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A boom rocks the city, and perhaps the very center of Arin. I lose my footing, but Gareth keeps a tight grip on me. The wall behind us begins to crack, a harsh zigzag cutting through the sandstone as tiles fall from the roof and crash all around us. The ground is still shaking, and Silmaran darts down from the table and out into the street.
“What is it?” I hold onto Gareth, the only thing that seems solid as the world continues to quake.
“I don’t know, but it isn’t good.” The cracks continue to snake across the ceiling, and with a loud snap, the back wall splits down the center. Gareth raises his voice and yells over my head. “Everyone into the streets! The house is going to fall. It’s not safe here.”
Some of the slaves rise, but others struggle to help the wounded from their makeshift cots.
Gareth pulls me toward the still-shattered door.
“I can help.” I dig in my heels.
He stops and looks at the rapidly-expanding crack in the wall. “No.”
I glance at the terrified high fae children in the back of the shattering house. “Gareth, let me help!” I try to yank my arm free.
“I need you safe.” He keeps pulling me.
Parnon grunts, curses, and then stomps over to the huddled children. They seem to collapse in on themselves, doing their best to survive and shrink away from the bloody sand man.
“Come.” He opens his huge arms, scoops them up between them like an ant with eggs between its pincers, and carries them toward me. “Now you can go, stubborn changeling.”
The children cry, but they aren’t hurt, just terrified of the hulking lesser fae who has them clasped in his grip.
Gareth shoves me out the door and holds up a finger. “Stay.”
“I’m not a dog.” I stomp my foot as another tremor hits, and a house three doors down crumbles into dust and splinters.
“Changeling, I don’t have time to argue.”
“Fine.” I throw up my hands. “I’m out of the house. Not going back in.”
“Thank you.” He runs back inside and starts carrying out the wounded, lining them up along the lane as Parnon corrals the children into the arms of their nanny.
Another boom rocks the ground beneath my feet, and I almost fall, but Gareth runs up and steadies me, then disappears inside again. How did I manage to land such a hero? It truly does defy all expectations. But that’s just who he is. Carrying the injured to safety is peak Gareth.
A roar of voices at the end of the street grabs my attention. Hundreds of slaves are amassing at the conjunction of the main roads—the slave market. Their chants join into one as Arin finally stops shaking.
“Silmaran.” Her name is repeated, each voice adding to it until it’s the only thought in Cranthum.
Slaves—some of them bloodied or battered—run past me and add to the multitude surrounding the slave market. The crowd quickly swells to thousands. Is she there? She must be.
Gareth brings out more wounded and heads back inside. Parnon turns toward the throng and starts a quick stomp in that direction. He feels the pull. So do I.
The rebellion rockets through my veins. The same excitement that lights up the crowd lives inside me. I’m one of them. And this is our moment. Standing here, doing nothing—I’m missing it. All of it.
But Gareth is still being a hero. He dashes out with another slave in his arms and lays him gently on one of the makeshift cots.
He won’t like it if I leave.
But he won’t let me go if I ask. I can already hear him now in his stern grr voice, “That’s dangerous. I can’t let you get hurt.”
And I only told him I’d stay out of the crumbling house. Down the street with the crowd? That’s out of the house. No problem.
I wait for him to jog out with another injured slave, then turn to go back inside. When he glances at me, I give him what I hope is a sweet smile. His eyebrows draw together, but he doesn’t stop his work. Once he’s out of sight, I turn and head toward the crowd. Excitement builds inside me with each step.
Hurrying my pace, I’m almost at the edge of the gathering when a strong hand clamps down on my shoulder and I’m pulled back against a broad, hard chest.
“Where are you going, my beloved?” His voice in my ear promises punishment. And when he thrusts his hips against my backside, I want every bit of discipline he has to offer. “My wicked Xalana.”
Just the way he says that name. Oh. My. Ancestors. My knees go weak.
“Disobeying me only guarantees a harsh reprimand.” He starts pulling me backwards, drawing me away from the crowd even as facades crack and fall on the nearest buildings. And despite my need to be part of this new world, my desire for him far outweighs it. I gasp when his teeth graze my ear in a playful bite.
That gasp draws the eyes of the nearest slave. He freezes, then takes in a huge breath and yells, “Slaver! Kill him!” Raising his bloody cleaver, he starts towards us.
More slaves turn around. “He’s trying to take her!” “Save her!” “Kill the slaver!”
“No.” I try to step forward. “It’s not—”
Gareth’s grip tightens on me. Of course. He’s not going to let me walk toward angry, armed strangers.
They run at us, most of them wielding gory weapons and enraged expressions. Their yells for blood echo down the cracking streets as they bear down on us.
Gareth pushes me behind him and braces for battle against the slaves he just helped liberate. I would laugh if we weren’t about to die.
5
Gareth
The first slave swings his cleaver with murderous, yet sloppy, intent. I let him flail for a moment, then use his own momentum to kick him to the fractured road. The next one comes at me with bare knuckles. He’s faster, but he can’t connect when my fist is already making contact with his jaw. He stumbles back, seemingly startled from the blow. I’d hoped to knock him out. Am I losing my touch?
I try it again with the next assailant, and he goes down in a heap. Still got it.
Beth is yelling behind me, trying to explain that I’m not a slaver, but they don’t listen. Their blood is still up, and the fight inside them has been brewing their whole lives. I can’t blame them, but when the ring around me begins to grow, I don’t know if I can get us out of this situation without loss of life. They won’t take Beth from me. I don’t care who they think I am. They will not touch my mate.
Three rush me at once, I duck and sweep my leg across their ankles, dropping them in a tangle as I stand and back up a few paces.
The next group—at least a dozen lesser fae—approaches, murder in their eyes.
“He’s not bad. He’s not a slaver! Listen to me!” Beth’s voice is shrill to the point of panic.
They don’t stop, and they won’t—not until I’m dead. I crouch and wait for them to strike.
“I’m telling you he’s my mate!”
They stop.
I turn. My feral roars with delight, and I fill with warmth at her declaration. Another piece of our bond clicks into place. She is mine as I am hers. No one can utter those words without the seal of magic. I can feel it now, a gold thread tying us tighter. If she’d spoken false, she’d be burning right now, the mark of the liar etched over her heart by the most primal of all magic. But she doesn’t suffer. She spoke true. The feral roars again, and I join it, my yell rising into the night.
She points at me. “See? This one right here. He’s my mate. We’re mated, okay?”
The male nearest us moves closer, his bald pate marked with concentric black circles. Slave bands.
I pity him, but I do not underestimate him. A growl pours from me, the feral ready to rise and rip his throat out.
He doesn’t move again, though he stares at Beth with too direct a gaze. “You bear no claiming mark.”
She points to the starry sky. “It’s dark.”
He narrows his eyes.
She clears her throat and adds, “And he marked me in a very special area if you know what I mean, and I’m pretty sur
e you do given the fact you are now staring right at my lady bits this very second.”
“Don’t look at her.” I move to block his view.
“Mated to one of them?” Then he shifts his gaze to me with nothing short of malice. “You lord over us, abuse us, murder us, do as you will with us our whole lives, then take one of our own for yourself?” He spits.
“I don’t want to kill you.” My fangs lengthen, the feral begging to come out to play. “But I will do whatever I must to defend my mate.”
“Kill us?” He looks around at the mass of slaves. “You’re the one going to the Ancestors tonight.”
“No.” A gruff voice, followed by a familiar stomping, sounds from the back of the throng.
The slaves part for Parnon.
