Another tap. No response.
Yarrow can’t stay here, but the curse keeps him within twenty feet of this attractive, fragile human who’s—understandably—terrified of him. Which leaves just one solution.
“Court life better be fucking worth it,” Yarrow mutters, and grabs the human’s knife. Brave man, brandishing this little dagger against Yarrow’s axe.
He pushes the human’s robes open, but finds only a coin purse on his belt. Abandoning that exploration quickly, in case the human wakes up and misunderstands, Yarrow moves on. Nothing but sleeves on the human’s forearms, either.
There. The scabbard is in the human’s boot. Yarrow sheathes the knife carefully, then gathers the human into his arms. Fuck, it’s a good thing Yarrow’s not a court fae yet—he’s breaking so many rules. Stealing a human without proper cause. Switching changelings is one thing. This is just theft.
But he doesn’t have a fucking choice.
The man is lightweight, though that’s not important. Yarrow’s very strong. He only needs one arm to hold the human up, leaving his other hand free to sketch a symbol in the air.
“I offer…” Yarrow mentally rifles through his options, as the distant voices grow more certain. More aggressive. Yarrow hasn’t prepared an offering to travel Elsewhere, because he intended to use the same rift he came through. “I offer a moment of my company.”
The night air splits in two, and Yarrow steps out of the world.
Chapter 5
Folly
Folly wakes to unsettling silence. Grass tickles his neck. The earth is hard and cold beneath his back, and an eerie gray sky meets his blinking eyes. Endless shrouds of fog—then Folly remembers everything.
Battle. Pain. Fae.
With a violent gasp, Folly jerks to a seat. He nearly falls down again in shock. There’s nothing but sky around him, the fog stretching above and afar and every direction. Stomach twisting, Folly clutches the long grass at his side, as if it will keep him from tumbling into nothingness.
The ground beneath him is the only solid land in sight. It’s a small patch of dirt and grass, barely big enough for Folly—and the fae watching him from five feet away.
If Folly weren’t already as frightened as possible, the sight would terrify him more. This fae may have fought with Moriath, but that doesn’t mean he’s friendly. He looks dangerous. Smooth bronze horns curve back over his mane of white hair, the same color as his eerily focused eyes. The axe slung behind his back is menacing, even with leather covering the blades.
Dangerous and inhumanly handsome. The way a carnivorous plant grows beautiful flowers to attract its prey. Broad shoulders, strong features, and the faintest golden shimmer beneath his skin.
He’s also very tall. At least six foot three, though Folly isn’t great with heights.
“Don’t run,” the fae says sternly. “It won’t be fun for either of us.”
Folly swallows, his throat painfully dry. He’s not yet scared enough to flee into the gray nothingness. “Who are you? What is this place?”
“My name is Yarrow, and I’m the most attractive wild fae in all of summer.” The fae crouches. He’s still intimidating at eye level. “This place is neither here nor there.”
Frustration blooms within his fear. “Please don’t speak in riddles.”
“I’m not.” Yarrow’s still focused on him, like the endless gray fog is nothing to worry about. “This is Elsewhere, in between the fae and human realms. I’d have taken you straight through, but I didn’t have an offering prepared. I had to trade a moment of company instead—which Elsewhere was happy to accept, given the splendor of my company. What’s your name?”
Folly clutches his knees. Each breath is shallow and cold. He still doesn’t understand anything, except that this situation is very bad. And there’s something off about this conversation, besides the obvious terror of it all. “I’m Folly.”
Yarrow grins. “That’s an ill-omened name.”
“It’s a nickname.” Folly winces. “My parents named me Philostrate.”
“Folly’s a great name,” Yarrow amends. He reaches an arm sideways, slowly enough that Folly doesn’t flinch—until in a swirl of golden magic, the axe appears in his hand.
Folly jerks backwards, scrambling to his feet. But all Yarrow does is set the axe on the ground, then sit cross-legged beside it.
He hasn’t hurt Folly yet. Folly has no more aches and bruises than when he lost consciousness, and the debilitating waves of pain are gone. His eyepatch is missing, but his knife is in his boot, and the purse with the magic coin still hangs from his belt.
Yarrow still abducted him, and Folly can’t trust a fae.
