“I assumed you simply wanted his eye for your own,” Moriath muses. “That you were grooming him into a more useful shape.”
“I didn’t inherit your powers,” Yarrow says, cold with nausea. “Even if I did, I would never use them.”
“You didn’t?” Moriath tosses the second goblet aside, contemplating Yarrow. “No, you can’t lie, and you would have discovered them by now. What a pity.” He snaps his fingers, and the feast and table vanish. “That means I have no use for you.”
Moriath flashes into the copper-eyed fae form. Killing intent blurs the edges of the longsword in his hand.
But instead of lunging forward, Moriath jerks on his throne. Something dark flashes across his throat.
Blood sprays from the jagged gash.
Chapter 25
Folly
Wet heat splashes Folly’s right hand to the elbow. Droplets break across his face and shoulder. His iron dagger catches against flesh, then slices free, and he staggers back from the tree stump.
With a gurgling shriek, Moriath lurches forward. Clutching hands disrupt the spraying blood, then fall away. Shadows twist around him, like he’s trying to change shapes, but his fae form never wavers. The iron wound is fatal.
Moriath drops to his knees, then to his face. Then he falls still.
A breath later, the body melts into shadow.
Folly’s right hand unlocks from the dagger. He rubs his left hand on his trousers until he wipes off enough of the invisibility dust.
When Folly flickers into visibility, Yarrow swings around. The relief on his face is so incandescent, Folly’s eyes water.
It worked. Folly’s stupid plan worked, and he didn’t even need to risk using the coin. He killed Moriath.
He’s never killed anyone before, evil shapestealing monster or no.
Folly sways. The glade wavers around him, and after his next blink, Yarrow is right there. Strong hands holding Folly up, soothing words dragging him out of his daze.
“Are you all right?” Yarrow touches Folly’s face, heedless of the blood. “Are you hurt? You were on the ground, how did you…”
“After he lifted the curse, I used the invisibility dust.” Folly shrugs. He’d just followed the plan, except with Yarrow as bait instead. “I left my robe as a decoy, then snuck around and bound Moriath with the other mushrooms. I can’t believe it worked, but you two were distracted.”
Yarrow stares. “You weren’t unconscious?”
“Pretending to be unconscious is very easy,” Folly informs him. “You just don’t do anything.”
“You beautiful, perfect man,” Yarrow breathes. He takes Folly’s hands, not flinching from the blood.
Folly shudders. “Was that really your father?”
“How much did you hear?” Yarrow traces the lines of Folly’s palms. His left thumb slips in the blood, but he holds each hand just as tenderly. There’s sadness in his voice when he answers, “I think he was telling the truth, yes.”
Fuck.
Folly would do it again, of course. He had no choice. But killing a lover’s father is really something one should discuss in advance, and if he’d made a mistake, he couldn’t exactly fix it. And even if it was the right thing to do, it could still feel bad.
“I’m sorry,” Folly says. He can’t put the rest into words.
Yarrow shrugs. “I need a good meal and a pint of mead before I figure my head out. But I’m glad you killed him. He killed a lot of people. He was going to kill you.”
“That’s not why I killed him,” Folly says.
“I know.” Yarrow’s eyes turn soft and fond. “You saved my life. I’m in your?—”
