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Oh, hell no.
The Fae Queen’s soldier nearly cut him off at his knees. Hitting him with the edge of his sword, he tried to force Nine to kneel. It wasn’t enough of a strike to cut entirely through the backs of his legs, but enough to make him stumble while leaving the evidence of the wound dripping onto the floor.
Rage. Pure incandescent rage. It slams into me and, as I whirl on Melisandre, I’m not sure what exactly I’m going to do.
Because that’s the thing. When I get like this, even I don’t know what I'm capable of.
I used to have a terrible problem controlling my anger. My temper. When I lose my grip on it, nothing is impossible. It’s why there was always that thought in the back of my mind: am I responsible? Did I kill Madelaine? Did I create the fae to cover up the darkness inside of me?
For too many years, it was safer to stay to myself. Getting close to someone else meant the risk of being abandoned, of being left behind, but it also meant that I gave myself my own weakness. When I lost it—like I’m about to lose it—nothing can stop me.
I ran through fire for Madelaine. As soon as I heard that fatal snap and saw her fall, not even the flames could have held me back. From going after my poor sister, from trying to save her, or from turning my rage on Rys.
When I finally calmed down, my rage turned to fear and I spent six years dreaming up the golden monster who stole my sister from me.
I refuse to be afraid. She wants to come after me. She can bring it.
Not Nine.
I won’t let her touch Nine.
But what am I supposed to do?
Oberon’s snide comment whispers in my head. Only it doesn’t sound as snide as I remember, but almost prophetic. Like a hint or a clue.
Why you? What makes you so special? You’re a halfling, born of a Blessed One and a human. But you wield the shadows like you’re Unseelie. What are you?
I’m all three.
I’m the Shadow.
It isn’t just about using the shadows to travel by myself. It’s about using the shadows to break the rules that have always been in place. And what else can I use shadows for?
I… have an idea.
I start to build a pocket. I weave the shadows, gathering them toward me, rage paling in the face of my absolute concentration. The idea blossoms at the same time as the pocket does.
It’s risky, but I don’t have any other choice. Maybe she’s expecting me to pull the same stunt as last time and, well, she’d be right. The pocket starts to widen, growing at a clip in the corner where I called for it the last time I was here. It’s far enough out of her vision that I hope she doesn’t pick up on it yet.
And if she does? That’s fine. It’s not only an escape portal that I’m working on.
It’s Nine’s pocket—the same pocket where he keeps his sword.
She pushed me to this. The one thing I never wanted to do. She left me no choice the second she sicced her guard on Nine.
I know how to get there, too. Pushing past Nine won’t work, and I haven’t forgotten about the pointed swords at my back or the crowd watching this as if it’s all just entertainment for them. But, despite the blow to his knees, he’s still standing. He’s right at my side. I brush against him, pulling shadows from his coat, his clothes, his skin just like I did when we were in the Seelie portal.
They wrap around my glove, creeping up my wrist.
Just a little more…
That catches her attention. Before I can finish calling enough shadows so that I can slip through them and pop out on the other side of the throne room, Melisandre rises from her throne, a triumphant expression twisting her too-perfect features as she comes toward me.
“Enough of that. You’re wasting your power. Now, tell me, are you ready to own up to your end of our bargain?”
Bargain? What bargain?
She's' doing it on purpose. Has to be. Drawing my attention away from my shadows by mentioning a bargain that doesn’t exist.
