Page 60 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

“A millennium?” Dante pales. “And you—They—”

“There are those who believe we might live forever, as vampires do,” I continue, “but that at some point, our magic needs to return to its source. Cycle into our realm, into new fae. We cannot exist without our magic. We require at least a spark. We are like wolves in that.”

Dante nods, but I am not certain he truly hears me now. How long does he have without me? Fifty, sixty years? Perhaps a little longer, as I know some witches do find that their magic extends their lifespan by a decade or two. With Ophelia, that seems likely—a wolf witch is usually more powerful, and she will have traits from her wolf parent, too.

But Dante? I reach for his magic now, and mine gently brushes against it. He jumps, eyes darting to mine.

No. Not enough. Maybe an extra year or two. Maybe not. Either way, it will be impossible to tell.

The thought dampens my already terrible mood, but before I can say anything else, sound ripples through the crowd around us. I glance over. Oisin has arrived, and he has Ophelia on his arm.

Dante grabs my sleeve when he sees her. He only lets go when they approach. Oisin ducks his head, and I study their matching outfits, the deep burgundy at odds with this spring day.

“Your Highness,” Oisin says, “your soulbond. Safely returned.”

He offers her arm to me, and I can do nothing else but take it. Ophelia does not tense when I touch her, but she is not relaxed either. “I am grateful for her safe return. Those responsible?”

“Taken care of.” Oisin’s grin is fast and wicked. He is not lying as such, and yet the entire court knows that we are both playing out a farce. They know she was taken. They will always believe it was Oisin, that he intimidated me into gaining a crown.

Let them. I give Ophelia the faintest smile and then look over in the direction of the band, a group of fae who have been awaiting their cue. The leader, a pixie, sweeps into a low bow before she signals for the music to begin.

My stomach twists unpleasantly. I pull Ophelia a little closer. “Shall we dance?”

Aodhan arrives a few hours later. I do not sense his approach, surrounded by the magic of other fae and of the gardens themselves, but when I look over to check on Dante, who does not seem to realise that Oisin has been shadowing him, Aodhan is already speaking with him.

“Oh, no.”

“What is it?” Ophelia hisses. She is a very good dancer, if an angry one. Others might not believe so, but the force with which she has stepped on my feet several times tells me that it was not unintentional. It is doubtful we will spend any time truly alone before they all leave, and yet I think she wants to, if only so she can shout at me.

“My uncle has arrived.”

Ophelia pales. I spin us around so she can see Dante, and her hand clenches in my grip. “That’s him?”

“Yes.”

“He’s powerful. I can feel it from here.”

“That is because he is showing off.”

She looks at me questioningly. I shrug. We dance through the circle of other fae, some of whom are shouting and whooping, sensing that this existential fear might soon be over. It is a rare feeling for us. Such a long existence should lend itself to considering the future, but too many fae live in the moment to truly grasp it.

“Oisin really doesn’t like him,” Ophelia whispers.

“Many fae do not.”

“No, he…” She presses her lips together as though she does not wish to say anything, then shakes her head. “He’s scared of him, I think.”

Interesting. It is not that I believe Oisin does not fear other fae. Quite the opposite; any high fae who wishes to survive in the court is clever enough to fear their kin. No, what is interesting is that Ophelia knows this about him.

“I thought you wanted to announce it before he got here,” Ophelia says.

I shake my head. If that were the case, we would have never hosted a party. The announcement could have been done in the great hall, clear and succinct.

Aodhan needs to be present, if only so he cannot claim later that he was given no warning. And we will have witnesses. Witnesses who are so desperate for their realm to be saved that they will give no quarter when it comes to a power-hungry fae who might condemn them.

“Are you thirsty?” I ask, and Ophelia understands my meaning immediately.

“Parched.”