“That feels like a bit of an overstatement. It was just a pub.”
Just a pub. He couldn’t explain to anyone in his topside life that the Pixie had been so much more thanjust a pub. She had saved him at a time when the thought of merely continuing to exist at all felt hopeless and without meaning. He certainly wasn’t going to try doing so here, but he bristled nonetheless.
He’d taken his time leaving the old girl that night.
The apartment, by that point, was mostly complete. Prepared for Silva, if she chose to use it once he was gone. All of his belongings had long been tagged, leaving clear directions in his absence. Some things were staying, more were being shipped. He’d already prowled and picked through everything he owned, forcing himself to see his belongings through a stranger’s eyes, attempting to limit what would be shipped back across the sea, what would be shipped to his storage unit in Starling Heights; what would stay, what would go.
He’d pulled everything that had already been prepared into the main room to make it easier for Shona. Ensured the letters he’d left for both her and Ains were clearly visible. Took a hot shower. Went back downstairs to put the car up on blocks, change the oil, and add fuel stabilizer, vacuum her out. Tookanother shower. Settled into the corner of the new sofa with a bowl of cereal, deciding afterward that he had time for a nap.
It wouldn’t do to go wandering into Faerie at a disadvantage, and he’d barely slept a wink in the time he’d spent in Silva’s apartment. Too busy watching her, memorizing every contour of her face, the soft curve of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, the shadow of her eyelashes. The soft bow of her top lip and the full swell of its lower twin, kissing her softly as she slept, oblivious. He needed to remember the weight of her in his arms, the bump of her nose against his when she inevitably invaded his pillow, the emerald fire of her eyes when she pouted, and the warmth of her breath as she slept against him.
He had told her that he would try to make his way back to her if he could. It was a promise Tate intended to keep, but he needed to not forget her to make that happen.
And that meant he needed to be at his best. Needed to sleep for a little while, needed to finish off the already open jar of peanut butter on his shelf, needed to do as much as he could to ensure that things would be taken care of in the unfortunately likely event that hedidn’tmake it back. Less to weigh on his mind when he stepped over that threshold for the final time.
“That’s a bit rich coming from you. You know, while it’s just the two of us, can I be honest?”
They stopped simultaneously, each turning inward like a reflection on glass. Tate gritted his teeth. Hehatedhow many of his tics and physical mannerisms had been inherited from this bastard. It had occurred to him, during his long-ago resignation that he would never be free of this side, that his beloved grandmother, who’d loved himsohard, had to look into the miniature face of her rapist every day of Tate’s life, an added layer of punishment as payment for the coin she’d dropped into a wishing well.
Tate spread his arm out, gesturing to the trees where the shoe hung. “You’re fucking terrible at this. Look here, there’sliteralrubbish hanging from the trees. Where’s your pride of ownership? I thought you were supposed to be in charge of things, errand boy? It’s a fucking forest, and you’ve let it turn into a hovel. Absolutely disgraceful. I might’ve runjust a pub, but I never had literal trash darkening my doorstep. If I’m going to be fucking condemned to this place, it’d be nice to know there won’t be foxes choking to death on plastic six-pack rings before the throne. Whatever they’re paying you, it’s too fucking much.”
As Tate spoke, the fae man rolled his eyes, turning away.
Cadoc’s cheekbones were so high and fine that the moonlight sought them out, eagerly reflecting her light on their carved angles. His gold-lit eyes had an unnatural shine, their centers like honeyed whorls. Intricate braids were bound back and a headpiece of ebony antlers sat against his silken hair. He was at once beautiful and hideous, so lovely to look upon that doing so hurt the eye, and if one stared long enough, those fine features would distort, resembling a creature from the land of nightmares.
Tate shared many of his grandsire’s fine features — the high cheekbones and chiseled jaw, the shape of his nose and long, slender neck. Tate was taller and broader, thanks to his father’s contributions to his unusual genetic makeup, heavier with muscle he possessed naturally . . . but he had always been slender and lithe for an orc, and the origin of that ballet dancer-like frame stood before him, shaking his head contemptuously.
“Must you make everything so dramatic?” Cadoc chuckled without humor. “You weresummoned, sweetling. Not condemned. And you took averylong time.”
“Again, you keep saying that, but you have no idea what it means. You sound like a bleedin’ fool. I’m still waiting to hear what constitutesa long timeto you.”
Cadoc resumed walking, continuing to chuckle as he did so. Tate stood motionless, scowling at the other man’s back for a moment before he reluctantly began to follow once more, moving before he needed to feel that tug at his chest.You’re nothing but a beastie on a leash.
“And condemned and summoned are the same fucking thing here, which you know very well. You just like the poetry better.”
He was unprepared for the fae man to stop abruptly, turning on his heel to face Tate once more, a scant amount of space between them. When a hand landed on his shoulder, he struggled not to flinch away. Hehatedbeing touched. Hated this cunt most of all. Every instinct screamed at him to shake the long-fingered hand off, a hand so like his own, to step out of reach, to bare his teeth, to draw blood first.
He did none of those things, remaining stock-still and impassive, allowing the weight of that touch to sink in. There was no aggression in it at all. Cadoc’s grip on his shoulder was warm and steady, intimate in a way that made Tate’s skin crawl. No force was necessary. No threat. Just ownership implied by familiarity and shared blood. He was forever bound to Autumn because of that tie.
But once it was severed, perhaps he would be free. He and Silva both.
“You forget yourself.”
At that, Tatedidallow his teeth to flash. “Oh, I rememberexactlywho I am. Do you, errand boy?”
The hand at his shoulder tightened, just a fraction, just enough to burn, pressing the hooked point of the talon-tipped finger guard he wore down until Tate knew it had drawn blood beneath the surface of his shirt. Cadoc leaned in, his voice a whisper at Tate’s temple, apples and smoke and blood, wrapping through his mind like a snake, obliterating all else. And there behindit, a screaming black void of emptiness, a darkness that could swallow the world held between his jaws.
“Then remember who I am as well, beloved.”
All around them, the forest clearing had died. The ruby-red leaves now lay in curled and crushed piles on the forest floor, blackened with decay. The smoke in the air had grown heavy and old, and Tate could taste ash on the back of his tongue. There were no animals, no hint of movement from the trees. The ground beneath his feet had frozen, the cold leaching the warmth from his legs. A swift reminder from the fae holding him of who he was. Death, riding through the world, collecting debts owed to the final harvest.
“Move. Our Lady awaits. She’s been quite worried over where you’d gotten to. She’smissedyou.”
There was a note of irritation in Cadoc’s voice, one Tate picked up on immediately as they began walking once more.See? This is what I mean. Transparent.Fucking amateurs. He needed to pay attention. Weakness and regret were not something he’d lethimselfshow, but the rest of them weren’t as careful, and he’d use whatever ammunition he could.
“I’m sure she has. A good thing she has a well-trained lapdog to do the fetching for her.”
Cadoc smiled, wide and terrible, but he did not deign to respond to the dig.
