Page 185 of A Thief Among Fae

Chapter 55

“Assassins!” someone screams.

“Mother!” Ronan shouts. He starts to run, but I untether his clothes and yank him back.

I grip his shoulders. “Do you have a safe room? A place to hide that’s not on any floor plans?”

The crowd surges toward the main doors, but armored fomorians form a line, blocking the exit.

Ronan hesitates, paling as he looks back up at the balcony. He nods, then takes off his crown and skids it into the crowd. Good; he’s smarter than he looks. Maybe the fomorians won’t recognize him at first glance, and it’ll buy them some time.

“Take Evangeline and go,” I order.

A shriek whips Ronan’s head toward the stairs ascending to the balcony. Princess Cara’s body tumbles down them, her tiara rolling ahead of her. It’s covered in blood. At the top step, a fomorian stands with her battle axe dripping red.

The color drains from Ronan’s face. He gapes, paralyzed with shock.

I shake him. “Didn’t you hear me? Go!”

He jolts out of the stupor, grabs Evie’s hand, and says something to her. My sister glances at me once, and even with the mask, I can tell she’s worried. Then they run into the panicking crowd.

The screams are deafening. I have to find the others. Finnian. Min. Brandur. Maeve. Auri. Desmond. Once we’re together, we’ll think of something.

Someone spins me around. I reel my fist back and prepare to unleash my Gift, but it’s Desmond. His gaze searches me for signs of injury.

“I’m alright,” I assure him. Then I swallow the knot in my throat. “My sister is here.”

He pauses in shock, then looks at the ornate clock high on the ballroom wall. He swears. “We still won’t have weapons for another twenty minutes, but we’ll also lose our disguises.”

“Did you see Gashil?”

Before he can answer, a fomorian charges toward us. Desmond shields me with his body, but the fomorian pivots, attacking a guard who bursts out of the crowd beside us.

Gashil’s deep, disturbing laugh invades my mind. It’s easy to see why he’s overjoyed when the fomorians are fighting off the last of Queen Orla’s guards. I wait for Gashil to oversee the battle from the balcony, but another fomorian steps forward and stops at the height of the stairs.

She wears no helmet, revealing a face hardened by age and battle. Her silver hair is drawn back in a severe bun, and crow’s feet line her lavender eyes as they cut across the panicked crowd.

The last guard on the balcony falls, and the fomorians thrust Queen Orla onto her knees.

Smiling, the female fomorian draws her sword and plunges it through the queen’s heart.

My ears ring as the crowd around us screams. I can barely find air or stand upright as my legs shake. I’ve survived starvation, draugr, and an unnamed beast deep in a tomb. But the fear I felt back then dims in comparison to the utter dread that weighs my limbs now.

The entire royal line is dead—all except for Ronan.

“Why?” I whisper, spinning to search the room for whatever I’m missing. Why are the fomorians here when they’re warring with the fae? Why now? I don’t understand it.

Then I remember what King Olin warned when we awoke him in his tomb.

“They will come for me soon, now that the wards are broken. Then they will come for the others like me, the cursed revenants scattered throughout the continent. If they release this power with no siphons left to contain it, you will be doomed. Be warned.”

“The fomorians want to kill all the other siphons,” I tell Desmond.

He nods, his expression grave.

“Your Queen is dead!” the female fomorian roars. Her iron armor is engraved with filigree, a stark contrast to the plain armor of the soldiers around her. They bow in reverence, but keep their blades raised. Even Gashil inclines his head.

“Do you recognize her? Why does she look familiar to me?” I ask.