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At Fitz’s side, Holden broke into a warm grin. “Another ally? Welcome.”
Fitz shot his brother a look, clearly still doubtful of Garrick’s intentions, but Elle grasped his hand, threading her fingers through his, and the gesture seemed to calm him. “If you trust him,” she told me smoothly, “then we do too.”
Over her shoulder, I noticed Kinsey was already at the female guard’s side, his hand pressed to the wolf bite in her arm. “I’m sorry about your guard.”
Garrick ducked his head, looking sheepish. “I am as well.” He glanced at the woman, who was flexing her arm, a healthy flush already returned to her cheeks thanks to Kinsey’s ministrations.
“I suppose it was an honest enough mistake, when you thought you were rescuing the woman you love from danger,” Prince Fitz murmured. “But we never meant her any harm.”
“Starlight,” Garrick murmured close to my ear, “they need to know. Preston and Nerissa sent me and could use—”
I squeezed his hand, silently cutting him off, noticing the way Elle was watching us. Had she and the others heard? I didn’t want them to start doubting Garrick’s loyalty, even if I understood his fears. They needed to know the whole story first. I bit the inside of my cheek, hesitating. “Could we return to the tent? We have much to discuss.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My heart hammered against my ribcage as Garrick, Kinsey, and I trekked through the snow, Garrick’s gloves and fur coat shielding me against the freezing wind. Garrick claimed his body heat would be enough to warm him in the cold, though I knew that wasn’t entirely true. He was warm-blooded, but even he could grow cold in the fierce mountain air. But I knew better than to argue. We’d also had to slice the hem of my ballgown higher so I could walk unimpeded through the snow, which unfortunately allowed for cold air to creep beneath the fabric. But I took comfort in the thick, woolen socks and leather boots we’d been gifted from the Ashwood camp so that I wasn’t forced to walk in my flimsy slippers.
Pausing to catch my breath and study how close the castle was looming, I glanced at the sky. Snow clouds blotted out much of it, already spitting scattered flakes, but the sun gleamed harshly in a bare patch to the west. It was sinking slowly but steadily toward the horizon, reminding me that the night of solstice was fast approaching. Time was running out to seal the underworld entrance.
Preston and Nerissa would be impatient. But how did they expect to force me to fully open an entrance I was determined to close? That was the flaw in our plan, the strategy none of us had managed to guess at.
All last night and well into the late morning, Garrick and I had planned with the Ashwoods. At last, to prepare for the long evening ahead of us, we’d all retired. With Garrick still a bit on edge and wary of leaving me alone, the Ashwoods had graciously offered us our own tent. I’d blushed despite the many times Garrick and I had been forced into close quarters together, but with two separate cots, Garrick had given me the space I needed. Instead, he’d stretched out on his cot, lying parallel to mine. While I’d tried to rest despite the wild thoughts churning in my head and the daylight seeping through the canvas, Garrick had reached across the gap between us to brush soothing fingers through my hair until I’d fallen into a dreamless sleep.
Now, with only a few short hours’ worth of rest and borrowed winter attire, I watched the snowflakes fall around Garrick, Kinsey, and me. Ahead, the hunter paused, his every muscle taut, his body alert. I watched him anxiously, already on edge. Already looking for any signs that our plan was about to fall apart, or that the trust we’d placed in the Ashwoods was about to go awry.
“We’re almost in sight of the sentinels,” Garrick announced, indicating that direction of the castle with a jerk of his head. My half-human eyes could only make out the parapets, and not the figures concealed and waiting behind them. If Garrick could pick them out with his keen wolf shifter gaze, then the fae posted there would surely be able to see us if we went any further. “It’s time to prepare.” His gaze flicked to me, even though this was possibly my easiest role to play in our plan. “Are you ready?”
Pressing my mouth into a hard line, I nodded.
“Now we can only hope the others are too.” Kinsey plucked a pouch from where it was strapped to his belt, smiling wryly. “In all my years as the royal healer, I’ve never done something like this. Least of all to myself.”
Hugging myself against the cold, I watched our Ashwood companion pluck several vials from his bag, downing each in swift gulps before returning the empty glasses to his pouch. With a wistful glance, he deposited the bag in the snow. He couldn’t be caught with it on him later.
“How fast will they wo—” I began, the last word dying on my lips as Kinsey started to sway, blinking his eyes blearily.
Garrick stepped forward, catching the healer before he toppled into the snow. “Out cold,” he murmured as he peered down at the slumped Ashwood. Garrick pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, frowning in concentration. “And like he said, I can’t even feel a pulse.”
I gazed in morbid fascination at the way Kinsey’s chest didn’t move, as if he weren’t even breathing. “How do we know he isn’tactuallydead?”
Garrick smirked. “He healed you well enough. I think he knows his medicines. Plus, he didn’t strike me as the type to want to take his own life so young.” He winked at me, but I was too nervous to grin at his dark humor.
Lowering the healer to the ground, Garrick drew one of his knives and, without preamble, sliced it cleanly across his left shoulder, cutting through his shirt. Blood bloomed, staining the torn fabric and dripping into the snow, coloring it crimson.
I grimaced, hating to see him hurt at all, even if I knew he’d been cautious, only injuring himself enough to make a bloody sight. He withdrew items stored in Kinsey’s bag: a smaller pouch of herbs Garrick tucked into his pocket, and then a flask of blood—animal blood collected from a deer the Ashwoods had hunted for a meal. Enough for Garrick to pour over Kinsey, splattering it across his face, neck, and chest to make it appear as if the man truly had been fatally injured. Using the same knife he’d cut himself with, he sliced into Kinsey’s coat in several places, tearing the fabric so it looked like claws might have torn into it.
