The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (41 page)

Jostling his injuries as little as possible, he climbed up on Little John’s back. The wound in his side had felt increasingly better the longer he lay in the pit, but now it screamed in protest, telling Robin in no uncertain terms that he was not healed yet. He clenched his teeth, focused on breathing through the pain as Little John rose to his feet, slowly so as not to tip Robin off. Inch by inch, Robin crawled higher up the shifter’s body, until Little John finally stood at his full height. There was only a foot or so left for Robin to hoist himself over, and then he was free.

His breathing was coming too fast, his chest aching with every ragged breath. The bitter taste of bile still coated his tongue and the world was starting that lazy spin that said vertigo was on its way. Robin braced his hands on the ground, stayed there on his hands and knees as he took stock of his new situation.

The wolves were lying in a heap by a tree. The salt circle the caramel wolf had referenced was smudged, the mineral coating the wolves with a layer of dust where they’d skidded past. As far as he could tell, they were both unconscious. Or dead. At this point, Robin didn’t care which.

“Little John, come on!”

He looked over the edge of the pit. The shifter was in human form again, naked and kneeling on the dirt floor. He waved a weak hand, wobbled before falling to his hands and knees.

“I need…to catch…my breath. Too much shifting…poison still in my system. Go….your foster…mother is waiting…for you. In the woods.”

“Poison?” Robin’s heart leapt into his throat. “What poi—”

“I’m fine!” He rocked forward again, resting his head on the earthen floor. His voice was muffled when he spoke again, but getting stronger. “Go. I will…catch up. Hurry.”

Robin shook his head. “No. The sheriff could be back any time, I won’t leave you here.”

A hoarse laugh scratched in Little John’s throat. “Sheriff is…taken care of. Plenty of time. Now, go!”

Robin gritted his teeth, his stomach turning at the thought of leaving his friend behind. He looked around and his gaze landed on the iron grate. The hum of the metal did horrible things to his insides, but he managed to wrap part of his shirt around the edge of the grate. As quickly as he could without tearing open his side again, he shoved, lifted the end until it slid into the pit, forming a makeshift ladder.

“Little John, can you climb out with this?”

“Aye. And if you don’t go now, I’m going to…crawl out and beat you. Get…Marian.”

The familiar exasperation in Little John’s voice did more to reassure Robin than any words could have. He nodded and started for the woods as fast as his body could withstand. His heart lifted. If there was anyone who could help him get Marian back from Herne, it was his foster mother.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Marian stared down at her plate. A filet as thick as her fist sat in the center of a beautiful silver disc. The polished plate reflected the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling of the cavernous banquet hall, mirroring thousands and thousands of small lights dancing like tiny flames, casting shadows on the stone walls. The aroma of the meat curled around her nostrils, made her mouth water. Her stomach twisted painfully with hunger, her teeth aching to bite into the tempting feast before her.

“If you find your meal wanting, you have but to ask and the servants will bring you something else.”

Herne’s voice was kind, gentle. The cajoling tone of a father trying to coax a stubborn child to eat her dinner. Marian’s knuckles popped as she fisted her hands in her lap, battling down a sudden urge to snatch up one of the exquisitely crafted silver knives and bury it in the chest of the man sitting to her left at the head of the table. The hall was filled with at least fifty tables, each seating as many or more of her fellow fey. No two were exactly alike, and they ranged from monstrous shapes that defied description, to creatures who could have easily passed for human.

Marian’s gaze weighed heavily on her knife. Her breath came faster, pulse thudding in her throat as the fantasy played itself out. Herne’s slim black eyebrows rising as his ebony eyes widened, the blood pouring down his fine midnight blue shirt, tinting the gold buttons with a sheen of red.

It would be so easy…

“If you must try to escape, by all means try. Perhaps it would be best to get it out of your system now.”

She snapped her attention from the silver knife to Herne’s face. He was watching her, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

“You have a very expressive face,” he said calmly.

Marian clutched at her napkin, pain closing a taloned fist around her heart. “I know. He reminded me of that all the time.”

