Bethevier gripped the sides of the pool, her pearly white claws long and sharp. “The mountain wights have come to bother you, sweet beasty?”
“They have taken two of our youngest clan members, mere children. Why do you call them mountain wights? They do not look like those controlled by the wraith fae.”
The wights, which were created by wraith fae that held this power, like the former King Xakiel were nothing more than an army of the dead. Skeletons that crawled out of the ground and were bound to that evil king with a blood bond to do his bidding, to attack his enemies.
“Grimlocks are golems,” said Bethevier, gazing up at my male like he was hers. If I didn’t need answers so badly, I’d shove her backward.
Of course, then she might drag me into the pool and kill me.
“They are soulless creatures,” added Lethemier, “a fusion of many of faekind, created only to do their father’s bidding.”
“Who is their father?” I asked.
Bethevier furrowed her brow at me, having forgotten I was there apparently. When she did not answer, and nor did her sister, Redvyr repeated my question.
“Tell me, sweet ladies, who is their master?”
“We do not know,” Bethevier admitted, tracing the claw of her forefinger in a circle near his boot. “He is older than us and he blocks the intrusion of magick.”
Older than them? By the gods, who was this sorcerer?
“Oh, ho, ho, dear sister. But he does like to pour his rotten power into the world, that is for certain. He whispers through earth and stone to those who will listen.”
“Indeed, sister.”
“Thank you for your knowledge,” said Redvyr. “These grimlocks, or golems, have taken two of our children and hidden them somewhere in Wyken Woods. Or perhaps somewhere beyond. Do you know where they might have taken them?”
“How would we know such a thing?” asked Bethevier coyly, rising out of the water up to her waist next to Redvyr, leaning her weight on one arm. She tipped her head back, jutting her breasts outward—and while she was hundreds of years old, her body was perfect. Naiads didn’t age. Not like faekind. The only hint of their age were the threads of silver in their blue hair.
“You know many things,” I stated, though it was more of an accusation. “You know where this dark lord dwells. You know what he creates. Two naiads of your age and with your power would certainly have knowledge of where the golems might keep the children.”
“It is not always children they catch,” said Lethemier. “Any light fae will do.” She looked me up and down, my skin still glowing. “You would be a tasty morsel for their father.”
Redvyr’s expression darkened, but he kept his voice genial when he spoke. “If you know something, I would be most grateful.”
“What will you give me if I tell you?” Bethevier tilted her head coquettishly.
“What do you require?”
“A taste of your blood.”
“No!” I snapped, my skin pulsing with white light.
The sisters hissed and guarded their eyes from the glare.
“You cannot have his blood,” I told them. I shook my head emphatically at Redvyr.
Giving your blood to any magickal creature was a dangerous risk. They could use it to control or curse or spy upon the one whose blood they tasted.
“Douse your light, fae girl!” shouted Lethemier.
I focused on calming my breathing, which did dim my skin’s brilliance.
“No blood, then.” Bethevier swished in the water and pushed up with both hands on the stone lip of the pool beneath Redvyr, bringing her face closer to his. “Give me a kiss.”
Redvyr instantly shot me a look. My belly soured with the thought of his lips on hers, but a kiss couldn’t hurt him. And it could give us what we want.
“Alright. Give me your hand.”
