Patrick’s grip tightened on his dagger, his heart pounding in his chest. Red Caps were some of his least favorite fae to deal with.
The fae with the halberd raised his free hand and gestured at the Sluagh. The screams that pierced the air as the restless dead scattered by silent command made Patrick wince. It didn’t make him feel as if the odds had gotten any better.
“Draw down your magic,” the fae said.
“And if I don’t?” Patrick shot back.
“You are far past the veil, and there is no one here who will aid you.”
“He’s got me,” Wade said, sounding a little nervous but never letting Patrick go.
The fae smiled, the coldness in his stormy eyes making Patrick tense. “You are not enough in our home.”
Patrick rather thought Wade could be, but he didn’t want to test the teen’s limits. Wade had done enough fighting in his short life. If Patrick could spare him any more, he would, even when the teen was willing.
The mist rolled again as more Red Caps appeared, coming out from the tree line to surround them. Patrick eyed the new reinforcements, counting up the enemy and coming away with the uneasy knowledge he wouldn’t be able to take them all down. Even if by some out-there chance he did, there was no leaving Tír na nÓg without help from the fae to open the hawthorn path. He doubted the Unseelie fae lord standing in front of them would do it even under duress.
They werestuckhere, beyond the veil, in the hands of the Unseelie Court.
If Patrick were alone, he might be tempted to test out how badly Persephone wanted him kept alive by trying to fight the Red Caps. Wade’s rapid, scared breathing behind him killed that idea. Right now, his first priority had to be Wade.
As much as Patrick was worried about the others, he couldn’t focus on them. Patrick didn’t know where Jono and the rest had gone, but he hoped they’d made it to the Seelie Court. One of them needed to get information about Órlaith so they could stop the Dominion Sect and get her back.
The fae lord took a step forward, raising the heavy halberd in his hands. “Draw down your magic.”
Patrick flexed his fingers before finally doing as ordered, pulling his magic back into his soul. Taking a deep breath, Patrick locked down his personal shields as tight as they would go, his bones aching from them. He didn’t lower his dagger.
“Hand over your artifact,” the fae demanded.
“Come and take it,” Patrick said, tightening his grip.
It came out as a threat, and the fae took it as one. Roots shot up from the earth, wrapping around Patrick’s wrists and ankles. Patrick was yanked to the ground and would’ve caught himself with his face if Wade hadn’t wrapped his arms around Patrick’s waist and refused to let go.
The tension in his spine was so sharp it made every vertebrae hurt, as if it were going to snap in half. The delicate bones in his wrists grated together, rough roots scraping over his skin. Patrick’s hand spasmed, fingers forced apart, and the dagger fell from his grip. Wade was quick to snatch it out of reach of a tree root, holding it tight without getting burned, which was a miracle in itself. Patrick knew how dangerous the dagger could be for those with ties to the preternatural world. It seemed Wade’s immunity to magic included weapons forged by gods.
Good to know.
Wade slashed at the roots with the dagger, the blade slicing through them like butter. The roots around Patrick’s ankles spasmed as if in pain before releasing him to disappear back into the ground. Patrick shoved himself upright, ignoring the ache in his joints and rib cage. Wade hung off him like a limpet, still clutching the dagger.
“I’m keeping the dagger,” Wade announced in a firm, if slightly higher-pitched voice. Patrick side-eyed him, noticing that his eyes were no longer brown, but gold with reptilian slits.
The fae stared at him, eyes narrowing, and Patrick wondered if he knew what Wade really was the same way Gerard had. He thought that might be the case when no one rushed them to fight Wade for the weapon. Maybe the fae could see auras of those with a preternatural bent better than a human could.
“If the blade finds its way into the mage’s hands, I will cut them off,” the fae promised.
Wade said nothing to that, which Patrick was grateful for. He rather liked having all his body parts attached.
The fae closed the distance between them, booted feet crunching over the snow. He was tall, taller than Jono, and Patrick had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. Patrick refused to give ground to the fae, no matter how badly Wade trembled against him. That was a show of weakness they couldn’t afford.
Patrick tensed when the fae reached for him, having a split-second flashback to Tremaine and Tezcatlipoca in the Crimson Diamond. Then his brain caught up to the fact it was Wade behind him, and the fae didn’t touch him beyond what it took to remove his pistol from the holster on his hip. Patrick let him, because he could lose a gun so long as he still had his dagger—even if he had no idea what Wade had done with it.
The fae clenched his hand around the pistol, his strength enough to crunch the metal into a shape that had no hope of firing off a bullet. He dropped the broken pistol to the ground and kicked it aside.
“That was my favorite gun,” Patrick said. It was his only gun at the moment, and if he didn’t think using his magic would get them instantly murdered, he’d go for a spell right now.
Except he kind of liked living, and Patrick knew Jono would kill him if he died.
“The Sluagh say you smell of the girl,” the fae said.
