Witchlights bloomed in front of her, illuminating the knight’s footsteps with a gentle glow. Nyneve reached back into the cottage for her cloak, pulled the door closed, and then hovered over the arrow and the severed limb. For the sake of the bloody gods, was it not clear she could defend herself? She did not needhimcutting off people’s limbs like a fucking emperor of old and leaving them on her doorstep in some kind of twisted offering. Who did he think he evenwas—her suitor? Her protector? He wasnothingto her.
And yet, as Nyneve looked down at the graying limb and the fletching fluttering triumphantly in the night air, some of that damp, wet heat flooded her again like a storm surge. All at once, she could feel every stitch of her clothing pressed against her skin. That open chasm of want in her marrow widened, its jaws unhinging.
Shaking with fury, Nyneve turned her attention back to the witchlights, tracing his path with her gaze. “Of course you’re in the godsdamn woods,” she growled, but she followed anyway, striding down the stairs.
With one look over her shoulder, Nyneve followed Mordred’s trail through the medicinal garden, cutting behind the stablemaster’s cottage to avoid a group of monks—who did not usually patrol at night—and then into the pleasure park. She wondered if Mordred was even still within Camelot’s walls or if he’d managed to sneak out of the citadel already. The witchlights were bright, crisp, clearly defined—which meant they were fresh tracks. Nyneve quickened her pace across the path’s packed dirt. She was going to find Mordred and deal with him.Tonight.
It took Nyneve too long to realize she should’ve reached the edge of the pleasure park. Too long to understand that the usual sounds of the forest had gone out—the way they might when a predator roamed. Blinded by her rage, she hiked farther and farther into the woods that were no longer the woods she knew. By the time Nyneve finally realized something might be amiss, she halted. The witchlights ahead taunted her, a sure path to her quarry. But all of this waswrong. The trees growing around her were no longer the slim birches of the pleasure park with its winding trails and little roe deer. She tipped her head back, taking in a moon that pressed too close to the earth and the wide, hungry branches of primordial trees that scraped against its pale face. Her bound magic went cold and uneasy within her as she drew in a deep breath of loam, ancient stone, and something that might have been dried blood, spilled a millennium ago.
Quelling the panic, Nyneve wove a protective working against glamours, but the woods remained unchanged. She could turn her clothes inside out and walk backward, she knew, and that might well lead her home. But whatever woods she had wandered into thrummed with power—primeval, inhuman. She did not think she could escape from its grasp so easily. So she kept going.
Up ahead, the trees thinned out, the oddly slanted moonlight revealing a clearing ringed by standing rocks. Dark bramblesrose in a thorny swell, like the desiccated hand of some long-dead giant, fingers reaching for the sky even from its grave. Before the strange thicket stood a figure, and it would be a lie to say Nyneve did not immediately recognize the strong line of Mordred Pendragon’s muscular shoulders, the unusual grace with which he held himself, the curl of his waves against the nape of his neck. Her darker magics felt like a muscle bunched in anticipation for the first strike of war. Moving from tree to tree, taking refuge in the moonshadow of their trunks, the Druid girl crept closer.
She reached the edge of the clearing without drawing Mordred’s attention—provided he couldn’t hear how fast her heart was beating or the rapid river of her blood rushing through her veins. Taking a deep breath, Nyneve gathered herself up among the gnarled trees that circled the meadow’s edges, stark against the pitch-dark sky of this deep, endless night. And then, with her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger, she stepped into the clearing.
A twig snapped beneath Nyneve’s boot, loud as a blacksmith’s hammer.
Mordred turned halfway on his heel to face her at the same moment the bramble split down the center like a seam coming undone, leaking silvery light. Her anger returned to her, roaring in her ears.
And then Mordred’s gaze met hers. His face was different—all those sharp angles deepened into something unearthly and ancient, the points of his cheekbones so sharp she wondered if they might tear through his moon-pale skin. In the widening light of what could only be a faerie door, Nyneve went still as she noticed one pointed ear knifing through his dark hair.
“Fuck,” said the Druid girl.
“There you are,” Mordred said, his shoulders hunched over, a wolf about to tear out a sheep’s stomach.
Nyneve swallowed, the next words little more than a croak. “You are?—”
“High Fey,” he finished for her, drawing himself up to his full height—at least a head taller than the knight she knew back in Camelot. “The last of the Tuatha de Danann.” He cocked his head, such an inhuman movement it made Nyneve’s blood run ice-cold even as that unwelcome heat curled low in her belly. Before him, the faerie door opened wider, bathing the clearing in its silvered light.
“And you, Nyneve,” Mordred said, his eyes glittering, “arerighton time.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mordred
For the barest of moments, Nyneve Or’Afon’s gaze widened with surprise. Then she turned and tried to run.
Mordred laughed. He no longer had any need to hide his preternatural speed or weaken all his boundless strength. In this meadow at the edge of the worlds, he could be exactly who he was.
A monster.
He captured Nyneve in his arms and tossed the Druid girl over his shoulder. Predictably, she cursed vividly and kicked him hard in the hip. That was the humorous thing about pain: he hardly even felt it anymore. He carried an iron sword at his waist, a dagger in his boot. He stood beside Arthur all day with that horribly cursed blade shrieking the entire time. Even as Nyneve shifted her weight and sank her teeth into his shoulder, it was little more than a curiosity.
Mordred turned back toward the door, preparing to face the courier. “Careful, love,” he murmured. “I rather enjoy your teeth in my flesh.”
Nyneve stilled against him, but he did not for a moment believe she had surrendered.
“Changeling,” the courier greeted, spreading their arms wide. In celebration of Nos Galan Haf, they wore a deep russet cloak richly embroidered with dancing flames. Faceted beads winked like embers. “You brought your mortal guest, as commanded.”
“The wishes of the High King are, after all, my command,” Mordred replied, standing before the door. Nyneve slammed the toe of her boot into his ribs.
“Yes,” the courier said, the word drawn out. Then they straightened, their robes shimmering. “Do enter the fete, child of the Morrigan. And recall that though your guest is protected by our laws, she is your charge. Should she commit any crimes against the High Court, you will answer for it.” The courier bared blackened, sharpened teeth before scuttling aside to allow the pair to enter.
Mordred tightened his grasp on Nyneve and passed into the sidhe hall. Behind them, the faerie door sealed shut, blinking out of existence as though it had never been there at all.
The entry hall was empty. Its earthen walls, carefully held in place by ancient enchantments and spiderweb-like vines, soared above their heads. Mordred took a deep breath, the scent of mulled wine, poached fruit, and rich spices greeting him. The bliss of not wearing his glamour was euphoric.
Nyneve’s voice broke his reverie. “Put me the fuck down,” she snarled, trying to bite into the muscle of his back.
