“You will.” Damarus stepped back only far enough to allow Cillian to sidle away from the wall. “Out.”
Cillian had no choice but to obey, leaving the cell at the point ofDamarus’ knife. Once above in the mansion proper, eyes watering from the lights in the lamps and sconces they passed, Cillian was taken to a great chamber lit by chandeliers that illuminated the many paintings hanging on the walls. Chaises and chairs were scattered in the corners, leaving the center space open for mingling.
A group of Fae stood there, and Cillian found himself presented to them like some kind of prize.
“The prisoner, as you requested, my lords, my ladies,” Damarus said with a shallow bow.
Cillian warily eyed the Fae who were present, sizing them up. Ainmire was a mostly known threat, but the half dozen new Fae were a dangerous addition he didn’t care for. The way they stared at him had Cillian wishing for his rifle. He forced himself to look away from them all, gaze searching out Bran, finding the other man standing next to Ainmire in another ridiculous outfit that wasn’t even half as fancy as the ones the Fae wore. The gray color washed him out, or maybe that was the hint of fear Cillian could see in his eyes.
“Are you all right?” Cillian asked Bran, ignoring the Fae. Bran barely nodded, not convincing Cillian at all.
“You were correct, Lord Ainmire,” a Fae lady said in English, sounding surprised. “He does appear mortal. The similarity is uncanny.”
“A puzzle indeed, Lady Etain,” Ainmire said.
Cillian dragged his gaze away from Bran and to the lady who had spoken. Etain was an inch shorter than Cillian, dressed in a shimmery, sleeveless rose-pink gown. She wore gold rings on every finger and a pair of gold armbands as well, along with a delicate golden harp pendant hanging from her throat. Her long blonde hair was half pinned up to show off her pointed ears and the gold caps covering them inlaid with pink sapphires the same color as her eyes. They held no kindness, those eyes, but Cillian forced himself to meet her gaze anyway.
Etain came forward, circling him slowly. Cillian fought not to turn his body to follow her steps, the hair rising on the back of his neck regardless when she passed behind him. Every instinct in him told him she was as dangerous as Ainmire, and he didn’t like feeling small before either of them.
When she stopped in front of him, Cillian had to look down slightly to meet her eyes. She stared back, gaze searching, and whatever she saw in his face, in his eyes, amused her. “You do not remember me, do you?”
Cillian arched an eyebrow, trying to muster up the same disdainful tone. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
She smirked, long-nailed fingers dragging up his arm. He would have pulled away, except Damarus was at his back, with that damned knife of his, and Cillian had no choice but to allow the touch. Etain’s fingers reached his ear, tracing the shape of it, before cupping his jaw, studying his face. “Even in this mortal skin, you are the same in your eyes.”
Cillian stared at her in confusion. “I’m not whatever it is you people think I am. I didn’t grow up here. I grew up with Bran.”
“With a witch, yes. It is astounding you consider him a friend. Perhaps even a lover?”
“They care for each other,” Ainmire said. “The witch bargained his presence at my table for Cillian to eat.”
“Pets do not eat at our tables,” Etain tsked.
“I had my reasons.”
“Yes, I stand before it on behalf of our king.”
They were, Cillian realized, talking about him.
He didn’t know why.
Etain finally released him, stepping back. She never looked away, though, her attention focused on him like everyone else. “Was there anyone else with them in the wyrding?”
“No, my lady,” Damarus said. “My lord sent scouts to patrol the border with the wyrding, but it does not appear to be an incursion.”
Etain pursed her lips, still looking at Cillian. “Our king will not be pleased.”
“That we came alone?” Cillian asked.
“That you are here. Alive.”
Considering what had chased them through the forest in Pelham and what they’d hidden from in the wyrding, Cillian rather thought that was a minor miracle.
“What do you mean?” Bran asked.
He shouldn’t have spoken. Cillian realized that as Ainmire grippedBran by his hair and forced him to his knees with a show of strength that could have broken bone but didn’t. A kindness, maybe, but Cillian didn’t see it as such, not when Bran’s face was twisted with pain.
“Ah,” Etain said, interest in her voice, in her eyes, directed right at Cillian. “Perhaps itislove. And with a pet witch, of all atrocities.”
