A Dance with the Fae Prince by Elise Kova
Chapter 8
The atrium is empty.But the door directly across from me is ajar. I’ve never seen it open before. I glance between it and the stairs that round up the tower.
I take the stairs first, two at a time. Based on the noises, either Lord Fenwood left with a group of people, or that group was here to murder him for some horrible deed he never thought was worth telling me.
I emerge onto a loft, bracing myself to see the lord, or Oren, spread out in a pool of his own blood. But the room is void of anyone else—living or dead. However, it does look as if it has been ransacked. Cabinet doors have been left open. Boxes are on the floor, contents overturned. This room was some kind of workshop. There are paints, splattering the floor and still in jars. There are herbs drying overhead. Their aromas mix with the scent of wood shavings and a metallic, sharp twang of blood that I can’t seem to find the source of. I want to spend hours slowly inspecting this personal space of Lord Fenwood’s. But there’s no time.
Back downstairs, I head through the door to the right wing. It’s the opposite setup as my quarters. Though instead of a study, there is another workroom. Nowhere do I see the copious tools a hunter would require. In fact, the only weapons I see are a few bejeweled daggers. One’s missing on a row of pegs.
He did say he hunted fae, however. Or was that a clever lie to a gullible woman he knew wouldn’t question? I slam my hands onto one of the countertops, and jars and vessels clank together as I curse under my breath. Fae hunter? I should’ve known better than to think such a thing was real.
My sisters were right and I abhor it. I don’t know anything about this man. But I will before dawn, I vow to myself.
At the end of the hallway, unlike mine, there’s a final door. It leads to a set of stone stairs that wind down into the darkness. A rush of cool air from those mysterious depths reminds me that I’m still just in a robe and nightgown. I shift my weight from foot to foot with restless energy, debating what to do next. Wherever the lord has gone, and whomever he’s gone with, whoever might have taken him, they can’t be too far ahead. But I’ve already wasted time looking through the various rooms. If I go back and change, I’ll lose them for sure.
I let out a string of curses and rush back into one of the studies to gather a lantern that I light using a nearby tinderbox. Drawing my robe tighter around me, I stand once more on the precipice of the stairs. I give myself a slow count of ten to find every scrap of bravery I have ever possessed then start downward.
The spiral stairway wraps in on itself two, four, twelve times. At the bottom is a long tunnel, cold and damp. My light stretches only a few steps ahead of me. I feel the darkness as though it were a living monstrosity, whispering threats from the unknown. My hand shakes slightly, rattling the lantern. The flame inside flickers. I grab my wrist with my other hand and hold it steady. The last thing I want is for my only light to go out.
The tunnel looks like one of the oldest parts of the castle, based on the stone and mortar, but at no point am I nervous about my safety within it. There are fresh support beams across the ceiling. Someone has been keeping up this ancient passageway. The question is why.
In the distance, a silvery archway is illuminated by moonlight—a way out. As I approach, I can hear voices drifting through the woods. I slow my pace and set down my lantern. The passage has slowly sloped upward, so the floor is no longer puddled with water. I notice several sets of footprints. I can’t tell how many people came ahead of me because it would be impossible to walk this passageway any way but single file.
But there are enough wet footprints that I’m worried, because I’m definitely outnumbered.
I should turn back. I know I should. But now curiosity has its hold on me and keeps pushing me forward. I came hunting for the truth. I won’t leave until I have it.
The tunnel drops me out into the forest. I shiver, though I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the immediate feeling of being exposed. Every shadowy tree looks down on me with anticipation, pale moonlight winking like a thousand-eyed beast in the canopy overhead.
Voices prevent me from cowering back into the tunnel and running for the safety of the manor. There’s a worn stone pathway that winds through the trees, fighting against the forest undergrowth. The voices are coming from the direction the walkway leads. I follow along on the edge of the path and soon see orange flickering. I crouch low and move with as much stealth as I can muster, getting close enough that I can make out every word the people are saying, but I don’t understand any of them. They speak in a strange tongue I don’t recognize.
Have these people taken Lord Fenwood? Or, are they his accomplices? His letter sounded like he knew he would do something tonight that would get him killed. That’s what keeps pushing me forward. I need the truth from this man, just once.
I come up against a tree and place my back to it. The people are chanting now. I can see shadowy outlines of them dancing in the firelight. I sink onto the blanket of pine needles that cover the forest floor. Crawling as slowly as possible, I creep up to the top of a small ridge.
The pathway that stretched out from the tunnel snakes through the forest and into a basin. Trees are perched on the ridge all around the circular area. In the little valley, there are four people.
No, not people, monsters.
