Fenrir bit at Jono’s mind, scratching at his soul. Rather than fight the god, Jono let him in, just enough that his senses ratcheted up higher than they ever had before outside summer solstice.
The fae’s eyes widened behind his mask, stiffening in Jono’s grip. Magic coiled in his right hand, but Jono had learned a thing or two about magic since meeting Patrick. He slammed the guard’s head against the door, denting the metal and knocking the fae unconscious.
“This wasnotthe first impression we wanted to give them,” Sage hissed when she came up to his side.
“I don’t care,” Jono replied.
Soft giggles from the ceiling made them look up. Pixies darted above them, making lazy loop patterns in the air, their wings glowing softly.
“Welcome, wolf,” they singsonged. “Oh, welcome, Vánagandr.”
Jono growled, the sound coming from his throat, but the resonance was all Fenrir. The immortal didn’t seem to care for one of his names on their tongues.
“Vana what now?” Keith said.
Sage stared at Jono with narrowed eyes, her mouth twisted into a frown. “Jono? Why did they call you that?”
He didn’t answer her. Fenrir clawed at his mind as he gripped the rose-gold handles of the doors and shoved them open. He put all his strength behind the push, ignoring the way the metal burned his hands with magic. Fenrir made it so that it didn’t hurt, and the burns would heal in moments anyway.
The doors slammed open, the noise they made when they hit the wall loud enough to cause all conversation in the throne room to stop. A sea of faces turned to look at them. Thedaoine sídheof the Seelie Court carried a beauty that didn’t catch Jono’s eyes at all.
The pixies flew through the air in front of him, diving down to help part the crowd, their dragonfly- and butterfly-like wings fluttering rapidly. The fae stepped aside, eyeing him with collective disdain as Jono passed. A ring of guards encircled the dais with its throne, blocking his way. Arrayed behind them was a group of fae dressed far more grandly than anyone else in the room save their queen.
Gerard—or Cú Chulainn, if that’s what he wanted to go by—was the odd bloke out where he stood off to the side of that posh group, glaring at Jono with a resigned look on his face. He hadn’t changed into any fancy robes or armor, still wearing the clothes he’d put on that morning.
“You couldn’t have waited a little longer?” Gerard asked.
“Not in the mood to wait. We’ve spent too long here past the veil, and I need to find Patrick and Wade,” Jono retorted.
He kept walking, smelling the shield he couldn’t see that stood against the spear tips pointed at him from the guards. Fenrir howled in his mind, blocking out all sound for a second or two. Jono flexed his hands, claws cutting through skin, and he knew he’d have no trouble getting through that shield.
Fae magic would not stand against a god’s wrath.
Brigid must have known that, for the Spring Queen stood from her golden throne and lifted one slim hand at the warriors who guarded her.
“Let them pass,” Brigid ordered in a melodious voice.
Her accent reminded Jono of Ireland, but it wasn’t quite what he was used to—older, different, but still similar enough for him to recognize the cadence.
The fae guards didn’t hesitate to obey, though the high-ranking warriors behind them were reluctant to move. As one, the guards shifted ranks, providing space for Jono, Sage, and Keith to pass through. He refused to go around thedaoine sídhewho remained in his way, shouldering them aside when they wouldn’t move.
Once he reached the bottom of the flower-covered dais, Jono planted his feet wide and stared up at the ruler of the Seelie Court, refusing to bow his head.
Brigid’s hair was the color of the sun at dawn, with licks of living fire burning at the tips of the long red curls. Her eyes were the dark blue of water in a well, deep and fathomless, full of power Jono only ever saw in the eyes of other immortals. She stood tall, dressed in a flowing green gown cinched in at the waist with a belt made of gold chain. A cape made out of flower blossoms cascaded down her back and pooled at her feet, carrying the scent of spring. A crown of hawthorn flowers woven through a twisted filigree of silver and gold encircled her head, the white blossoms bright against her hair.
Jono smiled, revealing sharp fangs, and let his soul crack open.
Fenrir poured through Jono’s mind, his body, stealing all the breath in his lungs and filling up his soul. This time, Jono didn’t fight it. All of Jono’s senses became heightened, his thoughts weighed down by Fenrir’s power. The god stared through his eyes at the immortal burning like fire before them.
“Cousin,” Jono said, Fenrir’s voice coming past his lips as a growl more reminiscent of teeth scraping against bone, his own accent gone. “It has been an age.”
“Fenrir Lokisson,” Brigid said, her voice like the crackle of fire in Jono’s ears now. “You have not granted patronage in centuries. What brings you to my Court uninvited?”
“Ah, but we were invited. On the word of Cú Chulainn no less.”
“Cú Chulainn has spent too long in the mortal world. Hospitality is not served through lies.”
“There is no lie when none has been spoken. The halfling knew not of my patronage.” Fenrir spread Jono’s hands, mouth twisting into a smile Jono knew wasn’t his. “We fight on the same side, cousin. Against an enemy who has wronged us. Would you deny me and mine an audience merely because anger clouds your judgment?”
