I nod. “I’m going to help. I have a fae general right here.” Although he can’t see Maeve, he knows what I can do. “And I’ve had my guides scouring Siabetha through the night.”
I tug Lore’s cap from my head. “I need a knife.”
To his credit, he doesn’t even ask why. The blade is in my outstretched palm before Drystan can even object.
But when I flip it and press it to my arm, his calloused blue hand grabs my wrist, stopping me. The buzz of the call erupts where we touch, and I look away before Drystan can see how it affects me.
“No fucking way.”
I wave Lore’s hat at him. “It’s his soul, Caed. And it’s already five shades paler than it was a few hours ago. What happens if the colour fades?”
“He dies,” Drystan says evenly. “Except, as your Guard, he can’t. So refrain from weakening yourself pointlessly on his behalf. He wouldn’t want it.”
Snorting, I yank my arm free. “I’m pretty sure Lore would just get aroused if he saw me smearing my blood all over his cap, no matter the circumstances.”
“Fomorian, fetch her a dead body,” Drystan snaps. “Before she weakens herself unnecessarily.”
Caed rolls his eyes and deftly disarms me, pressing the knife to the inside of his own elbow. “No time. Besides, I owe the mad fucker.”
The blade slices clean through the inside of his elbow on his untattooed side, and blood wells instantly. The red is a shocking contrast to the blue of his skin as he extends the wound towards me.
“Is this enough?”
I have no idea. Swiping the fabric through the mess, my shoulders slump slightly as the colour begins to return. It takes two more cuts—Caed’s healing slowing the bleeding each time—but soon it’s a pale crimson.
“Enough?” he asks again, hovering the dagger in place like he’ll cut again if I ask him.
“Enough,” I confirm, pulling the dry cap over my head, where it morphs into a leather helmet. “Now, as far as rescuing him goes, the majority of our people are in the dungeon.”
“Hold on, little queen.” Caed crosses to the smouldering remains of a fire on the dawn-kissed beach and kicks it awake, adding a new stick from a pile of driftwood. “If we don’t have Prae here for this, she’ll kick both of our asses and the plan will suck.”
I look at Maeve, who shrugs, so I give in and take a seat on the sand. “What did you mean when you said you owed Lore?”
He freezes, setting Drystan’s head down on the sand so it’s propped up.
“He’s…” He sighs, then turns, exposing his tattooed arm. “I noticed this just before I found you.”
His forefinger taps at the third frame down. The only one which isn’t empty.
Inside, bold slashing black lines form the silhouette of a top hat. It’s not quite as dark as the tattoo around it, but it’s onlylighter by a shade or two. The meaning is clear: for whatever reason, Lore has almost completely forgiven the Fomorian.
“The redcap is mad,” Drystan grouches.
“Or he sees something you won’t,” Caed argues. “I’m on your side. Do you think I’d be putting up with your bossy ass if I wasn’t?”
It’s not the only change either. One of the chained swords around his heart looks less tightly bound than the other five.
Drystan says nothing, so I change the subject. “Bree is strapped to Máel’s bed, and Kitarni is being held in the temple.”
“If our people are separated, that makes the task infinitely harder,” Drystan argues. “All the more reason you should return to the?—”
“Finish that sentence,” I snarl, shocked at my own vehemence. “I dare you.”
“Okay, I’ve got breakfast—” Prae crests a nearby dune, then stops and takes in the three of us. “You’re up.”
Clearing my throat, I look her straight in her good eye, grateful that she’s not wearing that glamour so that I can finally guess what she’s really thinking.
“Yes. And we have a plan to make.”
