Page 43 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

It helps, I suppose, that fae are quite difficult to kill.

I pull open the door and step into the darkness beyond. It is the work of a thought to have light flare from my palm, pressing against the walls. My magic. For a second, I can hardly believe I gave it up. When I glance back and see Dante’s impressed expression, I almost wish I never had.

“Come.”

We walk down the corridor in silence, and I push the next door that leads to my mother’s and father’s tombs. Grant lingers in the doorway. “I’ll leave you to this,” he says, and I do not argue. He vanishes in the next instant; whether to further investigate the tombs or to run around the castle, I do not know.

There is nothing of my parents left here. That is not how we die; we fade into the magic that makes up our world. But there are two coffins of stone that represent their likenesses, one on either side of the room. I stand in the centre, looking between them. My heart hurts, but in a vague, distant way.

“Do you want some time alone?” Dante asks.

“No. I would rather not be alone here.”

He appears startled by the statement, and when I hold out my hand, he comes closer. He takes it, fingers brushing against mine.

“If you would rather leave…” I murmur because perhaps he does not like being here, and I would not wish to cause him discomfort.

“No, it’s fine,” Dante says. He peers at the carefully sculpted faces. They were not created by hand in the way they would be in the human realm. A fae who can coax stone, who is as stubborn as rocks are, will have spent years urging these into their rightful shapes.

When I ascend the throne, they will do the same for me. We are difficult to kill, but eventually, we die. Everything dies. I hold on to Dante’s hand a little tighter.

“I always cared more for my father than my mother,” I say, and his eyes jump to me. “I loved them both. But he—He and Ronan were very alike. Charming. Gregarious. And my mother…”

“What was she like?”

“Calculating.” I sigh. “That is unfair. All high fae are calculating, and if my father had not been, he would have never sat on that throne beside her. But sometimes it felt as though he were not. It never felt that way with her.”

Dante hums. He moves a little closer and our shoulders brush.

“She and Iagan were alike. Innovators, if I want to be generous. Stubborn.”

“Always got their own way?” There is a faint laugh in Dante’s voice.

“That too,” I agree and gently squeeze his hand. “I think I am more like her than my father, too.”

“You’re not that stubborn.”

I am not certain that I agree with that, but I am not certain I disagree either. I shake my head. “Not that. I am… cold. I know I can be ruthless. I fear—”

I cut myself off, the words lodging in my throat. Dante clasps my hand tighter and looks up into my face. “You fear…?”

“I fear I will go too far. I was never supposed to sit on that throne.”

“We’ll find a way to get you out of it,” Dante murmurs. He believes that. I know he does. And I understand why, considering what the people around him have achieved.

But I cannot believe it. I cannot tell him I do not believe it because then he will think that I do not believe in him, and that is not the case at all.

I draw him even closer, and he lets me, resting his head against my shoulder. There is so much space in here, the room feeling large and empty even with two coffins inside of it.

“We should go back,” I murmur. “But thank you. For staying with me.”

A shadow flits across Dante’s face, there and gone in an instant. “No problem at all.”

Chapter Fourteen

Dante

We stay in the tomb for half an hour or more. The room is too big for the graves—because I suppose that’s what they are—that it contains, and the shadows in the corner look large enough to swallow me up.