Faster than I’ve ever seen Aspen move, he shifts his body in front of mine and lets out a hiss just as I hear a thud come from behind me. I whip my head to find a dagger stuck in the trunk of the nearest palm tree. Aspen slaps a hand over his shoulder where he was struck by the blade. My attention is torn between him and the menacing figure standing at the center of the courtyard.
The assailant reaches beneath his cloak, drawing another blade. I reflexively reach for my obsidian dagger, but I come up empty and recall I never put it back on after my bath. Still, I brace myself for the attack, preparing to dodge the assailant’s next throw, but he falters as a roaring sound comes from near the palace doors. There, a funnel of sand begins to whirl and rise. I can vaguely make out Fehr’s face at its center. The cloaked figure shifts his stance to face the djinn, and the glint of his dagger speeds across the courtyard, straight at the cyclone. It strikes its center, just below Fehr’s face. I stifle a shout, but the djinn disappears, sand storm and all.
The assailant takes the opportunity to dart toward the palace. He obviously didn’t come for Aspen and me. He came for something inside Irridae, and it isn’t hard to guess what it could be.
I circle Aspen, seeking the site of his injury. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, already rushing toward the palace. “I’ll go after him.” Without another word, he shudders and tilts forward, as if he’ll fall on his hands, but by the time he makes contact with the ground, his hands have become hooves and his body has been replaced with his stag form. The assailant races up the palace steps, retrieving the dagger he’d thrown at Fehr before charging through the doors.
Aspen tears across the tile walkway, hard on the figure’s heels.
I spin back toward the palm tree, bracing one hand against its rough trunk while the other wraps around the hilt of the dagger. As the blade comes free, I note its composition. Iron.
That means the attacker must be human.
“Your Majesty.” Fehr materializes before me, hand rubbing his chest, although I see no sign of injury. “The man has entered the palace. Shall I guard you or—”
“The weapons room. Now.”
He nods and disappears in a puff of bronze smoke, leaving me alone in the courtyard. With the dagger in hand, I part my flowing skirts to trail behind me and pump my legs as hard as I can to race inside the palace. Once I reach the atrium, a moment of disorientation stalls me. Which staircase leads to the weapons room?
I need my instincts, I realize. My fox.
Tucking the dagger beneath the waist of my overskirt, I close my eyes and give in to my fox form. With the fire of urgency roaring through my veins, it takes little effort to shift, body shrinking as my hands become paws. Almost as soon as the transformation is complete, my senses sharpen, and I become hyperaware of distinct aromas calling me to the staircase on the right. My mate passed by here, as did the human attacker, made clear by the smell of human sweat.
I take the stairs several times faster than I could on human legs, following the data that reaches me through my eyes and nose. Before I know it, I’m racing down a familiar hall of volcanic rock, the malachite bars of the cells, and then—
My heart leaps into my throat, threatening to shock me out of my fox form, as Aspen comes into view. He’s no longer a stag; in his seelie form, he’s hunched on the floor, head thrown back in agony as the hilt of a blade protrudes from his upper thigh. His hands frame the hilt, just inches from it, quivering with the resistance he’s trying to fight in order to grasp it.
“Aspen.” My voice wavers, and again I’m close to losing my unseelie form, yearning for human hands to grasp the dagger to free him from it.
“No.” His voice is firm, and in his eyes is a command. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
I falter for only a moment, but my fox side swallows my fear, my pain, telling me the assailant must be nearing the weapons room, if he isn’t there already. “I’ll come back for you,” I promise, and take off down the hall to the end of the dungeon and down the final staircase that leads to the winding hall. I speed down it, only slowing when I catch sight of Fehr. Several blades litter the floor at his feet, but he appears unwounded. His fight seems mostly with himself as he drags his body along the wall, struggling against the iron that keeps him at bay.
Fehr’s eyes widen with momentary surprise as his eyes lock on me, seeing me in my firefox form for the first time.
“Where is the human?”
“He’s already inside,” Fehr gasps.
That’s all I need to hear to surge onward, the door of the weapons room in sight. As I approach, I see the door is indeed thrown open, the iron bar that had kept it shut now on the ground. The figure stalks the room, shoving crates aside, prying open wooden lids, and tearing through dozens upon dozens of stands that hold iron swords, daggers, maces, and axes. I swallow my horror at seeing so many weapons, but the human doesn’t seem to have eyes for them.
He’s looking for something else.
This close, I can make out his face, his stature. He’s tall and muscular, built like a warrior, his jaw set as he continues his frantic search. It’s then I realize why I can see so clearly; at the center of the room, perched upon a wooden crate, rests a silver disc with a bright, golden light at its center.
A Chariot.
What this means, I have no time to consider, for the man’s face brightens as he lifts a small, wooden crate. He brings it next to the travel device and opens the lid. Whatever is inside illuminates the room like the sun. It’s so bright, it’s nearly blinding, and I’m forced to avert my gaze.
I blink rapidly, willing my eyes to adjust while I run through every scenario I could use to take him down.
The dagger.
For that, I need hands. Again, the urgency of the situation sends the fire rushing through my veins, burning away my firefox form and sending me stumbling as I rise on two human legs. The light coming from the box is still painfully bright, but it’s dulled now. Terror seizes me when I realize it’s because the light is no longer at the center of the room. It’s muted by the man’s fingers, the light cradled in his hand as if it’s a solid ball he holds in his palm. His other hand reaches for the Chariot.
My fingers close around the hilt of the dagger as I lunge forward. With a flick of my wrist, the blade spins end over end. It doesn’t meet its mark, which I’d intended to be his chest. Instead, it grazes the wrist that holds the Chariot. His eyes flash toward me, lips pulling into a sneer as the travel device goes clattering to the ground between two large crates.
