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  She broke away to help him release her corset, but she wore a smug, triumphant sneer that had no place on Cara’s face. Cara would never be his.

  He finally broke free of the daze, terrified by Donella’s strength. She could rule him if he let her. “Get out,” he whispered, panting over her.

  “What?”

  He got off the bed and refused to look at her. “Get out!” he roared.

  She reached for him, her self-control never faltering. She expelled desire that he wanted, that his brain tricked him into needing. But none of it was real. She was more dangerous than anyone. He shoved her away in a panic.

  She fell back on the bed. “Oh,” she said with a grin. “Is this how we play it?”

  She slipped off the bed and crawled across the floor, her dress rustling as she moved. At his feet, she reached for his belt, still looking up at him with Cara’s face.

  He couldn’t take a moment more. “Get away from me,” he said weakly.

  “You want me.”

  Even the sound of her voice was a lure he found hard to fight off. He fought through her magic, his anger building around him like a fortress. She touched him again.

  He slapped her across the face without thinking. The sound echoed horrifyingly in the air. Looking as shocked he felt, she held her cheek, wearing her own face again, thank the gods.

  “I warned you,” he growled, reaching his limit. He roughly gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. He held her steadily as he led her to the door. He yanked it open and shoved her outside. She tripped on her skirt and fell clumsily on the ground, revealing her breasts to everyone in the hallway.

  “Never come to my room,” he bellowed. “Not now, not ever, you disgusting little witch.”

  Her cheeks flooded with colour, and hate sparked within her eyes. She would never forget that indignity, he knew. And in that moment, he didn’t care.

  “Have some pride,” he said scornfully. “If you think I can be tempted by a glamour, you’re more foolish than you look.”

  He turned on his heel and slammed his bedroom door behind him. He laid his back against the door and breathed deeply. He had just made a powerful enemy.

  Chapter Three

  Brendan

  Brendan mentally cursed Cara for putting her paranoia into his head. She hadn’t trusted Yvette, and now he found it impossible to do otherwise. He watched Yvette’s crew closely. Nobody could gain that much experience from sailing on the coastline. Not to sail on open waters so well. Then what was he accusing them of? Nothing, he decided. It was worry, a constant whirring of anxious thoughts, that made such ideas stick. The same self-preservation that had once caused him to make drastic mistakes in the name of what if.

  The air had been growing warmer for days. The sun reflected off the calm ocean like a mirror. The back of his neck burned, the skin on his nose peeled, and sweat glistened his arms. If this kept up, he wouldn’t be capable of staying above deck.

  He waved over one of his soldiers, the eldest of the group. “Where’s Bran?”

  Pól nodded in the opposite direction. “Hiding out.” He laid a hand on his stomach. “Do you think we’ll be on this vessel for much longer?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Brendan said. “What made you volunteer for this, Pól? Momentary madness or needing to run from something?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Pól said with a grin. “Restlessness, perhaps. It’s been a while since I left home, and I’m tired of the speculation back at court.”

  “About our chances of success?”

  Pól smiled wryly. “More like Yvette’s chances of success.”

  “Ah.”

  “We need an heir that doesn’t belong to another court.” Pól dropped his gaze. “I apologise, I—”

  Brendan clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You’re just saying what everyone is thinking. But we’ve bigger concerns right now. There won’t be any courts if we’re not successful.”

  Pól straightened. “We’re all agreed, my lord. We’ll do whatever it takes to succeed.”

  “Thank you,” Brendan said.

  He left Pól and found Bran in a shaded corner of the deck, the man looking as though he were trying not to breathe too deeply. To Brendan’s amusement, Bran’s periwinkle colouring was slowly transforming to green.

  They had been on the boat for almost two weeks, and they hadn’t seen land in at least five days. It was hard to keep count sometimes. Nobody apart from his own men seemed concerned. He sat next to Bran who grimaced.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Like death.”

  “You haven’t thrown up in two days. That must mean you’re getting used to all of this.”

  “I’m supposed to be your bodyguard,” Bran said glumly. “I haven’t done an awful lot of guarding.”

  “There’s little to guard me from at the moment,” Brendan said confidently. “Besides, when we land you’ll likely have to do your fair share of fighting.”

  “We both know I’m just for show,” Bran said. “You’re more than capable of defending yourself. Cara was right. You should never have brought me here. I’m useless.”

  “Nonsense,” the king said. “That woman is just protective of her favourites. You don’t know how good it is to have a friendly face with me. There are few people I can trust, but I believe you’re one of them.”

  “I’m no Arlen.” Bran grinned, a glimpse of his old, light-hearted self peeking through the green tinge. “I can’t imagine him throwing up.”

  Brendan smiled back. “You’d be surprised. Why did you decide to come, Bran? You know I would have left you behind if that was what you wanted.”

  Bran stared at his hands. They were cracked and dry from the constant spray of sea water in the air. “If we don’t bring home the First Tree, everyone we care about will die. Cara would have come if you’d let her. Even Grim and little Realtín, too. It’s just… the right thing to do.”

  “But don’t you remember the days when fae never concerned themselves with the right thing to do?” Brendan asked.

