Page 49 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

He doesn’t venture into the bedroom, and with the bathroom door open, I’m glad of it because Lark doesn’t move away. He flattens his hand over my chest and I tremble.

“Stay close tonight,” he murmurs, the words so quiet against my ear that I know they’re just for me. “We will find her, but I will not have you in harm’s way. Not for a second.”

He lifts his head and fixes me with that dark gaze again. I think I can read some warmth in it now, or maybe I’m just imagining it.

“I will,” I say.

He smiles, and his touch lingers for another second before he lets go and strides back out of the bathroom. I sag back against the sink, trying to catch my breath. The place where he touched is warm, and I press my fingers to it.

I might already be in harm’s way, but I don’t think I mind that at all.

Chapter Fifteen

Lark

Zomo has outdone herself. The great hall is transformed from its empty, desolate state of a few hours ago, and although magic has made the feat possible in mere hours, her vision is truly unmatched. Vines creep over every surface, flowers blooming in corners of the room.

We Unseelie might value fauna more than flora, but we are still creatures of nature. From the impressed murmurs I hear from small groups admiring the flowers, which shimmer in the faint glow that emanates from the walls, I know that Zomo has made her point.

She will remain in the Unseelie court. She has thrown a ball worthy of a future king.

The troll at the door announces my entrance, and all heads swivel our way. Grant is a step or two behind me and Dante, but the troll skips over Dante to announce Grant instead, mentioning only his supposed species and name. Selkies are notoriously social, and I do not know how he has managed to avoid affiliating himself with even an invented clan, but then perhaps he has used the mention of a husband to his advantage.

A human partner is hardly valued here, no matter the species of fae.

My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and rest my hand on Dante’s lower back, to steer him through the room. He receives as many curious glances as I do, but he keeps his eyes down and does not stray. My jaw hurts from how tightly I am already holding it. If they knew the truth of my soulbond, things would be very different.

Of course, if they knew the truth, Dante would not be here at all. The thought seizes me. I know the truth, and that is that, had Dante been stolen, I would not have taken so long to arrive. I would not have waited meekly for someone to bring him to me.

I recognise hardly any of the fae who move to greet me, and many are younger than I expect, which is to say, at least a few centuries old, but younger than those who used to make up our court. And it is court fae who greet me first, desperate to be seen and recognised and to, hopefully, keep their positions once that crown rests on my head.

I murmur my way through the pleasantries, and though gazes stray to Dante from time to time, no mention is made of him.

“You have been to visit them?” the fae before me asks. Veles. He is older, older than even my parents, though by a handful of years. His dark hair is shot through with silver—a magical indulgence rather than a quirk of aging. I do not know when he will fade. He appears hearty enough.

“The tomb?”

He inclines his head in affirmation.

“Yes. We were there this afternoon.”

He looks at Dante, and there is no indication of surprise on his face that I would take a pet there. Dante darts his eyes up, then away.

“You would have been wiser not to bring him here,” Veles says to me after a few silent seconds.

“I would have been wiser not to come back at all. Unfortunately, my hand was forced.”

“You should have never allowed it to be.”

I bristle, and so does Dante, though his reaction is, somehow, even subtler than mine. Veles clicks his tongue against his teeth, annoyed.

“There has been talk already,” he says. “We cannot risk our entire realm every time a leader passes.”

“Talk about what?”

“Whether the fae who wear the crowns should rule us.”

“You sound like a Seelie.”