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Which meant Thorin’s mortal body was weakening. He had served her well, sewing the seeds of discontent across the Fae lands for the past twenty-four years, even though he unwittingly thought he was doing so for his own benefit. He had bought her enough time to grow her army while the Fae monarchs bickered amongst themselves, keeping their eyes off the goings on in the human lands. But now the mind spinner had outlived his usefulness. It was time to kill him and take his power for herself.
“Summon another tribe of demonlings to retrieve the mind spinner,” she grumbled.
She was pleased she still had four tribes of demonlings, no easy feat, for each demonling tribe had their own queen. The difficulty was in keeping the tribes separated. She’d already lost a dozen tribes after they’d waged brutal wars against each other, for in their simple minds, there could only be one queen. Megaera had tried to supplant herself as their queen to no avail. She ruled the demonlings through persuasive magic and the promise of mannus, a special flower that produced a euphoric honey. After Megaera had seized control of the cavern where mannus was most abundant, controlling the demonlings had become much easier, though Megaera understood all too well the poisonous creatures would turn on her if they could.
He nodded. “I will personally summon the demonlings, but you should also know Flora, Derrick, and Marius have retreated to the temple in Windhaven with Malvolia.”
“Perfect.” She licked her fanged maw in anticipation. “The white witches will come to their aid.”
“In the meantime,” Gordin continued, “the queen has deposed the Lord of Elisi. The entire Northern Shore from Windhaven to Elisi is defenseless. Now would be a good time to strike Elisi. The ships are ready, Mistress. They await your or—”
“Enough!” She held up a silencing hand. Gordin had forgotten his place in giving her directions. “Tell them to hold.”
He quirked his one good brow. “Mistress?”
She snapped her gaze to his, snarling until he lowered his shoulders and his gaze. “I won’t go to war against the white witches without leverage.”
“We have leverage.” He looked up at her like an eager mongrel begging for scraps. “The white witches will be focused on the metamorphi and Shamadi, and they are no match for our undead army.”
She shook her head. “You underestimate their combined power, and I refuse to take any risks. The portal is almost ready.” She inwardly smiled while thinking of the treasure trove of hair she’d discovered in that brush—strands from all the Avias women, even the tasty little children. “Soon, I will have two very good reasons for the white witches to surrender.”
Chapter Eighteen
Thorin
Cyrene
Two days later
Thorin leaned back and belched into his fist, having filled his belly on hearty fish stew and ale. Despite the town’s shortage of food, he managed to get plenty for himself, thanks to his mind-spinning magic. Let others do without. He’d lived in the human realm for too long and wouldn’t deny himself the pleasures of good food now. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed living among the Fae. Everything was better here. The spices were more flavorful and the drink more potent. Most importantly, his magic was stronger, for he’d been able to completely spin the minds of the citizens of Cyrene. He’d acquired new clothes, a comfortable bed, and even a warm and wet whore, all at no expense to himself save for a little magic.
A young shifter with dark skin and plaited braids named Bridget returned to him, setting his empty bowls on a tray and handing him a fresh tankard. “Your ale, My Lord.”
“Thank you.” He took the ale from her, sipping the cool froth with a smile. He could get used to living in a place like this. Perhaps with a whore or two. His bones were growing tired, and he would love to spend the rest of his days in a comfortable bed, especially after the arduous flight across the mountains had strained the muscles in his wings. Despite drinking all of Anya’s elixir, they still hadn’t healed. Of course, he’d have to give up his dream of ever winning Flora’s heart. Or Anya’s. Either would do, for he loved them both, though they had yet to reciprocate his affections.
His gaze drifted to the child when she cleared her throat. She held out a hand, an expectant look in her eyes. “That will be two silvers.”
He was momentarily dumbstruck. Hadn’t he just spun her mind? “But I’ve already paid my tab.”
The child’s brows drew together. “You haven’t.”
Damn the child. Her mind was more stubborn than most of the townspeople. “I have.” He infused more magic into his voice, letting his mind-spinning weave slowly take effect. “You have collected it well in advance.”
She blinked at him. “I have.”
“Good girl.” He shooed her away like she was a stray mongrel. He inwardly laughed, because in a way, she was. Wolf shifters were the Terrae, the dregs, of the Fae world. He wouldn’t be surprised if the scamp carried fleas. “Now leave me in peace, and when I’m finished, send the whore Eide to my bedchamber.”
She curtsied, mumbling as she walked away, “Yes, My Lord.”
“You can’t find good help around here,” a familiar voice grumbled. “I had to fire my apprentice. I was twelve silvers short this week.”
Thorin stilled, fingering the hilt of his new dagger while listening in on the conversation of the two men sitting behind him. He’d recognized them earlier, the blacksmith and cobbler. They came here every day for an early supper and drink.
“I was eight silvers short,” the cobbler cried, “and my best leather is gone.”
Thorin smiled down at his new shoes made from the sturdiest leather and soft lamb’s wool to cushion the insides. They made him feel as if he was walking on clouds. Neither tradesman knew it was he who’d tricked them into believing he’d paid for their services. What an easy life he could have in the town of Cyrene.
He had just brought the mug of ale to his lips once more when a horn blared in the distance, followed by another. Two blares meant the townspeople were summoned to the square, and Thorin didn’t feel like moving from his comfortable chair.
