Page 23 of The Dead Queen

He wakes with a groggy start, water droplets clinging to his dark eyelashes and full lips. His eyes drift as he takes in his surroundings—the iron shackles, the damp stone walls, the faint light filtering through the sconces in the hall, the barred cell door, and the discarded, bloodied arrow on the floor. Eventually, his eyes land on me. He doesn’t look as afraid as he should when he props himself up on his elbows. I’m relieved to notice his arms are trembling. Hopefully, that means he’s too weak to kill me on the spot.

“I just saved your life.” I hope I sound braver than I feel.

As if an afterthought, he reaches up to his chest, his shackles rattling with the movement. He feels the spot where the arrow once pierced. Now there’s nothing but a starburst-shaped scar.

He raises an eyebrow. “So you did.” His voice is hoarse.

I cross my arms, defiant as always.

He stares at me for a long moment. “Aren’t you afraid of me? Knowing what I am?”

I scoff. “Killing me wouldn’t help your position, seeing that you’re locked up in a cell.”

“I wouldn’t kill you.”

“Says the natural killer.”

“You don’t know me.” He coughs, wincing.

“I know enough.”

He doesn’t respond, just lies back on the ground with a groan.

“What? Tired?”

He closes his eyes. “Turns out nearly dying is hard work.”

“Try healing someone who’s nearly dead.”

He opens one gray eye to look at me. “You healed me?”

I put one hand on my hip. “Who else do you think pulled that arrow out of your chest?”

He looks around, feigning bewilderment. “Oh, I don’t know. Anyone but the Fox King’s daughter? Seems a bit beneath you.”

I glower at him. “Well, maybe I stooped so low for a reason. And as payment⁠—”

He turns his head to look at me squarely. “You charge for your services?” He scoffs. “So much for the holier-than-thou Llwyns who help others selflessly.”

“Don’t speak that way about my people.” My voice is low, threatening. Not that I could do anything to this man if he tried to hurt me. “My fee is answering some questions.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh that I almost don’t hear above the snarling of the foxhounds.

My heart thrums in my chest. “What happened to my grandmother?”

He closes his eyes and sighs, as if I’m too much. After a few moments, he sits up again and juts his chin toward the door. “What are those things?”

I pause, listening to the awful sound of the beasts growling low, scratching stone, and rattling chains against iron collars.

“Foxhounds.” An anxious lump forms in my throat at the word. “They’re my father’s pets.”

“They don’t sound like normal pets.” He eyes me, watching my face for signs of something, but I don’t know what.

I will not be distracted. “You’re surrounded,” I say with feigned confidence. “And unless you’d like to become their next meal, I recommend you answer my questions.”

“Listen.” He gives me a pointed look. “I can’t tell you what happened to Áine.” He pauses, thinking. “But I know who can.”

“Who?”