He’s immortal, Fallon.Lore’s words douse a little of my anguish. “You will not lose him to produce.”
“No.” My father’s brow glistens with fury. “No!”
I don’t—I don’t understand . . . “What’s going on?”
Lorcan tips his head, golden eyes steady on his friend’s. “I meant to tell you.”
My eyebrows bend in confusion.
“You meant . . .?” My father spits, barking out a laugh that freezes the torrent of adrenaline inside my veins. Sober again, he sweeps both his palms down his face, smearing his black makeup some more, and growls like a Selvatin leopard.
“What the underworld is happening? Is this some side effect from being a crow-shaped block of obsidian?” Although my voice is high-pitched, neither man pays me any mind.
No.Is that a smile in Lorcan’s mind-voice?
I’m probably imagining his internal delight, because he sports the look of a bad tidings’ carrier.
“You know how it works, my friend.” The king is calm, calm, calm, whereas my heart has morphed into a thieving halfling being chased by an entire battalion of Fae,anda couple serpents.“You know one does not choose.”
“Sí mo ínon!” I sense my father’s roaring something about me being his daughter.
“I’m aware, Cathal, but it could’ve been worse. She could’ve ended up mated to Aodhan.”
Color leaches from Kahol’s streaked face.
“Who’s Aydawn, and why are we discussing me being mated to that man?”
“For all my desire to bring my Crows back from Shabbe, I wouldn’t mind leaving that one behind.”
Okay, so Aydawn is a Crow, and apparently not a favorite of Lore’s.It doesn’t ferry me any closer to understanding what has gotten my father’s armor in a twist.
Kahol squeezes his lids shut and drops his head back. He seems to be imploring the sky for strength. “If you hurt her, Lore, you better pray for Mórrígan to lend me mercy.”
“Have you met your daughter? Odds are rather high that I’ll be in need of your pity more than your mercy.” Lorcan utters this with a kinked smile that my father does not return.
“Can one of you please explain what the underworld’s going on?” When Lorcan pins me with his citrine stare, my hands find purchase on my hips. “What?”
“I need—” Kahol’s throat dips. “I need to fly.” He looks at me, then at Lorcan, and then he says something that includes my biological mother’s name, Mórrígan’s, and a whole lot of headshaking, before he streaks across the tavern, liquefying to smoke long enough to squeeze under the closed doors.
I grab every piece of information that’s been tossed my way over the course of this strange get-together and stir, trying to smooth the lumps, but many remain.
“Do you remember when you mind-walked into that memory of Bronwen and me on that hill?”
“Yes. She explained she could not marry you, which disappointed her father.”
“Why couldn’t she marry me?” Lorcan stands and circles the table toward me, gait unhurried.
I pivot as he stops on the other side of my bench. “Because you didn’t do it for her.”
The male-faced harpy grins now. “I see you memorized her speech word for word.”
“Just get to the point.”
His eyes glow, and suddenly, I’m back on that hill, this time standing so close that I catch the striking green of Bronwen’s irises as well as the tapered points of her ears.
Oh my Gods, Bronwen is Fae!
While my mouth opens around a gasp, hers opens around the words:“Cian is my mate.”
