Faustrius looks over his shoulder and studies Rosalina, then gives a disdainful scoff. “A pretty, kept housecat asking a rat why it does not drink from the saucer of milk or sleep on its master’s bed. But where the cat is bound by walls and windows, the rat knows the paths. We are never trapped, only scorned. Sometimes I am truly abashed by the ignorance of the young.”
Well, that was rude, Rosalina grumbles inside my head.
Listen to his words, Rose, I respond in kind.Never trapped. They’ve found ways around the briars before Caspian moved them. Be on guard.
I’ve been on guard before we even stepped foot in this tunnel. Didn’t help me when they can literally disappear into the rocks!
That won’t be their only trick.I flash her a look, unsure if she can see it in the dark.But we have tricks too.
Let’s hope there’s still a chance we can get out of this without resorting to such things, she says, though there’s an edge to her voice. One that makes me think she’s as interested in diplomacy as the underfae holding the spear to my back.
There’s no more attempt at conversation. I blink, peering through the murk as light flashes before me. Yes, the tunnel is opening up. A dim glow emanates. A sound like thunder booms out of the hole. Drums.
“Welcome, King, to the home of the Elderblood,” Faustrius says.
We step onto the edge of a tunnel, looking down a small rocky hill into the underfae’s camp. It opens to an enormous cavern with jagged sides that rise to the ceiling far above. A smattering of tunnels dots the walls. It is a chaotic mix of homestead and war camp.
The entire place is lit by glowing, white crystals. They remind me of the ones that grow in Cryptgarden, but they are different; this light is softer, like sunlight diffusing through a gauzy curtain.
On one side of the camp, there are crude shelters, cooking stations, and horned fae sitting around or lying on mats. A series of fire pits are arranged in a circle, but instead of burning with flames, they glow with crystals, similar to those lighting the camp.
On the other side, there are towering siege engines, including ballistae and trebuchets, and racks of armor and weapons. A horde of giant, mole-like creatures, their furless skin rippling with muscle, lumber near piles of bones—likely their meals.
Though I’d seen drawings of this camp, witnessing it in the flesh makes me realize the immensity of what we’re dealing with. In my mind’s eye, I picture the diagrams from the map. The tunnel to the northeast, above the trebuchets: that’s where Dayton’s team is stationed. I don’t see any sign of them, so they must have made it through undetected. They’ll have eyes on us now.
I look to Faustrius. “Now can we meet the Chasm Master?”
A small group of underfae move toward us. Several are dressed similarly to those who ambushed us in the tunnels, with mottled jackets and bows or spears. But at their head is a woman.
Her skin is green, the color of grass Winter will never know. Large horns, darker than her complexion, curl and jut upward into deadly points. The same deep emerald hue spills down her back in flowing waves of hair, reaching past her waist. For a place so cold, she wears a surprisingly small amount of clothing. Clinging to her like a second skin, the plunging neckline of her garment reveals the expanse of her bosom. Tattered layers form a skirt that does little to conceal her muscular legs. Fabric coils over her arms and encircles her neck, giving the illusion of a collar at first glance.
And behind her whips a long, fleshy tail, tipped with rotten, green leaves.
“Well, well, well, what have you brought me to play with?” she calls, her voice lilting. Her eyes widen as she sets her sights on us and skips over. In her hand, she carries a wooden spear, twisted as a gnarled root. Small, glowing crystals encircle a blade, jagged as a shark’s tooth. A large net curls around onearm. She bounces up toward us, then turns to Faustrius. “He looks like royal meat.” Then she leans in, her lips at the crook of my neck, nose brushing through my hair, and inhales. “Smells like it too.”
“Get away from—” Rose begins.
Easy, I say in her mind.We made it to their camp. That’s a start.
Rosalina snaps her mouth closed, but I can see the muscles feathering in her jaw.
The underfae woman tilts her head back and laughs. “Oh, have I touched something that belongs to you?” She prances over to Rose, then does the same to her, thrusting her nose into Rose’s hair and sniffing her neck. “You smell like royal meat too. And something else. A thread that binds you both.” She grabs Rosalina’s face, pushing her cheeks so hard it purses her lips.
“Wha’ ah you doin’?” Rosalina attempts to snarl, but her voice is muffled.
“I must be certain.” The woman drops Rosalina’s face, then returns to me. Her irises burn bright yellow. She runs her hands through my hair, over my eyebrows, along the stubble of my jaw. Her tail wraps around my leg, pulling our bodies tight together. The sensation of a hundred spider legs shivers down my spine.
“Must you do this—” I begin, but she cuts me off by grabbing the back of my head and jerking me into a kiss.
My eyes widen, but before I can do anything, she withdraws, giggling.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rosalina growls, and the heat radiating off her could light a forest on fire.
But the woman just dances over to her, grabs her face, and kisses her. I blink, too surprised to be angry. When she pulls away, Rosalina’s cheeks are bright red.
“Just as I thought!” the woman giggles. “You two are mates. How precious. Mates but haven’t mated yet, isn’t that what I tasted? Curious!”
“They’re not for playing with, Aquila,” Faustrius says.
