Page 26 of The Filigree Key

It was true, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I wasn’t sure if the person I was turning into—the one who envisioned ripping her enemy’s hair out of his head—was the real me, or just one of necessity. Like a coat I could shed when it was no longer needed. I hoped so.

“I noticed something was a little different about you since the portal. I like it.” His tongue swept across the hollow of my collarbone, and I hoped he got a mouthful of rancid dried bear saliva.

Ossian’s hands roved down my ribs to my hips, and just when he drew me tight against him, a little bell rang from the side door.

Thank the Green Mother for that badger!

The Stag Man growled at the interruption but dutifully released me. His image was almost as important to him as returning to Elfame; he preferred to present a fae male in complete control of himself when he faced his subjects. He was not a carnal beast, nor slave to his passions, at least when he was in public.

Shane moved to one corner of the fireplace and resumed his statuesque presence with his hands clasped behind his back as we seated ourselves. A moment later, Mrs. Bilberry and her parade of woodchucks entered the great hall with our supper. It was only when Ossian was preoccupied with filling his plate did I risk a glance at the bear. From the way his hazel eyes dropped quickly to the floor, I knew he’d watched me allow the fae male to kiss and touch me in a way that used to be his right alone. My stomach twisted, and I dug my fingers into the foraging bag on my lap to seek comfort from my cat.

Who I had forgotten was away on his own mission. My shoulders slumped.

“Does anything strike milady’s fancy?” Mrs. Bilberry asked nervously, and I realized half of the woodchuck parade had passed without me indicating what I’d like for dinner.

“The lamb and the apple turnover,” I blurted.

A succulent lamb burger nested on a mound of mashed potatoes, the whole smothered in a golden onion gravy. Peas and buttered carrots crowded close to the mashed potatoes like chicks to a mother hen. The apple turnover with its sugared crust got its own plate next to the glass of chilled Riesling.

Nothing that I could easily slip into my foraging bag to feed my hungry wee cat when he returned, but I could always raid the kitchen tonight when I went to feed my sourdough starter.

The meat fell apart easily under my fork, but I never got to taste Mrs. Bilberry’s latest masterpiece.

The double doors of the great hall burst open, and Alec barged into the room. Despite the cold, sweat beaded along his forehead. He looked haggard, his black clothes stained and in disarray. The knot that kept the sleeve of his missing forearm from flapping about had come undone, and the Brother looked like he was flailing about as he hurried to his king’s side. More than once, he glanced over his shoulder as if he was being followed.

The blue flames jumped in the fireplace—the only outward evidence of a slip in Ossian’s control. “Yes?” the Stag Man asked icily.

Dimly, we all heard a metallic clang.

My fork clattered against the plate. “Was that the portcullis?”

“We have a problem, my lord,” Alec replied.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ossian did not move from his seat when a boom sounded against the portcullis, didn’t even flinch, but he did stop eating. “Meadow—”

“Is it sluagh?” I asked Alec. “Mallaithe?”

“It’s the rabble,” the Brother spat.

Well that hadn’t taken Flora and Daphne very long at all.

“Meadow, go to your room,” the fae king ordered.

“I will not.” Instead, I covered Ossian’s hand with my own and forced our fingers to interlace. His brow furrowed at the gesture. Ignoring him, I turned to Alec. “Please continue your report about our subjects. They’re not rabble, Alec.”

The tension in the Stag Man’s hand eased. “Go on, Alec. Meadow is practicing at being my consort, so we’ll indulge her.”

My pride prickled at his patronizing tone, but Misty Fields only lifted her eyebrows at the Brother expectantly.

“Reports of unrest have only increased, my lord,” Alec said slowly, as if censoring his words. “We suspect there may have been side effects from anchoring the portal last night. An, um, interruption in your, um, magic?”

He means the illusions keeping the populace controlled. The Caer powder! Though, it could’ve been a result from both; I wasn’t a fae magic expert, after all, and Callan’s lock on that portal had definitely given his brother one heck of a wallop.

From the way Ossian’s fingers savagely pinched mine—even for only the brief second it lasted—I knew the Stag Man was livid. His carefully laid plans and his confidence in his own abilities were beginning to unravel.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alec,” I snorted. “There’s nothing wrong with the king’s magic. Our people only want reassurance. And why wouldn’t they? There was a magic disturbance last night. Not to mention you and your Brotherhood have been trying to apprehend the villain Wystan for weeks now to no avail. And he only a hobgoblin.”