He nods. “The ones that count are.” Flicking his gaze to me, his eyes widen. “What is this?”
“My mate.”
The closer I get, the more something inside me seems to split apart and scream. My claws curl, my fangs lengthening.
Eraldon turns to me, a question in his gaze. “Do you know—”
I fly at the Nightlands lord, my claws swiping large bloody wounds into his throat. He falls onto his back, and I perch on top of him, staring into his eyes as blood bubbles from his neck and mouth.
“Pet?” Eraldon strides up behind me, utterly unbothered by my brutality. “Though I’m wholeheartedly enjoying what you’ve done here—by all means, continue—I must ask you what brought this on.”
“I—” I get a flash of a bright bedroom, Lord Caroldon’s hands on me as I try to escape. And then another image, one of a scarred changeling I knew well. We both came from Moonhollow. She should’ve been a consort, her beauty only matched by her cunning—Lysetta. But all I can see is her face scarred and burned. And for some reason, one I don’t understand, I know Caroldon is responsible.
He tries to say something, his mouth moving and creating a bubble of blood.
I wag a claw in front of his face. “Be quiet, and I won’t hurt you.” But it’s a lie, just like it was when he’d said it to me. With another hard swipe across his throat, my claws digging deep, I separate his head from his body, then stand and kick it against the stone wall. It crunches and splatters, the mess drawing more than a few hungry seekers.
Eraldon is grinning as I stand and fling the blood from my black claws onto the gray stones. “Oh, my darling pet. I don’t think I’ve ever been so aroused in all my life.” He pulls me to him and kisses me hard.
I open for him, trying to feel something other than confusion at how I knew Lord Caroldon. He doesn’t stop, his hands twining in my hair, his tongue trying to stoke desire within me. I kiss him back, desperate to feel something other than numbness. Or rage.
When he pulls away, I point to the headless body. “You aren’t mad?”
He makes apfftsound. “Caroldon has served his purpose.” He doesn’t let me go, his gaze holding mine. “Now tell me why you did it.”
“I don’t know.” It’s the truth. “I have these odd memories. He was in them, and it wasn’t good.” I sigh and try to think back.
“Don’t be troubled, pet.” He releases me. “It’s Grimelda’s hex still trying to get you all mixed up. Once this business is done, I’ll feed you, and everything will make sense.”
I take a centering breath as he guides me past the body.
Another seeker rushes by, a body slung over his shoulder. The dead fae’s dress is light lavender with pale yellow flowers.
I try not to look any closer.
Eraldon pats my hand. “These nasty family dramas always have to end one way or another.” He smirks and waves away the seekers who’ve crowded the throne. “We’ve arrived.”
When the horde moves away, I’m struck by the resemblance between Sigrid and his son. But I’m also surprised by the king’s condition.
Sigrid is wizened, far too aged for his years. The spell Lex worked has poisoned him, ended his life while he yet draws breath. I look at Eraldon, his gaze fixed on his father. He’s so handsome, so strong. A high fae of beauty and strength. A seeker unlike any other. The power in him, the sheer force of will—it takes my breath away. But the cruelty … I can’t seem to understand it, even now as I watch him gloat over his triumph. A triumph I should be endlessly pleased with—but I’m not.
I glance back at the bodies of his sisters, then fight to stay steady when the seekers deposit another one. This female is a little older, her dark hair curled around her pretty, bloodied face. She’s gone. Then the seekers are off to hunt the last of the sisters while their brother prepares to strike down the king, his own blood.
Eraldon isn’t paying me any mind. Not now. Not when his father is within his grasp.
“Abomination.” Sigrid coughs and labors to sit up straight, his body obeying him in fits and starts.
“You shouldn’t address the new king of the realm in such a manner.” Eraldon waves away the other seekers until the room is empty save for us three.
Sigrid stares up at his son, and his expression clouds, the deep wrinkles on his face growing even darker. “You look much like my son.” His tone turns almost hopeful. “My son.”
Why should his confusion cut me? Why should this ruined high fae affect me at all?
“Your sisters, I must call them. They will want to take a look at you. Cressa, the youngest, you have barely met her. She’ll be so—” He squints. “You look ill. Fallen off your horse again?” Hunching forward, he reaches for Eraldon, then backs away and covers his face with his hand. “Something’s off. Wait. Wait.”
“No more time to wait, I’m afraid.” Eraldon draws the blade at his hip.
“But you are so like my son. My Eraldon.” The king gives a dry laugh, his white hair wisping around his shoulders. “He was always a headstrong one. He thought he could tame the moon. Could tell the stars when to shine. So ready to make something of himself, even though I told him he had time.” He looks up again and squints at Eraldon. “You aresolike him. Do you know him? Has he come home from riding? I want to speak to him about his sisters. Betrothals. Perhaps we can form an alliance with ah, with … with …” His words fade as he slowly shakes his head. “But no. That’s the past? Or is that now?” He lifts a shaking hand toward his son. “Eraldon, my son, is that you?”
