“Jaron was a liar,” Kyrie said again with conviction, her delicate shoulders tense. “And now he is dead. Who will you believe, Father? Your lying, dead nephew…or your daughter?” Avalon couldn’t help but gape. Never in a million years had she expected this from the gentle soul who lived at the Elven House, who had brought her tea every day since she’d arrived and gushed over the handsome princes she read about in books.
Finally, after regarding his daughter and then each of his guards one by one, the Lord of the Elven House spoke. “Release him.”
45
The Wolf Pack had left camp nearly half an hour ago, yet Kit couldn’t bring himself to follow. He sat on the steps of the ruined Shadow Temple, fiddling with one of his rings.
North, north, and farther north. When would it end? He knew he could send the Wolves back at any time, but he wanted to be away long enough to convince the king that he’d made his best attempt at finding the Shadowlands. No one needed to know he’d located an entrance days ago, shimmering just over his shoulder near the designs etched into the last standing wall of the temple.
The king was winning this war. If he continued to claim the remaining realms on this side of the Black Sea, the elusive Shadowfolk would be their last chance at defending their freedom, so long as they could form an alliance with them. Kit wasn’t about to simply hand the entrance over. Even if he didn’t trust the Shadowfolk, and even if Levon Arlock had nearly carved his heart out the other day.
Levon Arlock, heir to the Throne of Shadow. Kit had figured it out after spotting the eclipse birthmark on the inside of his wrist. The birthmark only those in the Royal Family of the Shadow-lands were marked with. Kit’s surprise had given him pause, and he’d nearly lost his ear when Levon’s blade had swept up and nicked it. They hadn’t managed to get a word out of him, however, though Levon’s reaction to their mentioning of Sable was enough of an assurance that the two had known each other years ago.
Kit rubbed at his temples. “Rotten Shadow heir,” he muttered.
“Speak of a Fey, and he shall appear,” drawled a male voice from directly behind him.
Kit was on his feet in an instant, and in the next, the tip of his sword was pressed against the base of Levon’s throat.
The Shadow heir slowly held up his hands, a predatory smile spreading across his angular face. “Easy,” he crooned. When Kit pressed the blade harder against Levon’s throat, piercing his moon-pale skin, that smug, irritating smile faltered. “Put the weapon down.”
“Not likely,” Kit growled.
“I’ve been watching you for a while,” Levon said, his voice tense. “I could’ve killed you a thousand times over by now. It seems the Wolf of Winter has lost his touch.”
For a long moment, they both held very still.
“Put the weapon down,” Levon urged, his smile fading completely. “Please.”
After a moment of hesitation, his heart hammering in his chest, Kit relented and sheathed Wolfsbane. “Only because you’re unarmed.” His reply was curt.
“Indeed,” Levon said as he lowered himself to the steps. If this icy-eyed creep ended up the death of him, perhaps he really had lost his touch. “I came unarmed because I’d like to talk. And I was hoping you wouldn’t chop off my head if I didn’t have a way to defend myself.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t sneak up on people,” Kit snapped.
Levon gave him a feline grin, exposing elongated canines that gleamed in the winter sunlight. “Sorry,” he drawled.
Kit leaned against the closest column, trying his best to ignore the sharp zing he felt deep in his bones every time he touched the onyx. “I should catch up with my packs,” he hinted, scanning every inch of Levon’s intricate leather armor. “Make it quick.”
Levon reached into a pocket of his embroidered jacket. Kit bristled, his hand drifting toward Wolfsbane. “Relax,” Levon muttered as he pulled out a white stone. “The Moonstone,” he announced. He tossed it to Kit, and he caught it in a gloved hand.
Kit carefully inspected the stone, watching as the veins of silver and rose-gold glimmered in the sun. It was the Moonstone alright; he’d never seen anything like it. “Why are you giving me this?” He eyed Levon. “Where did you find it?”
“I didn’t find it.” Levon intertwined his fingers and settled his elbows on his knees. “I’ve had the Moonstone my entire life; it was a present from my mother the day I was born.” Levon raised his eyes to meet Kit’s, the irises nearly translucent in the somber cast of winter light. “Sable and I met when we were children. After everything she’s been through, I thought this was the least I could do to help her regain her freedom—and to earn her forgiveness.”
“What do you have to be sorry for?” Kit realized a second too late that his tone was far too sharp to use on someone who was trying to help him.
Levon took a deep breath and loosed it slowly. The shallow grooves in his horns were pronounced in the faded light. “Many things, some of which I had no control over.” He gazed out at the snowy mountains. “We’re very different from each other, she and I.”
“In what way?”
Levon’s eyes slid to Kit’s. “In the way a lion is different from a lamb.”
“I doubt that. The speculations surrounding Sable suggest she possesses powers the likes of which our world has never seen.” Godly powers, to be exact. And it wasn’t just Elden Kipling who thought so.
“If that’s true, then maybe she can save us,” Levon said, his gaze suddenly distant as his broad mouth pulled down at one corner. “All of us.”
“Maybe.” Kit fiddled with the stone as he contemplated his next question. “Is it too much to ask for you to keep your beast on a tighter leash?” Perhaps if the Shadowfolk called off whatever creature was responsible for killing the king’s men, he would opt not to bother with them anymore; would no longer see them as a threat he needed to destroy.