Herne paused with a bite of his own steak halfway between his plate and his mouth. “He?”

“Robin.” Saying his name flooded her with memories of how she’d last seen him. Bleeding and hanging from the sheriff’s iron claws. The tears she had so recently conquered threatened to return, and raised a lump in her throat that made it difficult to swallow.

Herne’s face darkened, his opaque black eyes glittering with a flash of temper. His fork landed on his plate with an abrupt clatter, still holding the seasoned red meat. All around them, the creatures who’d been studiously ignoring the tension slanted their attention toward Marian. A few of them licked their lips, eyes lit with anticipation. It made Marian wonder, just for a moment, what had happened to others who had angered the King of the
Sluagh
. Then Herne spoke, and all her focus returned to him and the new, harder edge to his deep baritone.

“I am trying to be understanding. You have been outside our world for practically your entire life. I realize it will take a great deal of patience on my part while you become acclimated to our way of life here. But let me be perfectly clear on one thing—that
thief
is not welcome here. He is nothing but trouble, and I will not have him bringing chaos to my court. Show yourself some kindness and forget him now.”

It brought her a childish satisfaction to see the way he tightened his grip on his silverware, the half-eaten steak on his plate growing colder as his attention was diverted to her. She slammed her own knife down on the table, rattling her crystal water glass.

“I will never forget him. He is mine, and I will have him back.”

The possession in her voice surprised her as much as it seemed to annoy Herne. The King of the
Sluagh
narrowed his eyes, his face drawing into deep, irritated lines as if someone had just put their finger in his pudding.

“Marian, do not press me into doing something unfortunate. If you were to convince me that you are serious about persisting in this matter, that you will not heed my command to stay away from this
sidhe
, then I would be forced to take matters into my own hands. I would make certain you did not see him again, and I do not think you would like my methods.”

“What are you going to do?” Marian shot out of her seat, startling several occupants of the table into dropping their silverware. Two long rows of eyes widened, all attention riveted on her as she planted her fists on the table, leaned into the face of the Master of the Wild Hunt. “Tell me, my king, what will you do? See him stabbed with iron? Left poisoned and bleeding to death? Perhaps drop him into the hands of his greatest enemy, someone who will do worse than kill him, someone who will torture him, maim him, make his life an unspeakable nightmare?”

She choked on the last word, unable to keep the images of Robin out of her head. Images of him held in the sheriff’s grip, his blood pouring in what looked like great bucketfuls down his side and into the grass. She could see the sheriff’s face, see the insane gleam in his eyes, the bliss of finally having Robin exactly where he wanted him.

I should have killed him when I had the chance. Killed him when he demanded that ridiculous
eric.

“Marian, sit down.”

Herne’s voice rubbed over her skin like a firm hand, soft but unyielding. A master’s touch. He could have forced her, she knew firsthand how impossible it was to ignore a command from that voice. Perhaps he was testing her, testing her willingness to be civil. His condescension grated over Marian’s already raw nerves and she jutted her chin out, staring him in the eyes.

If possible, the room grew more silent still. She could feel thousands of eyes on her, feel the shock and horror of the people who were for all intents and purposes her kin. All strangers.

Herne held her gaze, but the burst of fury she’d been expecting didn’t come. Instead, he released his silverware, very gently, and leaned back in the large chair that dwarfed all others in the room. “You have known him for less than a week. He is a thief, a childish brat unwanted even among his own family. You have a chance here to find a true home, to be among people who will love you, respect you, support you no matter what. And yet you are making this difficult, fighting me every step of the way. Why?”

For a second, just a second, she thought he might really want to know. That there might really be some hope in trying to convince him, in explaining to him why she could never stay here. “I love him. I need to be with him, to make certain he’s all right. He means more to me than…than anything. I belong with him. I don’t belong here.”

