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And I guess he hadn’t. Because the tiny charm Mircea had managed to plant on him was doing its thing, as indicated in the cellphone-looking device he held. But it was more than just a tracking spell. It was a locus—one that would allow us to open a portal into lands where that was supposed to be impossible.
And bring through an army the fey would never expect.
“This could end it,” Mircea murmured, his eyes going to the strange creature Augustine had been protecting. His small, lumpy head was almost invisible, being surrounded protectively by a group of coven leaders—the ones not aligned with Jonathan. That included the impressive-looking woman I’d met at the train station and the girl with the antlers in her hair.
They’d been reluctant participants in the attack at the consul’s, although not out of bigotry or hate. But because they were afraid that I’d guessed their great secret. The little lumpy guy wasn’t, as Augustine had thought, an overworked sweatshop employee. He was one of the original fey, the oldest of all the races, the ones the gods had never had a chance to tinker with because they’d never known they existed.
His kind had fled to earth at the first sign of trouble, afraid that the arrival of the gods meant the end of fey culture, which they were determined to preserve. They’d partnered with the covens ever since, teaching them their magic, crafting their armor and weapons, and sharing with them their one very special gift: the ability to bend ley lines.
Not to a ridiculous extent, and not by the application of great amounts of magic. But by simply coaxing them from their beds, slowly tugging them a little here or a little there. Until they went somewhere they had never been before, allowing the covens to create things like an enclave in the desert, far from where any ley line was supposed to be.
And for us to reach the locus that Jonathan was unwittingly providing, straight into the heart of Aeslinn’s kingdom.
“It could,” I agreed, as Caedmon swept past the consul and everybody else, zeroing in on the tiny creature.
At which point we were gifted with the sight of the towering king of the fey, glowing bright against the dim light of the room, dressed in velvets and jewels and a golden circlet on his brow, stumble and almost fall in shock, because he’d been told but hadn’t believed it.
He went down on one knee in front of the wizened little thing in the Augustine T-shirt. And, for a moment, I thought he was going to cry. I guess the tiny old guy did, too. Because when Caedmon bowed the glowing blond head, the wizened old fey patted him awkwardly on one shoulder.
“Cassie,” Mircea began, and this time, his voice was different. The smooth operator of a second ago was gone, along with the honeyed tones of the man I knew. There was a new urgency in the voice, an impatience that I was starting to think of as symbolic of the new man—or maybe the old reborn. Mircea the Bold was returning.
“I’ll take you back,” I told him. “I?
?ll take you to Elena.”
There was silence for a long moment. I was still watching the fey, all of whom were now bowing, half of them looking like they’d seen a ghost—or a myth. But when it dragged on too long, I glanced at Mircea.
And if I’d had any doubts, there it was, written all over his face.
Yeah, he still loved her, whether he knew it or not.
“I’m not promising anything,” I added, because I knew him. “I won’t change time for you. But we’ll take a look and see what’s feasible.”
I started to leave, but he caught my arm, almost making me spill my tray of drinks. “Why?”
Because I love you and don’t want to have to kill you, I didn’t say, although it was true. But so was something else. “I know what it is to lose someone—and to get him back. If I can give you that, I will.”
This time, he let me go.
Fires burning on all sides, shards of time exploding in the sky, raining down strange shadows that dissipated before they hit the ground, war mages everywhere. Some were staring at the heavens in confusion. Some were trying to pull me away to join the mind-wiped masses now sequestered in safe zones. And some were watching in awe as Gertie and what looked like a hundred acolytes appeared and disappeared, their pale dresses bright against the night as they stepped confidently in and out of the renewed timeline, quickly putting the street back together.
But the one person I most wanted to see was nowhere in sight.
I finally found him inside the ruined pharmacy, cursing at a doctor, while nine war mages attempted to hold him onto a stretcher he clearly didn’t need. Something made obvious when half of them abruptly went flying. And then he saw me.
And suddenly Pritkin quieted down, as if he hadn’t just been throwing people around the room and roaring. “Like a damned lion!” the doc muttered, finally managing to get a sling on what looked like a badly broken arm.
“My lion,” I whispered, hugging him.
And I shifted.
