Page 103 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

“You should probably chuck it up there, though.”

I do as I am told. Grant sets that next to the first. None of the fae will take them. It is not even that I believe they will not dare; the oak rattles its branches menacingly.

The witch howls again. Her face is streaked red—blood or burns or both—and she charges towards us, roots flying. I raise more wards. Oisin does the same, but he knows as well as I do that we have little time.

“I hope you’re all ready for this!”

That is all the warning we get before a mighty crack rends through the air. It splits just next to the oak, and magic explodes out of it as it widens until there is enough room for one person to get through.

“The roots,” Dante whispers. “We can’t let her through.”

He is right. And so I push all of my power into the nearest root, feeding it into that network, trusting that the witch is so distracted by this broken gate that she will not notice.

She does not. I lash out, knocking her off her feet, and Oisin pushes Ophelia through the gate first.

“Go!” Dante yells at him, and Oisin looks at him in surprise. Dante gestures and he hesitates only for another second before he follows her through. “Grant?”

“Right behind you. Can’t exactly power it from the other side, can I?” Grant is crouched in the branches above, ready to leap. His face is pale, sweat dripping from his forehead and down to the collar of his shirt. His knuckles are white where he is holding on.

“Go,” I murmur in Dante’s ear. He looks at me once before he runs through the gap.

I glance up at Grant, just to be certain that he will follow. He nods, then his expression shifts.

I leap aside as another root impales where I was just standing. The witch is on her feet again and now the air is thick with her magic. The clouds move quickly overhead. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

I do not have the power to face her; I know that. But if I do not do something, she will stop Grant from leaving. And he will suffer in my stead. I raise wards around him, ignoring his cry of dismay, then push the rest of my magic into the roots again.

I am Seelie. I am one of you. I have always cared for the trees and the flowers and now, I ask you to listen.

The roots quiver, and when I open my eyes again, they have all frozen. One is mid-air, perhaps an inch from my face. I take a careful step around it and towards the gate.

The witch shakes where she stands. She can move, but her magic is wrapped up all in the roots, which are wrapped in my magic and their own inherent awareness that they should be deep in the earth, seeking nutrients, and not doing… this.

“Grant,” I murmur. He will hear me. I cannot leave him behind.

He slips to the ground and grabs my arm. “Come the fuck on,” he hisses, and his vampire speed and strength are enough for him to propel us through the gate, me slightly ahead of him.

It slams shut behind us, magic flaring behind my eyes, and I land hard, sprawling on…

Carpet?

I roll onto my back with a groan. Hands run over my torso, gentle, as though checking for damage.

I open my eyes. Dante leans over me, breathing hard, his own eyes too wide and worried.

“Are you okay? Jesus, when you didn’t—Are you okay?”

I grab him by the back of the neck and haul him down until his mouth meets mine. He makes a muffled sound against my lips and I laugh because we are both alive and I can feel the steady hum of his magic deep inside him and our bond might not be cemented yet—there is so much still to do—but we are alive.

“Holy fuck,” someone mutters, and Dante pushes at my chest as he ends the kiss.

I look up and immediately realise where I am. Grant has brought us home, which for him, is the Wild Hunt base. Jeremiah stands in the doorway to the kitchen, for once dumbfounded.

“Hey,” Grant says. He gives Jeremiah a wave and a tired grin. “Is Vlad—”

I hear nothing at all, only see a dark flicker of shadow, but then Vladimir is leaning over Grant, on his knees on the floor, hands gently tipping up his face.

“You’re here,” Grant breathes. His next breath is almost a sob. “Fuck, I thought—”