Page 54 of The Blood Queen

“What magic do I have?” I mutter. I don’t think seeing auras or calling on the wind is going to help me here.

“Magic like the witches have?” Samson asks. “Maybe Moyra can help?”

I bite my lip, thinking.

“Old magic,” the Damhan-Allaidh says. “From when you did not need portals to cross between the realms.”

I suck in a harsh breath.

Some portals are made by the fae, like the ring of mushrooms that we escaped to this realm through. But the strongest portals are the ancient ones, the standing stones made by the fae and humans working together, millennia ago.

Their magic was darker.

Built on sacrifice.

Before blood magic and rage were relegated to the Red Caps only, back when all magic was raw and feral, the standing stones were erected over blood-soaked battlefields, the graves of powerful warriors, or were the hearts of temples where sacrifices were made—blood or bone—to fuel the power. The Red Caps eventually took those methods and honed them into weapons like the shuttle.

Activated by blood.

I could take a knife and cut all the threads, but what would that do? Wipe out entire races of fae, kill off whole families of humans. This will require precision and careful measurement, something the High Blade required too when destroying the Faerie Queen. It’s why blood is on the shuttle.

The Faerie Queen’s blood.

We need to cut one thread and one thread only. And to find it, I will need the High Blade’s blood.

I turn and face Samson. “We have to go back to the High Blade.”

13 Samson

The moment the throne room door closes behind us in the empty hall, I scrape my fingers over my head, fancy braided style be damned. Bits of cobweb flutter off me, and it only enhances that crawling feeling prickling all over my skin.

“Damn bloody little—” I scratch harder, then at my arms, my chest, flinging around and shaking but only dislodging more bits of web. “Legs. So many sodding legs—”

We have to go back to the High Blade.

Alyth, lying on that table, the dagger in my hand, her blood welling under the knife.

Alyth, screaming, begging.

I stop my flailing, hands locked behind my neck, head tipped to the floor.

Alyth’s not said a word. Just let me do my very graceful, entirely masculine spider dance in this hall. She’s probably falling even more for me because of it.

We have to go back to the High Blade.

I knew where all this was leading. I just hoped we’d have an army between us and the High Blade. Even then, Alyth would’ve been on the front line.

“Why do we need the High Blade’s blood?” I ask, eyes still on the floor.

Alyth sighs softly. In resignation? Like she knows I’m gonna argue with her, try to convince her it’s a fool’s mission. “The old ways of magic involved blood. The Red Caps took a lot from them. And the shuttle—it had blood on it. The Faerie Queen’s blood. I think it pricked her finger, used that blood to find her thread on the loom, and severed it. So if we can get the High Blade’s blood—”

“We can put it on the shuttle and sever her thread,” I finish. I rip my hands down and look at her. “You’re certain it’ll work?”

She huffs a broken laugh. “No. But what else should we do?” Her voice rises, defensive anger flaring in her, and she repeats, “What else should we do, Samson? No army can defeat her. No other weapon can take her down. This is the only thing that has ever harmed a fae as powerful as she is, and you said it yourself. This could be the thing that—”

“I’m not trying to talk you out of it,” I say, a whisper. “I just—” My throat closes. I swallow, hard. “It’s an awful risk.”

Because Alyth’s gonna be the one to sneak into the High Blade’s camp, isn’t she? She’ll be the one risking her neck for the High Blade’s blood, whether we have the fae court at our backs or not.