Away with the Faeries

Chapter Fifteen

 Lyra continue rambling about as she drew a bath. King Rowan and Queen Aera kept the Bloed warriors in the throne room, distracting them for as long as they could. I felt as if my mind had flipped to the wrong channel and all I could hear was static. It didn't register as Marcel helped Lyra lead me back to my room nor did it as Faeries hurried about me, stripping me of my soiled clothes. I had a week. Bloed wasn't supposed to be here for a week yet.

Sitting back helplessly I watched from afar as I was bathed, dried, and dressed. Lyra sat me down before the vanity, combing fingers through my hair as she began to braid the wet mess. Staring at my reflection, I hardly recognized the women who gazed back. A light blue dress, the same hue as my eyes, held fitted to my body before draping at the waist in voluminous skirts. Unconsciously I pulled up at the low neckline, willing it to move. It did not.

Biting against my lip I looked once more at myself in the mirror as Lyra finished off the intricate patterns in my hair.

I steadied my breath; "Your name is Rayne Aubert," I said, "you are not weak, you are a warrior, and you are perfectly sane."

"Can I be a warrior, Miss," a tiny voice chirped beside me.

Glancing down I found Birdy watching me with wide eyes, sparkling with admiration. A smile broke my face seeing Birdy, her chin tilted high and brandishing a long wooden spoon she'd likely swiped from the kitchen.

Leaning down I tugged on her curved ear; "You can be whatever you want."

Her face ignited in glee; "Even a brave warrior lady like you?"

"No, not like me," I lightly laughed, rising from my chair; "you would be braver."

Birdy quickly clung to my leg as I stood, causing me to stumble; "You'll be back," she looked up at me expectantly with big green eyes, "right Miss?"

Oh man, this kid was pulling heartstrings I didn't know existed. Crouching down to her level I placed my hands on her tiny shoulders.

"Of course," I reassured her.

So what if it was a lie? You lie to children, it's standard procedure. Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Honestly, I didn't know if I'd return but those weren't worries for Birdy to carry. They were my own. Birdy's chin quivered, other servants stilled, listening in.

"But that's not important," I continued; "what's important is that you all watch out for each other, and never lose hope." I cupped her face in my hands, wiping the tears as they fell; "Promise me you'll be a brave warrior while I'm gone."

Sniffing she nodded, a moment later a panicked look crossed her face. Hurriedly she began fishing through the pockets of her dress until she found what she was searching for. Triumphantly Birdy raised a small container above her head.

"This is my papa's," she informed me matter-of-factly before uncapping the jar; "he is a warrior just like you. He and all the other warriors painted their faces with this before they left, I saw them do it," she continued, proudly showing me the contents of the jar.

A dark crème filled the container, finger strokes were pulled through the thick paste as if it had recently been used.

Closing my eyes I turned to face Birdy, a soft smile masking my features; "Well Jack," I said, "draw me like one of your Frech girls."

———

Walking beside Marcel the hidden blade strapped to my thigh under my dress had begun to rub my skin raw. Upon meeting Marcel outside my room he cast a curious look at the messy warrior paint smeared across my face, chuckling lightly at the sight. Then his eyes fell to the dress, where it hugged my hips, and the neckline that fell just a bit too low. He insisted I wear his cloak.

A terrible idea really, because now I was smothered in the consuming scent of ash and pine. In silence, we walked to the throne room. Marcel hadn't said anything about the kiss, which I was entirely grateful for. I did only use it as a tactic to best him in a fight. It meant nothing.

"Remember to only speak English," Marcel said, drawing me back to reality.

I nodded. I should be more worried about being handed over to the enemies than about a kiss. What was wrong with me? Shaking the thoughts from my head I focused on the sounds of muffled voices that came from the Throne Room.

"Remember to not attack even if an opening is provided; you are there only for intel," Marcel continued, "You are a Human prisoner of Erde," he whispered the reminders, his voice growing strained.

Unconsciously my hand fell to my lips, fingers brushing against where Marcel's mouth had recently been.

"Rayne," Marcel muttered tightly.

Gazing up I locked my eyes on his. His dark stare burned with an indecipherable emotion as he moved closer to me. My breath caught as my back hit the stone wall. He looked like the warrior he was known for being, his towering frame only moving in closer to my body. As he leaned in my breath caught in my throat, color rushing to my face.

"Focus," he whispered by my ear, deep voice sending a wave of shock down my spine.

Focus; is what he said. Pushing Marcel back, my blood began to boil. I wasn't entirely sure of the reason why.

"I am focused," I hissed back.

Continuing off into the Throne Room the sound of Marcel's footsteps followed shortly after me. Pushing on the heavy doors I moved into the sweeping room, heads turning as I entered, four pairs of eyes falling on me. Fighting the urge to wrap Marcel's cloak tighter around myself I swallowed hard, striding forward. Aera sat tall on her throne, a tight scowl pulled across her face as she watched me. Don't fail me, her bright blue eyes read.

The Bloed soldiers curiously eyed me up and down, their gazes lingering uncomfortably long before turning their attention back to the monarchs before them.

"You wrote a letter to King Otis saying it was urgent," the shorter of the two spoke, the tone in his voice evident that he was anything but pleased to be here playing nice.

I threw my gaze to Aera, lips falling slightly agape. She hadn't told them.

"Of the utmost," Aera said, gesturing to me, "a peace offering for your king."

The two Bloed officials glanced in my direction again, grinning. I was going to be sick. The short one nodded to his friend who quickly made a beeline for me. Marcel stirred behind me as the scrawny man roughly grabbed my arm, a toothy grin playing on his lips.

"Easy there Benett," he snickered, "I ain't gonna hurt the big man's goods."

The man looked only a few years older than me but never had the fortune of being graced by hygiene. Oil kept his dirty blonde hair slicked back, his sunburnt skin lay covered in dry patches of mud and welts.

"Ain't that right little lady," he continued, vile breath burning my nose.

Summoning all the strength I had I plastered on a pretty smile. If this were anyone else, I would have sent them packing with a toothbrush in one hand and soap in the other.

"We thank you for your considerate gift," the short official continued, voice stretched thin, "but King Otis has plenty of whores. If you truly wished to send an offering of peace then you would surrender your greatest weapon."

"Seven hells," Marcel muttered under his breath.

A slow grin broke The Queen's face; "I would have it no other way."

At the wave of her hand over a dozen Fae warriors oozed from the shadows, cornering in on Marcel who looked all but savage.