Page 100 of A Courage of the Chosen

One of my men approaches, deep red dripping down his daggers as he slowly prowls toward where I keep the guard down.

I lean to speak in his ear, the darkest parts of me running rampant, and firmly in control of every move, every word. “The truth was always right in front of you. You were all just too blind to see it.” Darkness pours out from the tips of my fingers, biting into his shoulders. “And now? There’s no stopping me.”

He fights to get free and I let him go. He scrambles away from my magic, crawling like a mutt toward the Dorche, who he thinks is a safer bet than staying near me.

With a snap of my fingers, the air is ripped apart by thirty Seelie shifting into Brollachan at my command, and the defiant cries of battle turn into pitiful wails of despair.

It’s over in a matter of minutes.

The ground is stained red, and littered with body parts that will be discovered come morning, when the shift change happens and word will immediately be sent to the palace.

We’re not through with my goal yet.

The tops of the ancient oaks sway in the night breeze, and the barrier between their trunks sparks with patches of iridescent light. It’s failing. Has been for a long time. But the Craobh Beatha comes to life in its presence, humming and vibrating to the same beat that the light shifts and swirls.

Nearing the trunk on the right, I extend a bloodied hand, connecting with the rough bark.

Magic surges up my arm, a tide of raw power woven from the purest source, and I grit my teeth against the sheer strength of what exists here. If I were a weaker man, it would tear me apart. The force is ancient, and has a sentience as though it’s fully aware of what’s happening.

It calls to the Craobh, and the pendant answers.

Starting at the roots, Celtic runes begin crawling over the rough surface, cascading up the tree like water defying gravity. A story as old as the realms paints itself over every inch of the trees, overlapping and whirling until they meet amongst the leaves at the very top.

I’m bound to it. Forced to act as a conduit between the Craobh and the barrier until it’s done. While it might be failing, opening and closing at random intervals, the Craobh is a key, no matter how faulty the lock, and will grant me passage at any point.

When I’m released, I stagger back a step, legs weak after channeling so much unfiltered magic.

The essence of the portal goes blank for a breath, and then sparks in a wide arch that hums in a frequency only Seelie are called to. Not a sound exactly, but more akin to a magnetic pull on whatever it is that ties us to this land, drawing us nearer.

The barrier holds steady, a thin layer that shimmers pink and lilac and purple and blue, rippling like the surface of timid waters. It doesn’t disintegrate when I push my hand through, and victory bellows in my gut.

I turn to the Dorche, lined neatly and waiting for my command, as though they haven’t just torn seventy soldiers into scraps for the vultures.

“Go,” I order.

One by one, they walk through the barrier into the human world, and anticipation sizzles through my bloodstream as I pass through the gate with them.

There’s a tiny village not far from the barrier, that sits isolated in the northern reaches of Scotland.

Within hours of traversing rain-soaked woodland, a cluster of lights appears in the gloom. It’s no more than twenty houses. Mostly humans, in their latest stages of life.

They will fall even quicker than the soldiers.

We sweep through as demons of the night, stalking from home to home, killing everyone who breathes, and piling their bodies at the edge of the forest.

Now, Elsie will see that if she’s going to play dirty, she’d better be prepared for the consequences.

Because when it comes to having her, there’s no length I won’t go to until she’s mine.

◆◆◆

“What did you do?” His voice is low. A sign that he’s truly angry, and likely to lash out at anything that gets within reaching distance.

“What you’ve been wanting to do for weeks,” I shrug as I take my seat in his chambers.

Father leans against the far wall by the fire, in his Seelie form, for once. He’s barely holding on, though. His veins are too close to the surface of his skin, and they slither in a slow, hypnotizing rhythm.

His eyes narrow on me, the capillaries stained with shadow, reaching for the dark hazel of his irises. “And this has nothing to do with what has happened of late?”