When I awake,it’s to the sight of Morrgot perched on the beam over the closed room door. Although his lids seal out the gold and his wings are tucked into his body, he seems poised for an attack.
For once, I study him. His innate, and at times, overwhelming pride wafts off his midnight feathers even in slumber. It’s the way he holds himself, I think. Or perhaps, it’s something deeper, some tenebrous strength that billows about him like smoke, that shines off his shiny beak and razor-sharp talons.
I remember how neatly they’d sliced through flesh.
Mine.
The sprites.
Lyrial’s.
He is dangerous, formidable. A force to be reckoned with. A force to be feared.
Sire.
I’m aware he considers himself a king amongst his kind, but how odd it was to hear a grown man use such a grand title on a bird. His wings twitch, and I think my staring has awakened him, but his tufted feathers relax until they lie smoother than Mamma’s hair after my morning ministrations.
To think Mamma slept with one of his followers. A man who Morrgot seems to admire and trust. One of the few he trusts. I wonder what it’ll take for him to trust me because, truth be told, I don’t want to make an enemy out of this winged king.
And not because I fear him—even though he is plenty frightening with those bladed appendages of his—or because he can penetrate my mind—I need to set up firm boundaries—but because he’s attentive, caring, and whip-smart. Qualities I seek out in my friendships. His sense of humor and charm need work, but all in all, I want this bird, who doesn’t look upon my rounded ears as flaws or my violet eyes as smudges upon my Fae nature, in my corner.
He needs you, Fallon,I remind myself.His true nature will shine through once you’ve exhausted your purpose.
Gods, I really dislike my conscience at times. It’s so dour and realistic.
I bat my lashes to whisk it away, but it’s not the only thing I whisk away. I manage to whisk away my shadowy bedroom.
I now stand in one as wide and tall as my entire house. Although the windows are small, they breathe light into the space, gilding the tall wooden rafters and the stone walls that aren’t straight or buffed smooth like my people prefer. This room is odd and coarse, with a massive bed set on a wide stone esplanade covered in dark pelts and a standing bookshelf hewn from twisted branches held together by slabs of gray rock.
A slight shift in the air draws my gaze off the thick, leather spines, toward the imposing silhouette of a man standing by one of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, black hair gleaming navy like Morrgot’s feathers. The male’s shoulders are straight and incredibly wide, made wider by the taper of his waist and the leanness of his hips.
I try to glimpse the shape of his ears, imagining they will be round since his hair is cropped well above his shoulders, but the blue-black locks screen them off from my sight. Curiosity shuffles my feet—bare, I realize, soon realizing the rest of me is bare as well . . .odd.
Another dream, I surmise, since it’s neither a memory nor reality. I’d remember showing up naked in the bedroom of a complete stranger.
For an instant, I worry it may be a glimpse into my future, but my future is a monogamous relationship with Dante in Isolacuori, and although the man has his back to me, I can tell he’s not Dante.
Dante’s shoulders are narrower, his biceps firm but leaner, and his hair mahogany instead of midnight-black. Not to mention, my prince’s skin is a rich brown and this man’s skin is pale, as though he doesn’t often stand in broad daylight.
Emboldened by the assurance that this is another figment of my entertaining imagination, I pad closer. The rock is chilly beneath my bare toes and, to my utmost surprise, unsegmented. The whole floor is one single slab of rock. I find that fascinating. So much so that I forget I’ve set sail toward the stranger and only remember because his boots come into my line of sight, toes pointed toward mine.
I whip my neck back, sucking in a startled breath when I recognize the face staring down at me. It’s the man Bronwen called Lore in the vision Morrgot sent me. This must be another vision.
I tilt my head to the side, waiting for the crow master to speak, since I really doubt Morrgot shipped me into this scene without a goal in mind.
But the crow master doesn’t speak.
He just stares.
So I stare back.
It’s quite unfair that he got to wear clothes while I popped over in my birthday suit.
Not that I want to see him disrobed.
To break the awkward silence, I say, “Your eyes are the same color as your crow’s. I mean, crows’.” I drag out thes. “Unless you deem himone?”
I don’t comment on the makeup, or the tattoo on his bladed cheek. I’m guessing both are a show of fealty toward their animal companions. The way the black is smeared around the eyes resembles wings, and the feather, well . . . it resembles a feather.
