Page 22 of Heart of the Raven Prince

My vengeful thoughts continue down that path, imagining the many different deaths I wish would befall the prince. I spend a particularly long time imagining that I’m the one to shoot an arrow directly into his heart. But my thoughts are interrupted by the growing noise around me. It’s hard to get a good look at where we are, slung over Lochlan’s shoulder as I am. Gregor is at his heels, his massive frame taking up the majority of my field of vision. But I can tell one thing for sure:

This is a neglected part of the city.

The roads are not made up of the patterned and pristine cobblestone from the city streets I ran through earlier. Rather, they are dirt and mud, with a few weathered and broken patches of stone. Gregor seems to take great pleasure in stepping in the puddles, flecking me with muck and grime. A massive gob of mud slaps my face and seeps into the cloth tied around my mouth, the taste of filth coating my tongue.

“If you get even a speck on my shirt, I’ll have you whipped next,” Lochlan calls over his shoulder. Gregor misses a beat, his foot poised over another puddle. The sludge drips off my face, but the only reaction I give him is a feral grin around the gag.

I’m not giving this motherfucker the satisfaction of disgrace.

Scowling, Gregor sets his foot down and shoves his hands in his pockets, his red gaze promising death. Blinking against the mud dripping into my eyes, I turn my focus back to the city.

I can’t get a good look at the houses, but even the few glances I’m able to steal show they are nothing like the elegant stone buildings from before. This part of the city is nothing but wooden homes, broken windows, and doors hanging off hinges. That’s not the thing that catches my eye though.

I am focused solely on the humans.

The streets are teeming with them. Everyone has their hair pulled tightly back, exposing rounded ears and colorful eyes—a stark reprieve from the otherworldly red and black gaze of the fae. They give Lochlan a wide berth, ducking their heads and rushing off as to not draw his attention. I don’t blame them.

Lochlan comes to a stop, pulling me off his shoulders and setting me firmly on my feet. With a swell of his magic the bindings around my arms and legs disappear, but the gag remains. When I move to instantly untie it, he lashes out and grips my wrists, stilling me. I don’t forget the look in his eyes when he suggested I be whipped twenty times, and it takes everything in me to stifle the urge to punch him across the face.

I should not have made it out of the queen’s presence unscathed, and I’m certainly not going to press my luck any further by attacking one of her sons. I hadn’t been aware that the Raven Queen had more than one son, just another thing to add to the ever-growing list of things I am ignorant of. The thought that I am so ill prepared around my enemy sits like a boulder in my stomach.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, love,” he croons, releases my wrists and works at the knot of my gag. After pulling it free, he grips my chin and holds me firm, smearing the gag across my face in a piss-poor attempt to wipe the mud off. “We all have a role in this world. It would serve you well to remember your place is, and always has been, beneath my boot.” He pulls the soiled gag aloft. It’s covered in mud and wet with my spit, but he pockets it regardless. The simple action sends a shiver of disgust clawing down my spine.

“Where did this one come from? I thought we had already tallied the lot of newcomers,” an old woman barks behind me.

“I had to play with her first,” Lochlan says, looking down at me and winking. “Until next time, lovely toy.” He leans down, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear as he whispers, “And yes, there will be a next time.”

With those damning words, he spins me around and gives me a massive shove forward, sending me nearly stumbling to the ground. I twist, knowing to never leave an enemy at my back, just to watch and him and Gregor step into another inky split in the world, which stitches itself back together like it never existed.

“Come on then,” the fae woman says, “I don’t have all day.”

I turn, taking her in for the first time. Before me stands a black-eyed fae, one of the few I note in this derelict area of the city. She’s tall, with broad shoulders, and a no-nonsense look on her face, her hands planted directly on her hips. She’s not wearing the tightly binding and layered gowns of the other fae women I’ve seen. She’s dressed in a simple pair of brown trousers, a puffy white shirt tucked into her waist and dusty brown boots. They remind me of the kind I would wear when I was helping tend to the horses in our stables back home.

A sob lodges in my throat, but I force it down.

Not here. Not now.

She nods to the building behind her, marching hurriedly toward it. It’s one of the few buildings made of stone, with mostly unbroken glass windows. I don’t miss the red-eyed fae on either side of the front door, sneering at any human that passes by. It seems to be the hub of activity, with an endless string of humans rushing in and out holding bundles of tools and materials tucked under their arms before they hurry off again.

I'm reminded of the ants crawling in and out of the desecated deer carcass.

“Keep up,” the woman calls over her shoulder. Deciding that turning and fleeing will likely result in me being caught, I move to catch up to the woman.

The inside is all dark wood, with a few tables and chairs scattered around the wide space. There are several doorways that lead to branching hallways that humans dart in and out of. The walls are lined with shelves, barrels, and crates filled with any number of random tools and instruments. Everything ranges from farm tools, to bolts of materials, books, and vials of varying sizes filled with colorful liquids. It’s like some strange catch-all general store. There is a desk situated at the back. The fae rounds the desk, flipping open a large ledger and beginning to turn through the pages.

“Name?” she snaps, not looking up. I’m studying the pile of jewelry on the table. It seems oddly out of place in this dingy part of town. A mound of sparkling silver earrings, fairly simple in their design. Long chains that end in various charms. She snaps her fingers in my face, getting my attention. “Name, girl.”

Fuck, what was the name I gave Caden?

I try to think back, to remember what fake pseudonym I had blurted under duress, but I’m coming up blank. I feel like I have lived five lives in the time since being questioned by him, my mind too concerned about surviving to hold onto every minute detail. Unbidden, a memory rises to my mind of the day my father told my mother he was teaching me to wield a bow. She had called me Aoife, her little warrior princess.

“Aoife," I say the name quietly, wondering if I'm worthy of the title.

“Took you long enough to remember,” she mutters, scribbling something in the ledger when she asks, “Trade?”

“What?”

She lets out a loud sigh of frustration, tossing her pen on the ledger as she stands up straight and snaps, “Trade, girl. Your trade. What can you do? What use are you?”