Page 102 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

And if not, I don’t think Lark will be angry about what I’ve agreed. Our magic—mine and Lark’s, and Oisin’s, too—has gone some way to healing the damage caused by centuries of neglect. Not a lot, but enough to buy us some time. A few more months maybe?

That has to be better than dying right now.

The oak reaches out again. That heavy magic sweeps through me, testing and gently probing along everywhere my own magic might touch, and when it presses against the thread of the bond that ties me to Lark, he lets out a gasp.

Magic feeds into it, swelling it until it’s full and gold shines behind my eyelids. I’ll never see it the way Grant and Ophelia apparently can, but that doesn’t matter if I can feel it.

Thank you. I am grateful. And the oak knows that, too. My magic returns to me in a dizzying rush, and from the sudden strength of Lark’s and my bond, he has his back, too. I get another push from the oak. Urgency. Determination.

Yeah, we don’t have much time. I pat its trunk gently and then step back, taking a moment before I open my eyes. The oak still stands strong, but it is only a matter of time.

Lark curls his fingers over my shoulder. “You did it,” he breathes.

“Yeah. For now.”

I feel him like I did the oak a moment ago. Relief and understanding—he knows I agreed to something, and he doesn’t mind at all.

“Hey, guys?” Grant calls. “Not to interrupt, but… We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lark

Abit of a problem is an understatement, but I believe that is Grant’s way of pushing his own anxiety away. Not many fae are out here with us. Those who are… well, they are furious.

Oisin meets my gaze. He is breathing hard; he felt the bond between us, the one linking us to the crowns, shatter just as I did. Now the only bond that exists for me is the one between me and Dante.

He looks at me apprehensively. I know the deal he struck. The oak showed it to me. We will find the rightful people to wear these crowns, or we will be forfeited. It is a better deal than I would have made under the circumstances and quick thinking on his part. Now I look in the direction Grant is facing.

The witch. She stands further down the path, her face like thunder. Dante lets out a shaky breath.

“We need to go,” he says.

“The Guardians cannot open their gate here. We cannot—”

“Grant!” Dante calls, just as the witch spreads her arms wide and roots erupt from the dirt around us. They are not the oak’s roots; that stands steadfast between us, and she will no more touch it than the rest of the fae here.

I drag Dante out of the way as a root crashes into the ground where he was just standing, smashing through Oisin’s wards as though they are not there at all. They whip through the air, sharp and heavy. Oisin has Ophelia close in a similar fashion, while Grant fends for himself, though he is faster than either of us. He leaps up into the oak’s branches, ignoring the horrified cries of fae below.

“You want me to try to open it?” he shouts back. The witch narrows her eyes and strides forward, but she cannot reach him up there. Not without damaging the oak. She might want this realm to fade, but harming the oak is like lying. We simply cannot.

“If you could!” I drag Dante out of the way of another root, then use my own magic to cut through it. It does not stop moving, but the end I have cut off falls to the ground, dead.

“Fuck’s sake,” Grant mutters. Then, louder, “Yeah, okay. Hold on!”

There is nothing to hold on to. I raise wards as best I can around us, but the witch unleashes more of her power and the roots smash them to ribbons. Dante wriggles in my grip, reaching into his pocket. The witch has focused her ire on Oisin and Ophelia first, probably because they are closer, without the tree between them and her.

“Catch!” he yells, and Ophelia does not hesitate, reaching her hands out for whatever Dante has thrown. A small bag—the bag the witch gave him in her cottage. She has almost reached them, and in a sudden movement, Ophelia pushes Oisin aside.

A root is heading right for her. The witch smirks. Dante tenses in my arms, but he says nothing as Ophelia dips her hand into the bag and makes her own move, rushing a few steps closer to the witch.

She raises her hand and uncurls her fist, then blows lightly. Grey specks float through the air, and when they land on the witch’s face, she screams.

Oisin grabs Ophelia around the waist and pulls her over to the oak. He winces when he does it and Dante makes a wounded sound. Iron. I smell it in the air. The other fae fall back, less eager to help than a moment ago. Above us, Grant drags on all the power he can, and he is full of it, drawing it from the suns as they creep higher in the sky.

“Throw me the crowns,” he shouts.

To my surprise, Oisin does not hesitate. He takes the crown from his head and tosses it up into the branches. Grant hooks it over one and leaves curl around it, holding it in place. Dante turns and carefully lifts mine from my head.