Page 187 of A Thief Among Fae

She couldn’t be more right. Maeve brought me pottage when I was healing. She taught me how to hold a dart. We bonded in the guild’s kitchen together while she told me about her evil grandmother.

Could that fomorian woman be Maeve’s grandmother? When Maeve said her mother was half-orc, I assumed it meant she was half-human. This doesn’t make sense. How could Maeve choose someone she said she despised over us—her new family?

I don’t have time to think about this anymore. We’ll deal with Maeve’s betrayal later.

“Here’s the plan,” I announce. “Desmond raises every corpse to fight with us. We protect the guests, eliminate the fomorians, and keep them from finding Ronan. He’s the last Meirden left.”

He may be the last human siphon. And he’s with Evie—two good reasons to defeat these fomorians without mercy.

“Finnian, lead the guests outside once we’ve taken out the fomorians guarding the doors. Auri and Min, secure the doors. Desmond and I will go after their leader. Brandur, Ronan is with a young woman in a hidden safe room. You should be able to monitor them with your Gift.”

Brandur flashes his canines as he nods. Gods, I hope Maeve is the only traitor. I want to trust everyone. I want to believe they’re my friends.

“Everyone ready?” I ask.

Auri looks to Desmond, lips pursed in hesitation, like she’s waiting for any revisions to my plan. But it’s brief, and he nods, encouraging her to listen to me.

“Ready,” Auri says.

Desmond wields his Gift, animating the fallen Avedoran guards and fomorians. Both sides of the fray scream, some scrambling back so far that they trip.

“The invaders have a necromancer!” a woman yells, raising her ward magic before her.

Injured legs drag. Blood trails from missing appendages. The revenants’ eyes are glassy, and their jaws hang open as they corner the fomorians. I untether weapons, yanking them from the fomorians’ hands to drop them right into the waiting grasps of the undead guards.

Min shifts, her dress tearing as her shoulders widen. Shreds of fabric float around her as she claws the rest of the fabric away. Heads turn when she roars, spittle flying from her jaws.

She pounces on the nearest fomorian, bats his shield away, and tosses him across the ballroom. He crashes into the buffet table, where Brandur is stuffing little cakes into his pockets. His lips are already smeared with frosting.

Desmond and I pivot, facing the stairs that lead up to the balcony. We run. A fomorian lunges out of the crowd to stop us. I untether his sword from his hands and slash his head off with it.

Another tries to stop us. Desmond dodges her axe and latches onto her iron gauntlets. His jaw clenches as the iron burns him, but he pulls, trying to slide it off her.

I help him with a surge of magic. Both the axe and the gauntlet fly. Desmond grips her bare skin, and it shrivels as the necrotic magic travels up her arm. The fomorian shouts, too horrified to flinch as I bring the axe down atop her head.

Two down.

We fight our way to the stairs, every fallen fomorian rising to defend us. Desmond’s hands shake, and sweat shines on his brow, but his magic is strong. It doesn’t waver, even as Gashil meets us at the bottom step.

Then the fomorian leader in the filigree armor walks down behind him, drawing an iron sword from its sheath upon seeing Desmond.

“Can you bring me a sword?” Desmond says quietly.

“On it.” My magic finds a sword held by a reanimated guard without needing to look. “Will they resist?”

“No. They’re under my command.”

I levitate the sword to Desmond, then grab a dagger for myself. We may both be armed now, but we lack shields and armor. As if that weren’t bad enough, midnight hasn’t struck. I’m still wearing my gown and heels.

“You’re too late.” Gashil’s deep, mocking voice forces itself into my mind. “Avedor has fallen. The Hollowlands will be next, Prince of Death. Or should I say, Prince of Bastards?”

Desmond grits his teeth, but his stance is eerily calm. “Avedor hasn’t fallen until I’m no longer standing. It’s not too late for you to retreat.”

“You would die to protect your own enemy? Your subjugators?” the female leader asks. She smiles as if it amuses her. “I would say it is not too late for you to retreat, but we both know your people will fall just as easily as Avedor’s.”

Lavender eyes. I dare to glance at Maeve where she stands on the balcony, her expression a confusing blend of rage and turmoil.

“You’re her grandmother,” I interrupt, looking back at the fomorian leader. “I thought Maeve despised you.”