Page 72 of The Filigree Key

“I won’t be the only one who bleeds, witch.” He lunged forward.

“Alec.” The Stag Man’s voice snapped down the hall like the crack of a whip. “What are you doing?”

“He won’t let me have breakfast,” I called, not once taking my eyes off the enraged magic hunter. That dagger had appeared in his hand with skill that rivaled my father’s.

“I’m redirecting her to the courtyard, my lord,” Alec answered. He’d masked his lunge into a purposeful walk. “As instructed.”

“I’ll take it from here,” Ossian said, right behind me.

I yelped at the closeness of his voice, whirling around.

The fae king towered over me, his emerald eyes bright with something like maniacal delight. I’d expected him to be in a foul mood, what with Wystan in the wind and that borderline insurrection of the Brotherhood, but no. His smile was wide, sharp teeth glinting. He looked every inch like the cat who had caught the canary, guzzled the cream, and successfully raided the pantry for all the kitty tuna treats. At his hip, the rapier Faebane hung by his side.

“O-Ossian?”

The fae king snatched my face and crushed his mouth against mine in a brutal kiss. His tongue forced itself past my stunned lips and delved so deep that I nearly choked. He broke away with a sharp inhale through bared teeth, digging his fingers into my hair and dragging them against my scalp in a rough caress.

Thistle thorns! I’d told him not to be gentle with me, but this was a whole new level of roughness.

“It’s going to be a fantastic day, love,” he told me, kissing me again and bruising my lips. Seizing my hand, he pulled me after him. “Come on.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

My bones hurt, crushing and grating against each other under the force of the fae king’s grip. The magic oak tree flexed its roots with a sharp rustle of its leaves, channeling strength into my hand. It lent a speed reminiscent of the Rabbit Step Spell to my legs, otherwise Ossian would’ve dragged me down the hallway.

“Ossian,” I protested.

Breathless, I couldn’t manage another word until after he’d lifted me into the saddle. Quick as a leaf on the wind, he sprang onto his own horse and checked that the two burlap bags slung behind his saddle were secure.

“Let’s go,” he told the company.

Carissa, standing with a stone-faced expression and a deep cut on her bottom lip, handed me the reins to my dapple gray before mounting her own horse. Apparently the snake she’d caught hadn’t had enough juice to heal both her legs and her face. I tore my gaze from her and stuffed my feet into the stirrups. The reins were still slack, so I had to grab on to the dapple gray’s charcoal mane to keep my seat as the horse took off without my command.

Ossian’s bay thundered across the bridge, my gray close on his heels, a Brotherhood escort of four following after us. To the east, the yellow sun winked through the bare trees and sparkled in the spray of the waterfall. The morning frost clung to the bridge like white lichen and frosted the leaves that blew and piled everywhere in glittering crystals. Overhead, the day promised to be a deep blue and free of clouds, but a fierce, bone-deep chill in the air promised an incoming storm.

My mind was reeling—first Sawyer missing, then Ossian’s dramatic shift in temperament, now this stinging cold that pricked my cheeks and the end of my nose. I’d left my fox-fur coat in my room, so there was nothing to guard against the frigid air except my cowl. Risking a one-handed hold on the gray’s mane, I stuffed the hem of the cowl into the low neckline of the woolen dress and held the hood down on the top of my head.

Ossian slowed the horses with an unspoken command as we entered the town square, and I could finally blurt out, “Did you find him?”

The smile Ossian gave me was savage. “At dawn.”

My stomach hollowed out at the same time my pulse jumped. That was a win for Redbud, but it was a blow for the elm tree.

“Congratulations,” Misty Fields said.

“It is satisfying,” he agreed, inhaling deeply as if he was a newly released prisoner smelling free air once again. “I’ve planned quite the spectacle to celebrate.”

Leaning over in his saddle, he squeezed my knee. “I do hope you’re not disappointed. It is for the best, you know.”

A tight smile was my only reply.

Our horses’ hooves clopped against the cobblestone street, circling the rotary to take the western road. A town on the verge of winter and the brink of famine-like conditions did not sleep past dawn. The shutters were open and lanterns were in the windows, beckoning customers.

Emmett’s pop-up trading post (an open-air flea market) was particularly busy, as was the Magic Brewery. My stomach growled at the smell of roasting beans, reminding me just how empty it was. I wanted to divert, to slake my thirst with a Misty Latte and indulge in something sweet and flaky—if someone had taken up supplying the brewhouse with pastry in my absence—but I refrained. Nobody was ordering the expensive lattes or cappuccinos, just plain black coffee to give a jolt to your day and some warmth in your stomach. No one could afford to, and I didn’t want to flaunt in their faces that I could. And at their expense, too. There was reason why the castle larder was always stocked and theirs weren’t.

Those folks who had canned all their summer and fall harvests had set up a late-season farmers market to see what they could sell in exchange for candles, oil, clothes, and firewood. One family of moles sold roasted crickets and boiled Buffalo worms by the jar; a family of squirrels operated a griddle and made acorn-flour flapjacks with maple syrup to order.

Cody Beecham was there, perched on top of a pile of split wood stacked sky-high and slurping from a cup of coffee. Without a wagon in sight, nor Arthur’s muscles to have helped him haul it, I wondered how he’d gotten it all into town.