He leans over me, resting one hand above my head on the tree, so close I can smell a trace of sage smoke in his hair.
“Make it snow,” he orders.
My head jerks, eyes blinking hard. “What?”
“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you? So, show me what you can do. Make it snow right here, only over the two of us.”
I clear my throat and lift my palms skyward, marshalling the fey in my veins as I’ve practiced a dozen times. But this time, my hands tremble. Only a cold gust of air blows down on us.
He shakes his head, tutting. “You’re a long way from facing King Rian’s forces on your own.”
It feels like a sting, but I keep my head up. I don’t want him to sense for a second that he intimidates the hell out of me.
“I’m not on my own. I have Basten. The true king. We came to Astagnon so he could take the throne and stop this—” I struggle for the right word. “—this spiral of bloodshed. More senseless death.”
His eyebrows lift. “Senselessdeath?”
I swallow hard, cheeks burning. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say to the god of death. “I only meant that I don’t want thousands of people to die.”
He pushes off from the tree, and I let out a breath, feeling like a weight off me. He paces to the campfire Basten left flickering, reaching out to catch a rising piece of ash between his fingertips.
“Personally,” he says, “I see death as meaningful artistry. But if you don’t wish for so many innocent souls to pass to my realm before their time, then you are missing the true war at question. It isn’t between King Rian and his opposition. It’s between fae and humans. Give it five years. Ten, at most. People worship us, but they fear us, too. They blame us for loss, for tragedy—anything they don’t understand. If that fear isn’t turned, armies will march against us.”
“That’s why we’re going to Astagnon. To convince the people to embrace them. To hold offwar.”
Woudix saunters back over, slowly removing his black glove, lifting a hand toward my face, hovering a moment before making contact.
“May I?”
I nod, and he grazes his fingertips, somehow both soft and rough at the same time, along the rounded point of my left ear. “As I suspected.” He makes a disappointed noise in his throat and puts his glove back on. “You might start by embracing your fae appearance. If you can’t accept the wonder within your own body, it will be a challenge to make the public do so.”
He slides his gloves back on, then removes the fae needle from his pocket. I can sense that he’s about to leave.
I push off from the tree before I know what I’m doing.
“How did you know?” I blurt out.
He cocks his head; eyebrow raised in question.
“How did you know I’m in my human glamour even before you touched me?”
His only answer is the shake of his head, like I’m a child. “You still don’t understand that we’regods. A piece of advice? I can feel your rage at the Sisters who wronged you. It burns like hotcoals. It won’t go out, no matter how much you play-act at being human. It will continue to demand an answer. So,answerthe anger.”
My cheeks warm, and I look down at my hands, studying the all-too-human lines in my palm that I know as well as a map to my heart.
I take a deep breath, and slowly will away the wrinkles, the freckles, the old scar on my thumb, letting the fey line break out in my palm.
As if sensing the energy change in the clearing, Woudix stops. He turns his head back my way.
I close my eyes, steadying my breath, and extend my reach past the boundaries of my own skin and out into the trees. Then, even beyond. The tree tops. The clouds overhead.
Snow, I command.
The air ripples with a breeze that chills the inch of exposed skin on my ankles. It starts with only a few flakes. They could easily be mistaken for falling ashes from the fire—but more come. Falling thick over the clearing—in a circle eight feet wide—to blanket the confused insects crawling through the grass.
Woudix touches a snowflake on his cheek, turns around, and smiles.
“Snow is easy, love. Next, try brimfire.”