The opaque black eyes of her king fell away from hers, down to his dinner. He picked up his silverware and resumed eating, dismissing her assertion with the speed of someone who had not been listening, not really. “Yes, you do belong here. And you will remain here until you realize that.” He ate a bite of steak and his nose wrinkled. “Cold,” he muttered. He set his silverware down on his plate and beckoned to a servant to bring him a new dinner. He spoke again without having the grace to look at her. “You have been lost to us for thirty years. At least give me that long to woo you back to where you belong.”

Glorious anger poured over her, hardened into battle-ready armor. “Woo me back? Is that what you think you’re doing?” She straightened, raised her voice so everyone in the great room could hear her—and she knew they were listening. “You forced me to change, ordered me about like a dog. You made me leave the man I love, leave him dying in the hands of his enemy. You ask for thirty years to ‘woo’ me back. And for those thirty years, I am to enjoy myself, knowing that the man I love is suffering, is being tortured?” She sneered at him, letting her “expressive” face broadcast the disgust her arrogant king inspired in her. “And you wonder why I hid from you. Why I didn’t want to be
associated
with this court.”

Herne gripped the arms of his chair, every muscle in his body coiling, ready to spring. Something inside Marian cowered, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, warning her that danger was near, was coming for her. She swallowed it, thought of Robin, thought of what he was going through, what he was suffering because of her. She bared her teeth.

“Your Majesty?”

Herne and Marian both swiveled their heads to face the man who had spoken. He was a wizened old man, not more than three feet tall, dressed in a ragged brown cloak. His skin was a pale lavender, and the white hair that hung to his shoulders was a stark white. He leaned heavily on a gnarled walking stick and stood less than a foot from Herne’s chair.

“I am in the middle of something, Richard.” Herne’s voice held an echo of his anger like the rumble of thunder, but his tone was strangely tempered by something bordering respect.

The old man inclined his head. “I realize that, my king, and I do beg your pardon for the interruption. But the Queen of Air and Darkness is here requesting an audience. As Your Majesty knows, it can be…counter-productive to keep her waiting.”

Herne blinked. “Dubheasa is here?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Marian’s eyebrows rose at Herne’s use of the queen’s first name, inched higher when he slumped back in his seat, his hands rising to massage his temples in slow, deliberate circles. Her anger dimmed slightly, mitigated by her intrigue for what could have caused the sudden shift in the king’s manner.

After a long minute of silence, Herne spoke. “All right. I’m coming.”

He dropped his hands to the arms of his chair and started to push away from the table. The old man, Richard, held up one four-fingered hand. “Your Majesty, the queen has asked to see you here, in the banquet hall.”

Herne paused, his back still bowed in preparation to stand. “Why?” As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he waved a hand, fending off the answer. “Nevermind. The gods themselves would have a time trying to unravel that woman’s mind.” He settled back in his chair. “Show her in.”

As Richard left, Herne turned his focus to Marian. The anger was gone from his eyes now, replaced by a weariness that confused her. “Sit, Marian. We will resume our discussion when our guest leaves.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath. “In point of fact, perhaps after this little visit, you will view our court in a more favorable light. Once you get a little…perspective.”

Marian opened her mouth, ready to tell him that she would never see this court favorably until she was viewing it from a distance, standing next to Robin, but a sudden scent stopped her dead. She lifted her face, sniffing the air. Crushed clover and gold.

Robin.

She was out of her chair before Herne could stop her, racing across the room with no thought to the people she bumped as she ran. The doors at the other end of the cavern swung open and a woman swept inside.

She was gorgeous. Skin so pale it glowed faintly, made all the more radiant by the black hair spilling behind her in thick, dark waves. Her gown was the same shade of black as her hair, so it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. The gown flowed over her shoulders, leaving her arms and most of her chest bare, revealing soft swells of pale flesh. The material of her gown had a hazy quality, and the edges seemed softer than they should be, curling up like wisps of smoke.

Gloves covered her arms from her fingertips to her elbows, wicked black thorns curling outward from the cuffs. She held a spear in her right hand, a stick of ash-colored wood ornamented with black spikes, culminating in a twisted, sharp tip that seemed as though it could draw blood if it were so much as pointed at a living target.