Away with the Faeries

Chapter Eighteen

  As the days past the Bloed officials had given up on re-tying our restraints each morning. Wasting, as they put it, good rope. According to a conversation we overheard from the loose-lipped pair we were only a few miles from the palace. But from the endless winter that stretched around us, I wasn't sure how much truth there was to their words.

"Are we there yet," Lana whined in my ear. She shuffled under the hood of my cloak that lay draped over my head.

Over the days she had grown like a tumor into a second conscious, a horribly, facetious tumor.

"You smell," she said tugging at my ratty hair, "badly, you should probably see a doctor babe."

I could feel the muscles in my jaw tighten, we had been trekking the deep woodlands for a week now. I apologize for not smelling like roses. The warrior paint on my face had dried and cracked, my throat was sore and my hands numb from the cold. Marcel seemed unfazed by the frost that clung to his hair, his chapped lips, or the way his usual dark olive skin lacked color. With shaking hands, I shrugged the cloak off and threw it over his broad shoulders. Lana slipped under my hair shivering and hissing complaints.

Hugging arms around myself I met Marcel's surprised face. Trembling I plodded away through the knee-deep snow; "You looked a little cold," I said through chattering teeth.

He scoffed before removing the cloak and draping it back around my shrunken frame; "Have you already forgotten I'm immortal?"

Placing my hand over his I met his eye; "No one is immortal."

Danger flashed through his dark eyes and for a moment I swore I saw the demons that stirred deep within.

He grinned, slipping his hand from mine; "You're dangerous."

"He has no idea," Lana giggled, curling deeper into the crook of my neck.

But I didn't hear the small Nuea, I barely had time to register Marcel's words before I was thrown to my knees on the rough ice. The Bloed horses reared, hooves kicking the air, and dropping the officers heavily to the ground. Besides me, Marcel raised his hands to the air as dozens of men flanked him, an array of swords and arrows drawn to his chest. Behind me a figure dug a heavy knee into my back, wrenching my hands together and once more binding my wrists.

"At least buy me dinner first," I growled, throwing all my weight to the side, causing the cloaked man to stumble.

"Rayne stop," Marcel called, "these people are Bloed Knights, they have come to take us the rest of the way."

Don't underestimate the competition; I shot daggers at Don and Mac who stood on the powdery ground tenderly rubbing their sore asses. Chest heaving I offered up my newly bound wrists only to be jerked by the back of my cloak and dragged along through the forest. What have I gotten myself into this time?

———

Hair still sopping wet from my cold bath I was shoved to my knees in the middle of Bloed's daunting Throne Room. Gritting my teeth I swallowed the pain that hit my knees, shooting up my legs. One of the maids who bathed me promptly discovered the hidden blade and slapped me hard across the cheek for it. She then proceeded to toss the dagger out the third-story window. I could still feel my cheek throbbing.

I haven't seen Marcel since we arrived hours ago. Where was he? What if something bad had happened? Gaining my bearing I took a quick survey of the dusky room. As my eyes brushed over the far wall I felt my stomach twist. Mounted like a trophy above the thrones were a pair of raven black Fae wings so engulfing they reached out, grazing each side of the spanning wall. Beneath them a man sat on the throne, ignited under the moon's eerie glow.

With the tilt of his balding head, he studied me, steadily tapping a jeweled finger. Squinting through the hazy room I tried to get a better look at the vicious King. He seemed familiar. After what felt like an eternity the King spoke.

"You must be wondering where your friend is," he began, hoarse voice grating against my ears. He waved a hand, jewels glinting in the shallow light; "Bring him in."

At his words, the doors to the Throne Room shifted open dozens of Bloed knights spilling in, all armed and ready. In their midst stood Marcel, clad in iron chains. Tears threatened at my eyes, my face growing hot in anger as I took in the sight of him. All of his long hair was cut, short, and patchy. His head hung as if ashamed of the fact himself. Bruises battered his skin in yellow and purple blotches.

Marcel lifted his head, inky eyes meeting mine. Before I could stop it the tears were spilling down my cheeks. His jaw tensed, eyes shutting he turned his head away as he was guided further into the room until he stood before the King.

Shifting on his throne King Otis gazed down at Marcel with a toothy smile; "Kneel," he ordered.