Page 49 of The Dead Queen

The guards have reached Tristan now, their bronze swords pulled from their sheathes. But they don’t do any good, because in an instant, we are all cloaked in a veil of darkness. The guards shout and I hear scuffling. Someone cries out in agonizing pain and I flinch. The blood loss makes me lightheaded.

Someone pulls me up from the ground and drags me toward a wall, away from the chaos. For a moment, I’m afraid it’s my father, back to finish the job while cloaked in shadow. But even though I can’t see him in the darkness, his hands are too careful with me, too gentle to be my father or even a guard. They have to belong to the Wolf.

“Red,” Tristan says. “Red, are you okay?”

With all the blood loss, I can’t tell if I’m losing my grip on reality or if he’s actually concerned about my wellbeing.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back, honestly. At least I can still speak. That has to be a good sign. But when I look down, I’m not so sure I should celebrate yet. My dress front is wet with blood, my hands sticky and trembling.

The guards yell for reinforcements as they bump into furniture, blind in the darkness.

“I can’t heal you,” Tristan says. “What should I do? Where should I take you?”

“Go.” I try to push him away. “You won’t get anywhere with me.”

“I can’t leave you here to die with these monsters.”

A laugh bubbles out of me at the absurdity of that. Us, the Llwyns, being called monsters by a Wolf?

“They’ll heal me as soon as you’re gone.” I shake my head. “But you won’t get far without help.” I slump into him, the blood loss truly weakening me now.

“Red!” His whisper is panicked now. How kind it would be to die next to someone who actually seems to care, even if we’re as good as strangers.

Swords clang in the darkness and a heavy piece of furniture crashes to the ground.

“There’s a cemetery,” I say. “Near the northeast side of the grounds. Find the mausoleum at the pond. I’ll meet you there. I’ll help you reach the borderlands.”

“No. I can carry you. Tell me where to take you⁠—”

“Go!” My voice is raw and the strain makes me cough. The pain in my neck is staggering, and my vision is beginning to blur at the edges. I’m struggling to keep my panic at bay.

Tristan hesitates, but eventually lays me on the ground. “I’ll wait for you.” And then his hands leave me. Moments later, a slight breeze breaks through the chaos from a window that someone threw open. I relax in relief, knowing Tristan got away.

From where I’m lying slumped on the ground, I watch the darkness in the room slowly dissipate. The Wolf is truly gone. Everything sounds fuzzy in my ears, like an echo of real life. I’m vaguely aware of the reinforcements arriving as they burst through the chamber doors, swords drawn. Then Hunter sprints toward me, his face fearful as he draws upon his own healing power to staunch the blood flowing onto the palace floors.

Just before I black out, it strikes me that my father and Commander Malen are nowhere to be seen. Across the room, an innocent-looking tapestry lies on the ground, exposing one of my father’s many secret passageways.

Chapter 16

I dream of moths.

Or maybe it’s less of a dream than a deathbed memory.

Once, my grandmother woke me in the middle of the night, a finger pressed to her lips to keep me quiet. Without hesitation, I followed her through the empty corridors, our bare feet making no sound on the cold stone. She led me out of the palace, across the gardens, and out into the forest beyond, all the while saying nothing. She didn’t need to. I would have followed her to the edge of the earth with nothing more than a wink.

The hem of my nightgown grew heavy with dew as we walked, and twigs scratched at my bare feet along the forest floor. Eventually, she paused. Dappled moonlight illuminated the forest floor where night flowers bloomed and moss sparkled with dew.

“Go,” she whispered. “There’s a clearing ahead.”

I stepped forward, determined to show her I wasn’t afraid. There, in the middle of the forest, was a small clearing speckled with wildflowers. But that wasn’t what made my breath catch in my chest.

It was the moths.

Thousands of them.

They covered every stone, flower, branch, and leaf. Every variety of moth that nature could imagine from garden-variety cabbage whites to elusive, pale green lunas. Their wings fluttered and waved, as silent as the moonlight, as if it was a gathering of graceful, midnight dancers.

“What is this?” I asked as I spun slowly in place, unable to take my eyes away from them. The spots on their wings blinked with each flutter, like the eyes of fae.