She should have felt celebratory. Her thirteenth victim was dead. Her bargain with Maeve was fulfilled. Her brothers would be freed and she could begin her life anew.
But she was filled with regret instead. She wished she’d taken the chance to have Hadrian’s son. She would have learned more about making love. She didn’t doubt that the satisfaction of the firestorm would have been a great experience.
Maybe Maeve would have made her son immortal, too, just to please her.
Rania bit her lip. Maybe Maeve would have insisted on making a deal with that son, letting him earn his right to live.
Maybe it was better if Hadrian’s son would never be.
She couldn’t feel glad about that either.
Yet even that wasn’t all of it.
She was going to miss Hadrian.
She was going to miss knowing that he was out there somewhere, being enthused about weapons and his skills, making things and solving puzzles, attracting ice and storms, and being loyal to his fellow Pyr.
His head fell to one side in that moment and she thought she could see a faint shadow on his cheek where she’d given him the kiss of death. It hadn’t been what killed him, though: it hadn’t worked. The mark was blue now, as if it had been frozen and kept from doing its worst.
Rania frowned. The kiss of death always faded from view after the victim died. It left no sign of its existence. It was a Fae thing.
Why was Hadrian’s visible now?
Why hadn’t he died of it earlier?
She followed the Pyr as they carried Hadrian back into his lair, her thoughts spinning. She was remembering Alasdair’s story and also the prophecy sent to Hadrian. Somewhere there was a solution to the riddle, if she could just figure it out.
The ice dragon summons frost and cold,
His power is a force to behold.
He can thaw the ice of a frozen heart
To offer a lost shifter a new start.
His firestorm burns fierce and white
Its radiance a beacon in the darkest night.
But can it bring hope to that doomed soul?
Or persuade his lost mate to become whole?
If the dragon wins the swan maiden’s trust
It will be Fae not Others who are turned to dust.
The future will be theirs, once allied
If the assassin joins the dragon’s side.
His being an ice dragon had to change the result of spells like the kiss of death. But how? Why? Rania frowned as she tried to solve the riddle.
The fire department had arrived and were hosing down the studio. There was a gathering of curious onlookers in the driveway and Alasdair went out to speak to them while Balthasar still tried to tend Hadrian.
Rania would have followed him, but she never had the chance.
Rafferty had arrived at Bardsey Island with Melissa and their adopted daughter Isabelle. Donovan, the Warrior of the Pyr, had greeted his former mentor with enthusiasm. His mate Alex was with him, and their boys, too: Nick and Isabelle immediately disappeared together, as they always did. Marco and Jac were also there with their sons—it took a noisy dinner and a long evening to catch up with everyone’s news.
The ancient Pyr who Rafferty had rescued were doing well, to his thinking, dressed more like modern people but still speaking an ancient variation of Welsh to each other. Another one had joined them, one with a mysterious smile who looked younger. Rafferty heard the story of the hitchhiker and guessed that this was the elusive Uther.
When he asked, that Pyr just smiled.
The entire house was asleep, including the recent arrivals, when Rafferty awakened with a jolt. He laid there, listening, uncertain what had disturbed him. Melissa was sleeping deeply beside him and the house was quiet.
Then he saw a flicker of blue light outside the windows.
He rose and went to look. The sun was just rising. The rubble left by the mound where Marco had slumbered safely for centuries were gilded with rosy morning light. He remembered old battles and smiled that Marco had found such joy with Jacqueline. He looked more closely, realizing that there was a stag behind the mound, standing so still that he’d missed the creature. It was looking directly at him.
No, it was looking at something behind him.
Rafferty turned, jumping a little to find the ghost of his grandfather, Pwyll, in the shadows. “You must help,” he said in old-speak and in Welsh, then gave Rafferty instructions.
Rafferty nodded understanding when he’d heard it all, then looked back out the window, unable to stop himself.
The stag was gone. He wondered whether it had ever been there, because he was certain there were no deer on the island. Then Uther stood up behind the mound and strolled toward the house, whistling softly, as if he’d been out for a walk in the moonlight.
Rafferty wondered, but then Pwyll tapped his shoulder and he knew it was time. He close his eyes, summoned his salamander form, then hurled himself through space and time to give the assistance Pwyll had requested.
Of all the Pyr, Rafferty was the most inclined to guide a firestorm to its successful conclusion. That would never change.
There was a brilliant shimmer of silver light beside Rania as she left Hadrian’s lair. A slit opened from the ceiling to the floor, then a Fae warrior reached through the gap between realms and seized her.
She struggled against her captor, but he was larger than her and stronger. She saw Balthasar leap at the intruder in her defense and was surprised that the Pyr considered her to be one of them. It must be because Hadrian believed she was his destined mate, but Rania was amazed that Balthasar could overlook her role as Hadrian’s assassin.
The Pyr really did have each other’s backs and Rania admired that.
It also made her feel solitary and lonely.
The portal was quickly closed against Balthasar, though, and she was alone with her captor. Rania shifted shape and tried to escape. But the Fae warrior held fast and she found herself in Fae.
It wasn’t just anywhere in Fae. She was at Maeve’s court and had a bad feeling about that. She was flung down in front of Maeve, the warrior’s treatment of her so rough that she wondered why she was in disfavor. Maeve sat on her throne before her court and watched, not saying a word in Rania’s defense.
Things had gone very wrong. Rania was more than a little worried about the outcome of this interview, even though she’d always trusted the Dark Queen. Had Hadrian been right about Maeve’s intentions, after all?
No, Rania wouldn’t believe it.
All the courtiers were dressed in red and silver finery and merry music played for a dance. Rania got to her feet and glanced around, well aware that she was the focus of attention.
What was going on? Why had she been summoned?
She bowed low. “My queen,” she said with reverence.
“Indeed.” Maeve’s smile was hungry. “I wanted to commend you on an excellent choice of victim,” she said, her tone gloating. A servant brought her a goblet brimming with a golden liquid. Rania guessed it was mead. Maeve toasted her and sipped. “Here’s to a brilliant elimination. I’m curious to see who you choose next.”
Next? Rania’s heart chilled. Had Hadrian been right? Was Maeve breaking her word?
She had to know.
“I chose the Pyr Hadrian as my thirteenth victim,” Rania reminded the Dark Queen. “He’s dead, so our wager is complete.” She held up her wrist, displaying the red string that was still knotted there. “This should be gone.”