Moyra looks at me curiously. It’s not that unusual for me to go between worlds.
“I just came from there,” I answer. There will be no lies from me. A powerful fae can tell when a human lies, and I cannot risk Samson being hurt if I don’t tell the truth. And I know this fae will tell me the truth too—fae can trick and manipulate and deceive, but they cannot outright lie.
“My turn,” I say. “Are you working with Lord Darnley, the king consort?”
The link here is obvious—I must ascertain the black-market network of Red Cap weapons and uncover the plot meant to overthrow Queen Mary and wreak havoc on both worlds.
“We do not ally ourselves with bastard Leths,” the fae snarls, then laughs bitterly. “Present company excluded, obviously.”
That’s not a good enough answer. Too much is left unsaid. While this being doesn’t work with Leths, it may command other fae who dothe dirty work or use them as a tool if not an ally. And that actually would be the smarter way of dealing with Darnley.
“Tell us what you saw in the Seelie Court,” the being says with Samson’s voice.
I snort. “That’s not a question.” Besides, while I went into the fae realm, I didn’t go to the court, and this fae creature let slip just how little they know of me and my position with that question. To assume I crossed between worlds to dabble in silly parties and meet with my pretentious father…
Samson’s face contorts with suppressed rage, but the being switches tactics. “Did you go inside the palace?”
“No,” I say, for once grateful my arsehole of a father didn’t bother to acknowledge me. Now the bigger question is, does this fae being not have access to the Seelie Court, or do they want to know how much access I have? But that’s not the question I want to ask.
Moyra moves beside me, her fingers brushing my arm. “The potion will wear off soon,” she says in a low voice. Samson’s eyes flick to her and back; I don’t know if the being heard the witch.
I focus on Samson’s face, straining to see him behind the expression he never wears, that of regal superiority. There’s no time to waste. “Are you a Red Cap?” I ask this of whatever being has possessed Samson, but it creates a strange revulsion in my belly to have to hear the answer from Samson’s mouth.
Samson giggles again, high-pitched and eerie. “Yessss.”
Moyra sucks in a breath, her nostrils flaring. But my attention is on Samson. His head jerks, his mouth turning downward.
The potion is wearing off.
Whoever’s possessed Samson seems to realize the same thing. They stand, legs wobbly, and take a step toward me. I think it’s an attempt atbeing menacing, but this fae creature isn’t used to Samson’s body, and the movement is disjointed, like a marionette with tangled strings.
“We will give you this one for free, little bastard girl,” the fae says with Samson’s mouth. “You asked us for a name we are known by. You should have asked for a title instead.”
Acid rises in my throat.
Samson’s body straightens, and they take another step toward me, steadier now. Moyra backs away, but I hold my ground.
“We have been called many things, but we are best known by our title. It was not given to us, like your prince of a father. No, our title was earned.”
My whole body trembles, but I don’t step away even when Samson shuffles closer.
“The Romans called us ‘Mors Gladius,’” they say. “The Vikings named us ‘Høyt Blad.’ The French declared us ‘Buveur de Sang.’ But you know us as something different. And we know you know us, bastard girl.”
“Lann Àrd,” I whisper in Scots. “The High Blade.”
The ruler of the Red Caps.
Samson’s body lunges for me, fingers crooked like claws, and I react instantly, calling my magic to slam him against the wall of Moyra’s cottage. The plaster cracks from the force of my blow.
Samson snarls and writhes, trying to break free, but my magic doesn’t stop. I just hold him there against the wall as I stride forward.
“You can hold his body, but your power is nothing compared to ours,” the High Blade says in a low voice. “When we tear down your wall, girl, you will be the first to bleed.” Samson’s lip curls, exposing his teeth. “Or we might just kill him in front of you first. Would you like that?”
Rage makes my voice quake. “Get out of him.”
The High Blade tips Samson’s head back and howls. I thought it was meant to be intimidation at first, but then I see his shoulders shaking.
This is laughter.
