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Rhaegar kicks the sword from the prince’s hand and catches it midair. His eyes are black, murderous. He may not be a wolf anymore but his eyes are all beast. The Seelie crowd chants a single word, marbhadh, in Gaelic over and over and over until it seems to come from one god-like voice.
I don’t need to speak Gaelic to know what the word means.
Kill.
From my vantage, the prince is on his knees partially facing me. Both their expressions are half-visible. Rhaegar holds the blade at an angle, tip pointed down at the prince’s heart.
“Any last words, Sylverfrost?” Rhaegar asks, his gloating lips spitting the prince’s surname like poison.
The prince’s eyes grow pensive as he seems to contemplate Rhaegar’s question. Oh, Lord. This is really it. I hold up my arm, prepared to throw it over my face at the killing blow.
Wait. I watch the slow, curling smile tug the prince’s lips upward, confused as his fear morphs into something else. “Yeah, actually. If you don’t mind.” His gaze shifts from Rhaegar—to me.
Me, hiding in the tree invisible . . . except, actually, a quick look shows Ruby curled up in some evergreen foliage, asleep. his normal, dickwad insolence. One arm held behind his back. Lithe, sexy body all loose and casual and stuff, like he isn’t the center of attention. Like he isn’t about to kill someone—or die himself.
I don’t even have to see his face to know he’s grinning.
A frown tugs at my half-frozen lips. Why wouldn’t he shift?
Unless he thinks he’s already won . . .
With a warrior’s snarl, Rhaegar leaps into the air. At the same time, he looses his arrow of fire. The entire meadow erupts in yells as the fiery weapon streaks at the prince, sparks raining in its path . . . only to bounce off a shield of some sort.
The prince circles to the left enough that I can make out his face. Yep, grinning. The torches cast deep shadows that highlight the dimple in his cheek. The one that tempers his otherwise jagged features. Fangs tip his teeth, his eyes emanating a vibrant blue light.
He calls out for his first weapon, his voice casual, almost playful, and Asher tosses a longsword into the prince’s outstretched hand. The rest of the Six pace behind the dragon shifter, obviously not as calm as the prince.
Blue flames run along his blade and illuminate the meadow, the play of orange and blue light creating an otherworldly sight. Rhaegar growls and shoots off countless arrows. Each time, the prince uses his sword to deflect them with ease.
He moves gracefully, effortlessly. As if unworried by the encounter.
His carefree attitude only serves to feed Rhaegar’s frustration and rage. Rhaegar tosses his bow into the audience and retrieves another weapon. Firelight glimmers off the face of the double-sided axe. Growling deep and low, Rhaegar begins to circle the prince.
A swarm of sprites flock to the air for a better view. A few fights break out as the aggression spills into the circle of onlookers.
A predatory energy descends, choking the air and filling my body with alarm. More fights break out. Screams taint the night. Even the moon seems tinged with a dusky red as if the Fae control it.
Maybe they do. Nothing surprises me about their powers anymore.
The prince evades the axe as easily as he did the arrows. He still hasn’t chosen his second weapon. Snow begins to drizzle, as teasing as its master. The prince ducks and weaves Rhaegar’s advances, slipping through the air like smoke.
All at once, the prince lunges forward and catches Rhaegar’s ear. The crowd goes wild. The tip of the sword strips the diamond earring from Rhaegar’s ear. He howls in pain. Blood dots the snow.
Someone shrieks in excitement as the prince catches the diamond in his palm and holds it out to the throng of Fae. With a clever grin, he tosses it to a blue-skinned female pixie, serenaded by a mixture of boos and cheers.
Then he winks.
Showoff. He’s toying with Rhaegar. Grinding his ego down one skillful maneuver at a time. He’s not even using much magic—which is a shame since the extent of his powers are unknown. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t access his magic.
Or perhaps he’s just a maniacal jerkwad.
Either way, his strategy is working. Rhaegar’s movements grow sloppy, his footwork slow and clumsy, like he’s half drunk. His breath spews into the air as he works to breathe.
After swinging at the prince and missing—again—he throws the axe, nearly impaling a male Fae with monarch butterfly wings. A savage expression has taken hold of his normally handsome face, his golden eyes stretched wide inside his wolf’s head, tongue lolling.
Black lupine lips curl in a snarl of sharp teeth; then he charges. The prince rebuffs the assault with a flick of his hand, sending a breeze to knock him back. He tumbles across the meadow like he weighs nothing.
The closest onlookers scatter, fear on their faces as they appraise Rhaegar.
