Apparently, my magic does wonders for his appearance.
But the dapper dark-fae king, I see now, is not alone.
Behind him is none other than Archmage Lennon Forsythe, looking refreshed and relaxed as ever.
Goddess, is he stealing my mojo too?
“You remember Lennon,” Verrick says, as if we’re all about to sit down to tea.
“So the bromance is alive once more?” I roll my eyes. “Good. You two deserve each other.”
“Sometimes a ruler must make an unholy alliance in order to achieve a greater end.” Verrick strokes the hair back from my forehead, his touch making my skin crawl. “When you’re queen, you’ll learn the benefits of—”
“I willdiebefore I become queen of this wretched land!” I snap.
A flick of his wrist, and the blade falls. I barely have time to gasp when it suddenly stops, mere inches from my throat.
“That can be arranged,” Verrick says. “Though that’s more of a backup plan.”
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. He doesn’t really want me dead—he wouldn’t bother with this whole charade otherwise.
It’s a slim hope, but I’m clinging to it.
“What’s the main plan, then?” I ask, trying to sound contrite. “Hopefully it’s one where I get to keep my head.”
“It’s better if I show you.” He strokes my hair again, fingertips trailing across my forehead. This time, magic tingles in the wake of his touch, warming me. “If you promise to behave yourself, little moon, I’ll return some of the magic I borrowed.”
Borrowed. Right.
I bite back a snort.
“I’ll behave,” I say instead, and with my next breath, my body comes alive as the magic rushes back to me, tingling through my arms and legs, my chest. My heart beats faster, and I can move my fingers and toes. Deep inside, those cold embers spark back to life.
“Now close your eyes and feel what I need from you.”
He presses cold fingertips to my temples, and I do as he asks, that blade still alarmingly close to my flesh.
At first there’s nothing, but then… a pulse of magic. A connection—that strange bond that ties me to him. I feel the fae rune flare to life on the back of my neck.
His so-called claim.
And then, through the twisted bond that connects us, I feel his desires. His commands.
He wants me to kill my gargoyles. To turn my magic on their stone forms and shatter them where they stand.
The very thought of it has my heart stuttering, my lungs threatening to give out.
“Don’t resist,” he says calmly. “This is the best way. The only way.”
I want to scream, I want to fight, I want to tell him I’ll take the blade over this cruel punishment.
But then my magic surges once more, and in my mind, I suddenly hear Tatiana’s words from the other night.
Become its vessel… Know that the ultimate source of the magic in your blood comes from life itself—from creation, from destruction, from the air you breathe and the ground you walk upon. It comes from the trees and the sky, from the rivers, from fire. From love. Allow all of that to come to you, to flow through you, and eventually you’ll learn to channel it back out through your intentions…
Taking a deep breath, I force my heartbeat to steady. Force myself to remain absolutely calm. To become that vessel, just like she said.
I reach out with all my senses, feeling the bite of the cold air on my cheeks, smelling the magic that still lingers, tasting the tea I had earlier. I listen for the whisper of the wind through the barren trees beyond. I reach for a connection to the witches, relief flooding me when I sense a faint spark of life.
