Page 41 of The Fae’s Treasure

“I can do it here or there.”

“The organ at the church seems much larger.” Dairmuid looks at the small electric organ that sits proudly in the corner of the living room.

“Well, it is. This is the kind most organists have in their houses. I’d really love to play an organ like the one at Longwood Gardens or the Wanamaker Organ one day,” I sigh.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because they’re huge! And expensive. And don’t belong to me,” I giggle, realizing that it’s going to be fun watching Dairmuid learn about human life—although I’m dreading journeying into the fae realm and meeting my immortal in-laws. “Can your mother and father come here?” I ask suddenly.

“What? To hear you play the organ?” Dairmuid looks puzzled.

“No! So they don’t meet me and decide to like... imprison me in a pumpkin or something. I heard fae are tricky.”

Dairmuid smirks. “My parents will grow to love you. But I think you’re right. It would be good if they journeyed here first. Or, a neutral realm. A realm between.”

“A realm between? What’s that? Can you do that?”

“Not everywhere, no, but here I can. Pine Ridge and the edges of the fae realms are rich in energy, which is why all sorts of supernatural beings journey here, looking for what they need to survive or thrive. Now, think of it like the little dome I made for you last night—”

“For me? You were just as loud,” I tease, blushing.

Dairmuid doesn’t blush. He leans back against the counter, a pleased grin on his face that makes me want to throw the bottles and sterilizer on the ground and flatten him on top of it. “Just as loud? You know, I’m not sure. Maybe we’d better try again. I think I’d quite like pulling you into a secret little realm anytime you wanted me. The middle of a party. A night when the children are restless, and you fear waking them.” Dairmuid swishes his hand through the air, and his pleased smile spreads. “There are already spots just teeming with energy, like they’re waiting to be opened.”

My skin prickles the second he says that, and it’s only by some miracle that I move away, trusting a deep, motherly instinct that says I need to protect Rory.

Because why should there be a thicket of energy inside my house, just waiting to be opened?

That doesn’t seem right, but Dairmuid moves far faster than a human when he wants, and his hand pops into nothingness as his smiling eyes meet my suddenly wary ones.

“Deanna? What—”

“Close it!” I scream.

“So soon?”

Everything inside of me freezes for a second, the “my car is crashing, and I’m watching in slow motion” feeling taking hold before adrenaline kicks in.

Sazara. Saz. She slides into my home and fills the entire kitchen with her presence. Huge bat-like wings. Ruby red skin, blazing eyes, and a perfect, curvaceous body covered in a black dress that was working overtime to provide any kind of coverage and was in danger of failing. Fangs in her smile. Talons outstretched. Tail lashing.

“You little bitch,” she turns to me, her hands still wrapped around Dairmuid’s, her claws sinking in before he can fight her off. “You stole my son, and you warded up the outside of the house, blessed and charmed every room. You didn’t think to look for a hiding place between in and out, did you? No. Because you—” she turns to Dairmuid and flings him to the other side of the kitchen as easily as throwing a paper cup, “have more cock than brains. You see one thing or the other, and you have precious little time for what might be a bit of both!” She roars, and a torrent of fire pours from her throat.

“Dair!” I scream, dropping to my knees.

“Frost!” Dairmuid usually doesn’t have to command his autumnal elements to obey, but he throws an entire November at her in one jerk of his good arm, the other one hanging limp at his side.

Saz laughs. “Oh, Dairmuid. For me? Why so cold, lover? I think you need to remember just how I used to warm you up.” She blasts flames at his torrents of ice, and the result is a house full of steam. The fire alarm goes off, and I know I have seconds before the sprinklers start, too.

Seconds before she does something worse. Kills Dairmuid. Rory.

Bonwit comes charging in from outside, a fleet of rolling orange pumpkins aimed at Saz, green vines shooting from thin air and working to wrap around her—which is kind of hard to do when your target is now crackling with flame. The pumpkins knock her off balance, but not down. The vines swat at her before burning, and the steam makes everything a gray, damp fog.

And what am I doing? I’m hiding. Down on the ground, shielding my son behind the kitchen island.

It’s one of those desperate moments that might go wrong, but everything else is going wrong, too. I open the cupboards, still empty, still waiting to be filled with appliances I’ll get around to buying one day, and I put Rory in the small, bare wooden space, squeezing his hand and praying.

Movements were swift. Silent. Careful.

Now that he’s out of my arms, caution is gone. I rise, I yank, and I scream.