  “And look at how bad things got. You weren’t there, Brendan. You don’t understand what it was like when the Seelie and Unseelie Queens ruled. They were awful.” Bran shrugged. “Times have changed. We’re all better now.”

  “Why is that, I wonder?”

  The young bodyguard met his gaze. “You know quite well why. A human came and changed us.”

  “Bent us to her will, more like,” Brendan said.

  Bran gave him a sly look. “Some of us were very willing victims, weren’t we?”

  “We must have been if we were so easy to change.” Even miserable with sickness, Bran could hit the point. “At least you’re no longer afraid to speak to me.”

  “I’ve seen the great and terrible king berated by a human,” Bran said frankly. “You’re not the cold-hearted man from the stories I grew up hearing.”

  “I hardly remember him myself,” Brendan said, his hand moving to his chest as though to cradle the ache there. “But I remember enough to wonder why the gods gave me this second chance.”

  “You were a young king,” Bran said loyally. “You were given that gift too soon, and you had a lot to learn. You’ve learned your lessons the hard way. From adversity grows greatness.”

  “I’m not a great man,” Brendan said. “I thought I was, once, and by the time I realised the truth, I had slid too far to fix it all. And I tried. Nobody remembers that, but I did try. It was like scooping up water with a sieve and far too late besides.”

  “You’re fixing it now.” Bran gathered his knees to his chest. “You won’t be remembered for your mistakes.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Brendan glanced at his friend. “But I don’t think mistakes should be forgotten. May some other leader learn from my errors in judgement before he makes his own.”

  They sat there in companionable silence as the heat grew intolerable. They could have sought shel
ter below deck, but that place felt like a hole underground compared to everything else. Brendan didn’t want to feel trapped anymore. The pair watched as some of the crew pulled in a small net of fish from the sea. The fish were puny, but they dashed their tails and flopped their bodies, desperate to live.

  “If we don’t find land soon, we’ll be living solely on those things,” Bran said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I eat fish even in my dreams.”

  “At least we won’t starve,” Brendan said. “Dying of thirst might be unpleasant though.”

  “There’s a storm coming,” Bran said. “Can’t you feel it? The heat will break, and rain will come, and we’ll survive a while longer.”

  Brendan didn’t say what they were likely both thinking: the storm might best the ship altogether.

  The air grew heavy, clinging to their skins, and Bran’s stomach turned again.

  “Come on.” Brendan helped him to his feet. “Let’s go watch the sea.”

  They stumbled over to the rails where Bran looked even greener, but he didn’t throw up. The waves lashed against the boat a little harder than usual, sending frothy spray right up to their faces.

  “At least it’s cool,” Bran said.

  “Oh, is he sick again?” Yvette’s bracelets jangled as she joined them. “It’s a shame.”

  “You’ve had no problems then,” Bran muttered.

  “Good breeding.” She smiled across the water than frowned. “What in the heavens is that?”

  They followed her gaze. There were dark spots in the water moving incredibly fast parallel to the boat.

  “Something’s out there,” she exclaimed.

  Brendan sensed the fear in her voice. “A fish, perhaps,” he said reassuringly.

  “So large?”

  Something burst from the water and sailed in an arc before going under the surface again.

  “Not something. Someone. Lots of them,” Bran said, sounding amazed.

  What had broken through the water had been a water fae, scaled and shining and naked.

  “Why are they following us?” Yvette said anxiously. “What do they want?”

  “Are you all right?” Brendan asked politely.

  “What if Manannán sent them?” she said. “What if they’re here to stop us from passing?”

  “Why would a god send them to stop us?” Brendan asked, keeping a close eye on Yvette’s reactions.

  “Manannán didn’t send them,” Bran said. “Cara did.” He waved at the water fae and cried out a greeting. A hand reached up from the water to wave back.

  Brendan relaxed. “So she did.”

  Yvette turned on her heel. “I’m tired. I’m going to rest in my cabin.”

  She stalked off without another word.

  “She seemed terrified,” Bran said.

  Brendan could only agree. “And these water fae won’t approach us.”

  Their oceanic guardians never came close, merely swam close by for a few more hours, but then it was as though they had crossed some invisible line. The water fae hung back and watched their boat leave.

  “I’m sorry to lose them.” Bran looked up to the heavens and laughed as a great drop of water landed on his face. “It’s raining!”

  The rain was hot and heavy, quickly drenching the deck. Brendan’s concern grew as the sky darkened.

  “We should take cover,” he said, but he lingered nonetheless.

  He and Bran watched in awe as the first crack of lightning appeared to break the sky, quickly followed by the rumbling of thunder. The crew were terrified, muttering of omens and bad luck.

  “If they’re nervous, I’m petrified,” Bran admitted.

  “It’s a little disconcerting,” Brendan said in agreement. “Even the air smells different now. This is going to be a big storm.”

  A massive wave rose up and crashed against the boat so fiercely it almost sent both of them over the rails.

  “We need to go below now.” Bran escorted his king, positioning his body as though to shield Brendan.

  They slowly moved across the deck as the ship tried to unbalance them time and time again. The rain dashed against them, making it hard to see. The sky frequently lit up with lightning, the storm growing closer by the second.

