell of flowers pervading the air. Everything is glaringly beautiful, the wind warm and the water mild … How in Arin do the summer realm fae live like this?
I wrinkle my nose and hew close to the ships, hiding in their great shadows as I approach under the too-bright moon. The city is alive, distant music on the air, but the waterfront is relatively quiet. I avoid the white gates that lead under the palace, the waterway always heavily guarded, and maneuver to the side of the city frequented by changelings and lesser fae.
More docks appear as the harbor begins to narrow, and I steer toward one that’s attached to a shabby-looking tavern, the sign faded and the windows coated with a rind of sea salt. A place for lowlifes and outlaws. Somewhere I can blend in.
With one more look around the hushed harbor, I ease my boat beside the rough dock and throw out a line. A few other boats bob along the low waves, and raucous music and laughter swells from inside the ramshackle building. Once the boat’s secure, I head inside.
The first thing that hits me when I walk in the door is the smell.
The second thing is a fist.
Granthos’s house is one of the finest along the lane of noble mansions. He has a flair for ornate nonsense, every bit of spare façade carved or embossed in one way or another. A preening peacock just like all the rest.
I pass by on the cobblestone lane, my cart bouncing as I push it along. After walking by once, I come again as a few changelings in servants’ clothes hurry past with their arms full of laundry. Their chores never end, I suppose. The summer realm lords and ladies probably need help wiping their delicate asses.
The servants keep their heads low as I lounge against the white fence that runs along the lane. At least they don’t look me in the eye, one of which is black thanks to the barfight I walked right into.
It’s better if they take no notice of me. I don’t want witnesses.
No one openly guards the front gate, but I would be a fool to surmise that Granthos doesn’t have some sort of security. Not that it would stop me. I came for my mate, and I’m not leaving until I have her. I try to send a message down the bond, to tell her not to fear, but the link isn’t strong enough yet. Once I claim her, she’ll hear me, she’ll know what’s in my heart.
I continue my reconnaissance though the feral beast that lives under my skin demands I storm the mansion and take what’s mine. But I can’t let my primal side control me, not when Beth is on the line.
“Are you lost?” One of the passing lesser fae stops and eyes me. He’s wearing some sort of ridiculous butler uniform that leaves room for his dragonfly-like wings.
“I have a delivery.” I turn away from him and straighten the cap that hides my hair, hoping he’ll go away.
He sniffs, his thin nose quivering at the tip. “Fresh fish, I take it? Or perhaps you’re selling spirits or something a bit more risqué?” He waves a hand at the grubby clothes I found at the inn. “You certainly smell like a brothel.”
I rise to my full height and consider how pleasurable it would be to rip his wings off one at a time. Some of my dark hair comes loose from the cap.
He peers up at my eyes, then sobers and takes a step back. “Not to offend, of course,” he hurriedly adds. “I didn’t realize you were a winter realm—”
“Take your leave,” I bite out.
“Yes. Of course.” He hurries away and crosses the street, though he glances back at me a few times as if worried I’ll follow him.
When he’s out of sight, I grab my cart and roll it along the walk until I come to the small alleyway that runs between Granthos’s estate and his neighbors. With one more glance around, I enter the lane and walk beneath ropes of hanging purple wisteria, the blooms pulling at my clothes.
Something pulses down the bond, and I grit my teeth. Pain. She’s hurt. But it’s sort of like an echo, as if she’s recovering from some injury. I grip the cart handle so hard the wood splinters and glare up at the mansion. Granthos will pay for what he’s done.
A lesser fae steps from the hedge to my right, her leopard feet silent on the path. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Delivery.” I tap my cart.
She prowls around, her face almost fae, but fur poking out of her black clothing and white whiskers sprouting from her cheeks. Her feline eyes fix on me. “Granthos ordered fish for his dinner, did he?”
“Yes.”
“He put in the order himself?”
“I just catch the fish and do the deliveries.” I keep my head down. “Fresh from the Ocean of Storms.”
“Is that so?” She stops and drums her claws on the top of the cart. “And you are?”
“Janare, a fisherman.”
“Mmhmmm.” She raises a dark brow. “A winter realm fisherman from the Ocean of Storms? That’s an interesting combination.” Her tone verges on playful—a cat with a mouse. “What sort of bodyguard would I be if I didn’t ask you a few questions?”
“I left the winter realm long ago. Grew up fishing.” I don’t embellish. The more lies I tell, the more obvious it will be. “And you are?”
