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Hawthorn.
She scanned the grass as if expecting to see him somewhere, unconscious, maybe, hurt but alive, because he’d fought off his attacker, or Algernon had died defending him, because he couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t—
But the front of Algernon’s blood-stained tabard had started to crust. She’d skinned enough rabbits in the wild to have an idea of how long he’d been dead. Not long, but not so recently he’d had time to make it down from the castle.
Which meant—
Whoever had come to take over from her this morning, it hadn’t been Algernon.
Her pendant started to throb. It was more than a tug, closer to a yank—a hard, desperate pull.
Juliana ran.
Why hadn’t she seen it? Algernon hadn’t been acting like himself, but she’d not questioned it. Of course she hadn’t.He couldn’t lie.
Mortals could. Somehow, someone or something had taken his place.
Hawthorn, Hawthorn, Hawthorn.
Was he still in the castle? What if the assassin had already finished the job?
No.
Hawthorn had said before that the people didn’t just want him dead. They wanted to get away with it. They likely wouldn’t complete the job until they had the space to escape—
Her pendant throbbed harder, heating to the point of painful.
The gardens. They were in the gardens.
And something was wrong.
Hawthorn disliked Juliana’s days off more than he cared to admit, but he disliked more the way she had a habit of wriggling into his thoughts even when she wasn’t around. It had been that way for far, far too long. He had a horrible suspicion it would remain that way long after she left.
And she would leave. Soon.
Several times, he’d thought about bargaining more of her time from her. Three years hadn’t been enough. Maybe three decades would cure him of the want of her company.
She wouldn’t get three centuries, which he hated to think about.
But it was a foolish thought. Besides, he had nothing to bargain with, andshe didn’t want to stay.He respected her enough to not try to make her, and he liked her enough that that thought hurt more than anything else.
She didn’t want him.
No one ever had—or not for the right reasons. They wanted him for his body or the power he could provide, and nothing else.
Would it be that way forever? If they side-stepped the curse, if he reigned over Faerie for centuries, would that ever change? Or was he doomed to spend the rest of his immortal life attached to nothing and no one?
Forcing that thought from his mind, he extracted the small leather-bound notebook where he kept his greatest insults for Juliana, and started practising them under his breath while Algernon stared at him from the shadows.
Once upon a time, he’d had no problems calling her hideous. Now, he had trouble remembering why he’d ever thought that at all. “You’re looking as vile as ever“ always worked, for she was not vile, nor ever had been.“I wish I could say I missed you,“ was also true.
Because he did wish he could say it.
He almost hoped she’d pick up on that one, but she never had.
He whispered out a few more phrases.
A few more weeks,he reminded himself,only a few more weeks of this.
