Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Never mind. Thank—” He’s already gone. I sigh. “You.”
I survey the rancid swamp. There’s not a soul in sight, but I’ve spent enough time in the company of Mordeus’s followers and heard enough chatter to know they have a training outpost near here. When night falls, I’ll put on my ring and ask every one of his disgusting sycophants where I can find the resurrected king.
The wind rustles through the trees, and the sun sinks toward the horizon. I don’t have much daylight left to find what I’m looking for, so I hike up my cloak and start walking.
The farther I walk from the swamp, the more the rancid smell fades and is replaced by the scent of the forest.
I love this time of year in the mortal realm—the changing colors of the leaves on the trees and the crunch of the dry grass beneath my boots as I walk. I ache for it—ache to return to Elora and stay.
But I don’t belong there anymore. While the truth of my ancestry might not be known among the mortals of Elora, I know, and I feel like a fraud when I’m there. As if the humans of my home realm can see the faerie lurking beneath my skin. My sister’s station comes with so many rules, and while I’ve resented many of them, resented this world and the way we were shoved into it, the Midnight Palace is the closest thing I have to a home.
And she wants to send me away.
I lean back against a thick oak and close my eyes, enjoying my reprieve from the watchful stares of my sister’s sentinels.
I wonder if they’re noting my absence back at the palace. I hope the words the Enchanting Lady whispered to my guards will keep anyone from checking my chambers until morning.
I won’t let myself think about what I will do if I don’t find Mordeus tonight. I can’t.
A hand slaps over my mouth, and hot breath hisses in my ear. “Silence.” A masculine voice, low and rough. He’s too strong, too big for me to escape, and I feel myself shutting down, feel the panic making me freeze when I need to fight.
I throw my elbow into my captor’s gut, and he grunts softly before tightening his hold and pinning down my arms.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
Rough fabric is shoved over my head, and horrible darkness envelops me. I try to scream—try and try and try—but there’s nothing. As if I never had a voice.
Then I’m flying through the air. My breath rushes out of me with an oomph as I’m thrown over a shoulder.
“Easy,” a feminine voice says. “He said to be careful with her.”
“I’ll be easy when we’re out of here.”
I’m jostled more, like an inconvenient sack he’s forced to carry, and then we’re running—the crunch of crisp leaves underfoot and air winding around my legs, cool even through my riding leathers. I want to flail, to struggle, to injure with all the maneuvers my trainers taught me, but I can’t move. My arms and legs are as paralyzed as my voice.
There’s a low braying, and I’m hoisted up and over—a horse?
“Let’s go!” Then we’re off. Flying. My stomach pummeled by the jostling of the horse.
I thrash violently. Or try. I can’t move my limbs, but if I squirm enough, perhaps I’ll fall off.
This is why Brie wanted to keep me locked up. This is why she has her rules. Because she knows. How many times did she tell me that they would come for me, that there was always a risk of someone wanting to hurt me?
And here I brought myself to our enemy’s doorstep during hours not fit for my ring, and now some sort of wicked faerie magic is stealing my voice and strength.
What if they’re taking me to Mordeus?
My heartbeat stutters, and bile surges up my throat. I can already feel his hot breath in my face as he taunts me. Can already imagine the wicked curl of his lips as he draws out my torture.
“Would you please make her still before she falls off?” the male says.
“Fine,” his female companion says.
Panic has me by the chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t—
I hear a puff and then . . . sleepiness falls over me. So heavy. I fight it. Try to keep my eyes open. I can’t be weak if I’m to face him again.
I focus on the sound of the hooves on the path, the feel of the wind snapping the exposed skin at the back of my neck, and the smell of the swamp in the distance. I make myself describe each of these things in my mind as I cling to consciousness, but it’s too late. I’m pulled deeper.
Chapter Three
Felicity
“THREE DROPS EACH MORNING AND no more,” I say, my wrinkled fingers gripping the pipette to fill the small bottle with the healing tincture. “If her cough doesn’t get better in two days, come back. But this should be an improvement over the thyme and honey variation you tried last week.” I stride to the front counter and pass the bottle to the pale-faced young mother.