Page 7 of The Blood Queen

I bite back the fear and grief clawing at my throat, desperate to escape. Where is Samson? I hate that they separated us, but I knew they would.

We have to pretend, I remind myself. We have to make them think that he hates me, that he’s fully embraced his bloodline as a Red Cap.

It’s the only way both of us survive this.

But—

I miss him.

Exhausted both mentally and physically, I pass out on the damp floor, my arms hugging my knees to my chest, my body shivering.

I don’t know how much time goes by before I hear a snuffling sound, almost like someone crying. Others, Elizabeth had said. There might be other Leth or even fae in this prison with me. I rush to the iron bars, trying to peer through the shadows.

Iron.

That might not be by chance. The metal hurts some of the fae.

“Hello?” I whisper in the dark.

The sniveling stops.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

“Quiet, scum!” one of the guards shouts, but no one gets up from the table on the far wall where they’re gathered.

I wait until the guards start drinking again. “I’m a Leth,” I whisper. I don’t bother with names. While I could give my own, any full fae would never let their name be known. A name can be a weapon or a tool or a weakness.

I hear soft footsteps, and my mind races. Not hooves, I think, but humanlike. That narrows down the possibilities of who I share a prison with.

“I want to go home,” a voice whispers. It sounds male, the words crackling with age.

“Are you a brownie?” I ask.

“No.” More snuffling. “The High Blade killed them all already.”

My stomach twists. Of course, this castle had been protected by brownies who took residence, brownies who would have fought back against an invasion by a Red Cap. My thoughts go to Kitty, my brownie friend at Stirling Castle, and how fierce she is, but also how small.

I think I see a faint glow coming from one of the cells, one that’s farther away from the voice I hear. Perhaps some will-o’-the-wisps, perhaps some sprites. They won’t talk, but the High Blade might kill them for a burst of magical power she could siphon off for her own.

The fae I’d been talking to sniffs again. “The hens won’t lay without me,” he whispers. “And Bonnie Blair’s milk will be sour.”

“Are you a bodachan sabhaill?” I ask. I saw a few of these fae when I lived in any of Mary’s castles; they’re like brownies who protect barns for farmers. Gentle creatures who calm the animals and protect the grain. They’ll thresh wheat for good farmers who respect them, curse the crops of anyone cruel.

He doesn’t answer, and I take that as confirmation.

“I’ll get you back to your home,” I promise.

“I said be quiet back there!” One of the guards pushes away from the table and storms over to us.

The bodachan sabhaill rushes to the wall. I can’t see him, but I hear his scurrying, frantic footsteps.

I don’t move away.

The Red Cap marches straight to my cell. I stand just out of reach on the other side of the bars, my chin tilted defiantly.

“Don’t look at me like that, half blood,” the guard, who wears a Red Cap amulet, snarls.

I am used to disrespect like this. I am used to being considered nothing.