  A loud crack sounded. “Watch out!” somebody shouted.

  Bran shoved Brendan aside with great force. The king slid across the deck, safely out of the way as a mast broke and fell. Bran’s swift action put himself in the way of the fall. He was struck squarely on the head and landed flat on the deck, witless. Brendan scrambled back to him. Bran lay there, his face so pale that the blood on his temple looked stark and terrifying.

  “No, no, no.” Brendan heaved the mast off Bran. “Someone help me!” he cried. He couldn’t let the boy die. Not now, after everything they had been through. The boy had to see what was across the sea first.

  Pól rushed over and helped Brendan lift the massive piece of wood while a second Green Court soldier dragged Bran free. Brendan dropped the mast and knelt by Bran, struggling to stay by his side as the boat rocked incessantly. The storm wasn’t showing any sign of lessening.

  “Get inside,” he told his soldiers.

  “Not without you,” Pól said. “We came to find you. We need to stick together. Now more than ever.”

  “Bran, wake up!” Brendan slapped the boy’s cheeks, but there was no response. He hefted Bran into his arms and carried him toward shelter, struggling to stay on his feet. His soldiers offered to take his load, but he was the one responsible. Bran had only been hurt trying to save his king.

  The water and the wind combated against him, but he finally made it inside. He brought Bran to his own cabin. The rest of his soldiers gathered into the room, all of them concerned. Bran was well liked amongst them.

  Brendan lay Bran on his own bed. The boy didn’t stir, but he still breathed. One of Yvette’s women came to help.

  Yvette herself huddled in the doorway, her hair wet and stuck to her head.

  “We’ll make it through this,” Brendan said to reassure her.

  She nodded fervently and tried on a weak smile.

  Brendan turned to Bran, but the boy still wasn’t responding. Brendan’s gut twisted at the thoughts of losing him for good.

  Chapter Four

  Drake

  From an engraved silver throne, Drake gazed out at his court, at the narrowed eyes and whispering mouths, the changes in disposition and favour. The mood had changed in the castle, and he had never felt so alone. The fae had once concealed their contempt—sniggered behind their hands, perhaps—but lately, the ill feeling had simmered to the surface.

  It was all so frustrating. He had closed the rift. Surely they all should be grateful. But Donella was slowly poisoning his court against him, and he was too scared to send her away. He lived in fear on a daily basis, a fear of the fae turning on him, of others taking his power from him.

  Sorcha had done her best to hide her pregnancy from Donella, but the leanan sídhe had spies everywhere. Everyone knew by now, knew that time was running out to remove him from his throne. An heir would strengthen his position, turn some of his opposition back to his side. If Donella was smart, she would kill Sorcha before his wife gave birth, and that was why only the banshees were allowed to feed her in case of poisoning. He wouldn’t sleep until the child was born.

  A number of fae knelt before his throne, backs bent over in supplication as they tried to persuade him they weren’t responsible for destroying a painting of himself and his wife. He hated that painting, despised the regal and haughty expression he held in it, but it stood for something. The fact his subjects dared to defile it was a worrying sign. Brendan’s subjects would never have dared, and that burned more than the act itself.

  Drake made a show of relaxing in his throne, keeping his expression as blank as possible while those before him babbled about their innocence. It didn’t matter who did it; somebody would be made an example of. That was the only way, whether he liked
it or not.

  “Fine,” he said at last, finally prepared to lose yet another piece of his soul. “If none of the suspects admit to the crime, we’ll just have to kill all of their families to ensure the culprit is punished.”

  A murmur ran around the court. The hall was stark and cold, always cold. At nights, Drake warmed his hands over the fire in his room for a long time to push the chill out of his bones. He had never been less comfortable, and he could never show that kind of weakness. His court was made of ice, and it wouldn’t do for him to act as though his heart was any warmer.

  “Wait,” an old man cried out. “I… I did it. It was me. Please spare the families.”

  Drake was sure the old man wasn’t the culprit. He was just too old to maintain the cold exterior the rest of the court worked so hard on. But he didn’t have the energy to investigate.

  “And we have a winner,” he said. “Hang the old man at noon tomorrow. Tie him to the gallows today so he can get a good view of his impending death.” Drake stood. “Court dismissed.”

  He strode out of the hall with Dymphna, willing his hands to remain steady. An old man would die to save his family, and the fae would be cowed for a few moments longer. And every day, the stakes grew a little higher; as did the price he paid.

  “He’s old,” Dymphna said loyally. “He is a willing sacrifice.”

  “But a sacrifice all the same.” He glanced at her. She knew what he gave to his wife and her god, yet she never judged him harshly. Freeing her had earned him a lifetime of her loyalty.

  “You need to get rid of the leanan sídhe,” she warned under her breath when they were out of hearing distance of the crowd of fae who were still hanging around the doors of the Great Hall.

  “And you know I can’t. At least, not yet.” He sighed. “I’m going to check on Sorcha.”

  “Is she still ill?”

  “She says it’s normal, but I… I don’t know.”

  Dymphna flashed him a sympathetic glance. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I should congratulate you.”