I shrug. Impossible at this point to tell. The Scottish and the Seeliecourts are so closely reflected that the only thing to do now is protect them both. “That is what the wall is for,” I say softly. “It’s not just keeping the Red Caps from having access to the Seelie Court. Their violence is reflected in our world.”
“Their war is our war.”
Our war.Ours. He barely knows me, but he sees the stakes. He sees what this means.
And he is willing to stand beside me to fight back the tide of blood.
I let out a shaking breath. No. He just doesn’t understand the threat. If he did, he would not be so casual about it all.
He would leave me and go back to his safe England.
I’m watching him, so I see as his eyes shift focus away from me, widening. “Alyth,” he breathes, his hand reaching unconsciously for mine. He points into the bog where a light flickers, closer than any of the others.
He releases my hand and stands. His fingers curl around the hilt of the dagger in his belt.
I scramble up and push him away from the weapon. “It’s fine.”
Took him long enough to notice. Stepping forward, I beckon for him to follow me. He hesitates, but I hear his feet crunch over ice as he creeps forward.
“You have to be careful,” I warn.
“That…thing, whatever it is, it’ll bite me or something?”
I laugh. “No, you have to be careful of the bog. What looks like flat ground might not be solid.” One wrong step, and he could fall into the peat over his head.
At the edge of a particularly dangerous bit of ground—exactly where the flickering glow led us—I hold out my hand in front of me. In a few moments, light glows in my palm. I curve my fingers around it, gently pulling it closer.
“A will-o’-the-wisp,” I say.
Samson peers down closer. The tiny fae—fire made incarnate—pulses and glows, rising between us. The will-o’-the-wisp is so bright that it hurts my eyes to stare at it, but I do anyway.
Within the flames, there’s a little creature. Human…ish. Like Kitty. Two arms, two legs, a slender torso topped by a round head, its body hovering inside the fire as if it were floating. It spins about, tiny sparks flickering like stardust.
“It’s showing off for you,” I grumble.
Samson, however, is charmed. “Hello,” he says.
“Will-o’-the-wisps don’t speak like that,” I say, but this one must at least know it’s being admired; it does a little twirl in the fire for Samson, who laughs in delight.
Suddenly, the glow disappears.
“What happened?” Samson gasps. “Did I hurt it?”
“No,” I say, amused. As if he could hurt a will-o’-the-wisp. He could sooner hurt the sun.
I point up the path, where a faint light dances. “Will-o’-the-wisps lead us where we need to go.”
In a burst of energy, Samson races forward, barely missing a dangerous spot of marshland.
“Be careful!” I shout.
“You said they’ll lead us. Maybe this one’ll take us to the witch!”
I shake my head, heading after them both—but taking better care with my feet.
“She’s fast,” Samson gasps.
“The really wild fae don’t bother with gender.” We dodge around a large, mostly frozen puddle. Gender is a human thing, and faulty labels at that.
