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The attacker gingerly propped the fae up against the wall, fumbled over her wounds for a moment, his hands shaking. “You’ll live,” he said hoarsely. “Your injuries aren’t fatal.”
He fidgeted for a few more seconds before he grasped his sword and stood abruptly. Looking up, he seemed to calculate something for an instant. In the next second, he called upon power that tasted of the earth, of green and thriving things. The floor rumbled, broke apart in front of him, and branches shot out of the hole. They twined around him, enfolded and surrounded him, and then they rose, rose, rose, lifting him up to the lofty ceiling, where starlight twinkled through high-arched windows at the top, right under the dome of the throne room. As soon as he reached those windows, the intruder jumped off the branches, through the glass pane, and into the dark of the night.
Isa shook so hard her hand almost slipped off the stone wall, which would have exposed her presence. She couldn’t leave now. She had to wait for the guards to break through the magically locked doors—which should open soon, now the intruder and his magic were gone. She could then try to sneak out through the open exits.
If they saw her here, she’d be implicated in the massacre. Who’d believe a lowborn bounty hunter when she told them about an attacker with powers beyond anything she’d seen in recent times and how he slaughtered the entire royal court in the span of a few heartbeats? No, they’d assume she played a part in it, and no fair trial would await her.
While the magic securing the doors still worked—guards shouted outside, rattled the handles, in vain—something stirred among the carnage. One of the fallen fae rose on unsteady legs, clearly injured, yet able to crawl-walk over to the female fae propped against the wall.
Two. There were two survivors. Plus Isa, merged with the stone.
The other wounded fae—a male, his skin a golden glow underneath the blood painting him in gory strokes, his hair probably silver—sank down in front of the female fae.
“The witch family’s name,” he said in a low voice, “is Murray?”
The female eyed him, hesitated.
He pulled out a dagger, plunged it into one of her wounds. She uttered a gurgling scream.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Murray.”
“Good.”
And he slit her throat.
Isa flinched, pushed her back harder against the wall in an instinctive urge to sink into the stone, to reinforce her cloaking. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, its drumbeat pounding in her head. Sweat coated the hand she held pressed against the stone, praying it would continue to keep her hidden, and safe.
The magic in the air, the one barring the doors, eased, then vanished. The male fae—a member of the royal court, judging by his expensive tunic—lay down next to the female he just killed, and when the doors burst open and guards streamed inside, he groaned and cried out for help.
In the flurry of agitation while the guards inspected the room and carried the male fae out, Isa inched closer to one of the open side doors, keeping her hand on the wall and herself hidden in stone. She timed it right, made it out when no one was looking—the doors were wood adorned with gold, nothing she could work her magic on, so she had to make herself visible to sneak out—and immediately plastered her hand against the stone again once she was out of the room.
She walked as fast as she could without losing contact with the walls, until she was far away enough from the throne room that she wouldn’t arouse suspicion. And then she ran. Because for the first time in twenty-six years, she had hope, real hope of surviving this curse. She just had to find the changeling.
Problem was, she wasn’t the only one looking for him.
Chapter 2
“Ladies first.” Basil Murray bowed and, with a courtly gesture, indicated the dark oak door to his family’s kitchen.
“Cut the crap.” His twin sister Lily—recently turned into a demon by a wacko suitor who then deservedly met a most violent death—shook her head and took a step back. “You go ahead.”
“Don’t be a wuss.”
“You’re the one who’s being a sissy.”
“Am not. You’re—” Basil sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are we, ten? This is ridiculous.”
“I agree.” Lily crossed her arms, her black curls sliding over her bare shoulders, her light skin now adorned with her demon markings. He still wasn’t used to it, and he was startled every time he saw the swirling lines, or noticed their color change from dark brown to fading henna, depending on Lily’s energy level.
“Which is why you should just go in and talk first,” Lily added. “After all, you’ve always been so much more mature than me.” She batted her eyelashes at him and gave him an innocent and slightly pouty smile.
Basil shot her a dark look. “That trick only works on your mate, sis.”
She blew a lock of her hair to the side. “Was worth a try.”
He stared at her. She stared back. He gestured toward the closed door, and the daunting task looming behind it. She gestured right back at him, silently telling him no fucking way.
