Page 30 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

As for who will sit beside me… It will not be Dante. Even under the best of circumstances, it could never be him, and in this present I have built for us, what I have done might well lead to his death.

“Give me back my power,” I say. “I will not attempt to break the deal we made.” Even if I cannot remember why I would think it a good idea. It was ten years ago, not one hundred. Surely, I am not that reckless?

“You will fulfil your destiny. Do as fate commands.”

“Yes.” She raises an eyebrow at my reply, and I sigh. “If you give me back my magic, I will do everything in my power to fulfil my fated destiny. I know the consequences should I fail.”

I dare to dart a glance at Dante. He is looking at me now, though his expression is closed. Over in the corner, Grant’s eyes are open.

“Very well,” the witch says. “Your hands.”

I hold them out. She turns them over, palms up, and her touch is gentle and warm. I am not certain her armchair was as close before, but space, at least, means little to a fae as powerful as she is.

Her magic leaps out and sinks into me, alighting every nerve deadened when I gave up my power. They spark and flame, and my body twists, uncertain as I am whether I want to lean into that feeling or jerk away.

Hold still. Her voice in my head is gently amused. She feeds my power back into me—all of it, for all that she told me she would use it as she wished—and the heady feeling of too much magic surges through me as it lights me up from the inside out.

I feel it all. The press of power from this realm. The magic the witch has imbued in every surface of her cottage and her territory beyond. The deep well of it that Grant carries, death and life swirling together in a way that feels so tremendously alien to a creature like me.

And Dante. His magic is a spark compared to all that I contain, but it calls to me anyway, a gossamer-thin thread connecting my power to his. He could never use it. No. But it is proof of our bond, proof that I saw before I left this realm and have, without my own magic, been unable to see since.

For all he may hate me in this moment, the faint tug of that bond relieves me. When my magic settles and I open my eyes again, I know that I will be able to see it.

Sure enough, it is a faint glimmer in my periphery when the room comes back into focus. Grant has pushed up onto his knees, mouth half open as he stares at me. Dante watches me too, and when I meet his eyes, he gives me the smallest smile.

Warmth suffuses my chest. I will take that. Whatever he offers me, no matter how small.

“The court will sense your return the moment you leave my lands,” the witch says.

“I know.” I do not care much. If anything, that is what we want—the faster we are swept away to the court, the faster we find Ophelia.

My magic pulses at the thought. I have missed this. I did not think I would. I have thought, this entire time, that I was missing nothing at all.

“Are we going now then?” Grant asks.

The witch shakes her head. “There is still some time until sunup. You should rest for the moment. This land is best not navigated in the dark.”

“Do you have refreshments?” I ask. Now that I have my power back, I can protect Dante better. I would not ask the witch for water before. She still might be able to conceal spells from me, but my magic is eager, champing at the bit, and besides, she has said she does not wish to harm either of them.

“Fruit here,” she says, waving towards a table at the back of the room. A platter of fruit appears, fresh and ripe and otherwise untouched. “There is water in the well. It will do you and your soulbond no harm to drink it.”

Dante nods, and when he gets to his feet, I follow, trailing him out of the cottage. He pauses when he reaches the well. Sunrise is closer than I thought; the sky is already lightening above us.

“I don’t—” He huffs. “I’ve never used a well before.”

“Here.” I reach past him and lower the bucket slowly into darkness. Dante does not move away. He stands close, watching me. Despite all the walking we have done today and the fear and anxiety he has experienced, I breathe in the warm, familiar scent of him, and it settles something deep within me. My magic curls around the faint thread of our bond. Not to feed it or to strain it, just as somewhere to rest and protect.

“I thought you might say no,” he says as I begin cranking the bucket back up again. My hand almost slips, but I catch it at the last moment.

“I-I could never.”

“You seemed like you didn’t want to. Don’t want to.” He frowns and looks away, into the trees. “Is it really your fate to stay here?”

“I would prefer that both of us did not die, so I do not see how it could be anything else,” I reply. I pull the bucket out and reach for one of the wooden cups that sits next to the well. A quick flicker of magic assures me that it is clean, and I offer it to Dante. “Drink.”

He takes the cup and dips it into the water. “You need to drink too, don’t you?”

My mouth feels dry as soon as he says it. Yes. I have not eaten or drunk anything either, and I might be fae, but we are not vampires. I pick up a cup for myself and fill it.