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After the way my eyes could see through the night, the silent, pitch-black void beyond the doors unsettles me.
I can still sense Ryther’s presence by my side, his elbow under my hand. Having him next to me, grounding and more reassuring that it should be.
I clear my throat. “Aren’t we going in?”
I’m guessing we’re in a sort of entryway.
“In a moment,” he replies, tense. “I sense we’re not alone.”
Shit.
I immediately think back to the crowd in the basement, the dances, the indifferent folk watching Junis parade me at the banquet.
“Remember what I said.”
Before I can ask what, exactly, I ought to remember, he steps forward. On the other side, there no longer is any darkness. We seem to be inside a handsome stone house, with bare brick walls, white and smooth. We’re in front of a large, crowded circular room, lit by at least a thousand candles. Some mounted on the walls, in black stands, others on candelabras rising up from the flat grass, others hanging in the air, though I can’t see anything supporting them.
At the very center of the circle, there’s a pit where a bright fire has been lit, and around it, there are at least three dozen of those strange, beautiful, eerie folk assembled. All part, watching as we step closer to the fire.
I glance at my hand, linked through his arm, and something tells me I shouldn’t be holding on. But wild horses could threaten to kick me away and I wouldn’t let go, with so many of these things drinking me in like starving beasts smelling blood.
I thought I was stuck between two forces. Valdred and Ryther felt…powerful to me from the moment I saw them.
I’ve always somehow been able to tell when someone was a threat in my surroundings. The moment I saw Rain entering the classroom in preschool, I knew she wasn’t like anyone else. I was drawn to her. To her darkness, her power. Cissa and Eochan struck me as other from the first. Even Junis. In one glance, I knew something wasn’t quite normal with him.
I don’t judge people for their differences; how could I when I’m “incompatible with life” and yet, breathing? But I know. Every single one of the folk assembled here are different. Not just that. They’re strong.
Stronger than me.
I feel it in my bones, all my instincts telling me to run. I am prey in a roomful of wolves. And worse.
Ryther’s hand reaches mine on his elbow, and squeezes it. Hard. I glance down, and find his nails extended in dark, pointed claws, like an animal’s. Before my startled eyes, they morph into regular nails, though their tips are stained dark, matching the four crescent moon marks on my skin.
It’s a warning, a way to bring my mind back to the present, and let me know I’m at the risk of broadcasting my thoughts. Letting those people know how afraid I am isn’t wise.
Shit.
Now everyone—at least, everyone who can read minds—knows I think myself weak. That can’t be good.
I’m shielding your mind, but they’ll still smell the fear pouring out of your skin. Focus.
Focus? On what, exactly? My impending doom, and the likelihood of getting eaten by his friends?
“My, is there a party in my camp?” Ryther asks pleasantly, drawing some laughs, as the audience stares at me intently.
With a gallant wave, and a slight inclination of his stiff spine—nothing like how I got him to kneel, only an hour ago—he gestures to me.
“I gather you all heard we’ve found ourselves a queenspawn,” he drawls with feigned indifference.
The silence breaks, exclamations and questions erupting all at once.
“Is it true Morrigan birthed her?”
“I’ve seen old portraits of the high queen!” someone squeals. “She looks exactly like her!”
“Did you truly bring her to the iron world?”
“Why now, my king?”
