Page 76 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Nineteen

Pippa was not so foolish as to think that Lachlan was not keeping far more secrets than she could imagine. He was the mysterious sort, stalking the University halls with his books and his owl, even before the business of the stealing of books.

No one stole that many books without a purpose.

She would solve that mystery, at least. All collections reflected their collectors. There would be a shared theme or subject, however faint, a thread she could follow. Another red ribbon. Something.

This morning there was only the mist at the window, thicker than it was the day before.

And the spark under her feet from the spell she thought had gone dormant again.

Eyes flashed in the mists outside.

The soles of her feet prickled.

She followed as the magic led her outside into the walled garden with its topiary owls and gravel walkways. She knew the fountain was still there, could hear the water burbling, but the fog was so thick that she could not see it. It was only that shimmering white rolling in waves around her. Her cuff burned, as did her witch knot.

The gravel crunched with every step, echoing around her. Purple foxgloves and delphinium bent toward her, the ice turning them to glass. The unnatural fog swallowed the other sounds, the wind, the beetles and crickets, the bluebells whose ringing she had grown to love. An owl swooped past her, so close and so silent, urging her to follow. She did not know what she was looking for, but she could not imagine there were more stolen books hidden in the garden. She hoped not, as the conditions were appalling.

And then she found Lachlan.

He was by the garden wall, where the mist was filled with the glint of eyes. Another owl screeched a warning overhead.

That was when Pippa noticed the mist was not just thicker, but it had hold of Lachlan.

It had formed into hands, grabbing at him, dragging him deeper and deeper into the murk. There was blood on his shirt, ice under his boots. When he saw her, the fury on his face turned stark and terrifying. “Pippa,” he called, ice jutting from the ground around him like spears. The hands broke apart but quickly re-formed. “Go back!”

She ignored him because he was being ridiculous. She was not going to let him be…swallowed…by the mists. Eaten? She did not know what it was trying to do, exactly, only that she had no intention of allowing it. She marched closer even as he swore.

“Don’t let it touch you,” Lachlan said through his teeth. Pain made his jaw look as if it were carved from stone. His silver eye looked frozen.

Pippa had dealt with goblins and trolls and ogres and assistant professors. She was hardly going to let a little thing like possibly poisoned magical mists stop her. “That is enough,” she snapped, pushing every bit of her Librarian training into her voice.

The mists paused, as if confused.

They boiled into hands and claws again soon enough, but something about them was sentient. They had heard her or had felt her command. And they could feel Lachlan as well, if they could grab at him in that way.

Which meant they could feel fire.

She slipped off her bracelet. She did not need finesse, she assured herself, just enough control not to accidentally burn Lachlan. She had been practicing; surely she could do that much.

And the sight of some unknown thing coming for her husband made her blood boil. She did not care for it.

Her fire did not care for it either.

It streaked through her body and sparked all along the garden wall, flaring into flames with violent blue hearts. The mist hissed, fading into droplets of water. But it wasn’t quite enough: the ghostly hands continued to claw at Lachlan, trying to drag him over the garden wall.

Pippa sprinted toward him even as he shouted at her to stop. Fire crackled and snapped, whips of light beating back the encroaching fog. She pulled the red ribbon from around her neck, the key dropping into her stays, and looped it around Lachlan’s wrist, then her own, binding them together. Magic shimmered.

Pippa threw herself backward, pulling Lachlan with her. The mists released him so abruptly that they tumbled into the grass. He stayed there, covering her with his body, breaths ragged, owls circling overhead. He pressed his brow to hers. “Are you mad, woman?”

Something dangerously close to confidence ran through her. She had burned away the mists without burning either of them. Fire smoldered on the stone wall, but it was contained, an afterthought.

“You look very pleased with yourself,” Lachlan remarked fondly, even with the blood on his clothes and the welts on his skin. He kissed her gently. “I am grateful,” he added. “And also fucking furious with you.”

“You are welcome,” she said tartly.

“Pippa, you do not stand between me and danger ever again.”