One man has horns like a stag sticking up from his head. He keeps running his fingers through the fire, miraculously unburnt, while chanting low and thick. Another man and a woman dance around him. They have both stripped down to their small clothes and their bare skin has been completely covered in bright purple paint, a pattern of swirls, dots, and lines slithering across with an almost hypnotic effect as they move.
The woman has hair a deep red, dark brown skin, and wings like a butterfly. The man is pale, and has rams horns curling on either side of his face, and strong arms that end in bony claws. I shudder violently at the sight. They sing and squeal and cry out to the moon above as it stares down at what I can only describe as some kind of dark ritual.
These creatures are fae. No wonder why Lord Fenwood thought he would die tonight. I’m certainly not safe. I should leave before they spot me. But the fourth person’s presence is what keeps me here.
Standing opposite the man chanting and playing with the fire is an old gentleman with beady black eyes and gray, slicked-back hair. Oren is half naked, his chest painted as well. Unfurled from his back are two pale, gossamer wings, like those of a dragonfly. My throat goes dry and gummy. The slight hunch to his back… I let a fae into my bedroom.
Lord Fenwood let a fae into his home. He must have found out Oren’s true nature and planned on confronting him tonight. I dig my fingers into the dirt and pine needles, resisting the urge to scream in frustration.
Confronting Oren to out him as a fae would be suicide, the lord must have known this. Hence the letter. I think of his strong arms protecting me. What if he’s done this to keep me safe? He should have just sent Oren away.
Before I can take any foolish actions, all four people raise their arms and faces to the heavens above and let out a primal scream that comes to an abrupt stop. Slowly, reverently, they all turn to face the ridgeline opposite the pathway. Standing on a boulder, lording over the group, is a man I can only presume is their leader.
He wears a cape trimmed heavily with wildflowers. His broad chest is bare. Little more than a loincloth is draped around his waist and does nothing to hide the bulging muscles of his thighs. Across his body, more lines and symbols have been drawn in luminescent paint. Draped behind him, dragging on the ground as he walks, are tattered, crimson wings.
He exudes an air of power and authority. I am as entranced by him as I am terrified. He’s like a poisonous draught that promises to be the most delicious thing in the world…you’d knowingly risk death just for a taste.
The leader lifts up a small item with both hands as he descends toward the bonfire in the center of the glade. I can’t make out what he’s holding until he’s closer to the firelight. My heart drops out of my chest, rolling down to stop at this man’s feet. Lord Fenwood is dead. He must be.
Because this fae monster holds my mother’s book.
Heart racing, I bend my knees so I can get a better look. No, it couldn’t be, please let it be anything but that. But sure enough, the book has the all-too-familiar markings on its front and spine.
The four other fae walk slowly around the fire to each touch the man, chanting, whispering. They caress him like lovers, like sycophants, like supplicants who see him as a god. The leader comes to a stop and opens the book. His lips move, but I can’t hear the words he says. At the same time, the other individuals begin dancing once more. The pale blond chops off a braid from behind his ram’s horn and throws it into the fire. The antlered man rips a piece of his clothing and quickly reduces it to ash. Oren runs a bejeweled dagger down his palm and holds it over the fire to allow his blood to drip into it. The fire changes color, going from a normal orange, to bright white, a deep red, and then an unnatural black streaked with purple and white.
Then, the leader closes the book, and raises it over his head. He’s going to throw it into the fire, I realize. Foolish instinct to protect that worn tome takes over. I push up off the ground.
“No,” I whisper. “Please don’t.” The book is all I have as proof of the mother who loved me. It was supposed to be the last gift from my father. None of the fae notice me now standing atop the ridge. They’re all too focused on the man and the book.
He begins to move his arms; gravity is now in control.
“No!” I scream and charge forward.
The fae turn toward me. I would be frozen with fear if not for the momentum the slope of the ridge gives me. I run, arms pinwheeling; I’m off-balance. The man’s hands leave the book as I close the gap. Everything happens with surreal slowness as the book falls through the air.
The fae with the butterfly wings charges for me, but the others seem too stunned to do anything. I duck around the woman and jump for the book before it can meet the flames, but my foot catches on a root. My ankle crunches, I twist. It’s too late, I’m too far off-balance. How did I close so much distance so fast? How did I ever get this close to fae while still breathing?
Not that it matters with the way I’m falling…
The man’s eyes widen, a vibrant emerald shade—the same color as spring, as the rebirth of the earth itself—unnatural, stunning. We lock gazes and my breath is stolen from me. His terrifying beauty is the last thing I see before I fall into the flames, and the world explodes with white heat.