Amber coughed, too, and remained on the floor. “My inner vision is hazy but...I think an army of goblins has entered the palace. They’re out for our blood.”
Ghost goblins, like the ones in the game? Foreboding creeped down her spine as she tugged the oracle to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go kick butt.” Hopefully.
“What? No! We stay here, where we have an escape hatch if we’re found.”
Cookie struggled to make sense of her refusal. Escape? “I don’t think you understand. If we remain here, we can’t fight the creatures and defend my castle.” She pivoted, ready to run. “Let’s go.”
Amber latched on to her wrist, stopping her. “You don’t understand. You’ve never fought goblins, and I don’t yet see a path to victory.”
Her stomach turned. “Do you see a loss?”
“Maybe?” the oracle hedged.
Maybe wasn’t a guarantee. Good enough. “Sometimes you can’t see the end until you get to the middle.” A trick she’d learned sacking digital fortresses. “Imma go get in that middle.” No one took her stuff, especially not goblins.
“Wait,” Amber called as Cookie wrenched free and jogged off. “I see now,” the oracle continued, and she slowed. “Others lead the goblins...”
Another image flashed into her mind, there and gone. A picture of Micah, his skin smeared in red paint. No, covered in blood. Beside him was a smaller man, who was in no way, well, small. He was older, though, with silver-blond hair and a barrel chest. He looked like an older version of Jareth.
A Frostline, then. The Frostline, most likely. The one Kaysar hunted.
The Winter Court king Chantel longed to kill.
Had the two men escaped Kaysar’s wrath? Or something worse?
Fire blazed beneath her skin, and she raced for the exit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
KAYSAR SULKED THROUGH Hador and Micah’s campground, enveloped by shadows, unseen as guards made their rounds and went about their evening. Irritation rode him hard. When had his vengeance become such a chore?
Again and again, his mind returned to Chantel—to his desperate longing. He continued to replay their last moments together and cringe.
Long ago, his father had kissed his mother goodbye anytime he’d journeyed to the Summer Court market for supplies. Though the trips had usually only lasted two weeks, they had embraced at length, clinging to each other as if they were to be forever parted. Always afterward, his mother had touched her lips repeatedly, seeking the comfort of a remembered kiss.
Kaysar had missed an incredible opportunity. He could have left his woman with his kiss.
Did she miss him, even a little?
He shoved his hand into his pocket and sifted her lock of hair between his fingers. He’d spent days away from her, his instinct to return slowly eroding his calm. She slips away. Can’t let her slip away.
He sensed trouble, and quickened his pace. Focus. Five minutes ago, he’d watched Hador and Micah enter a war tent set in the center of their campground. Surrounded by countless guards—Dusklanders in armor and Winter Court mercenaries in fur—the enclosure had few vulnerabilities.
No flittering had occurred, the ability limited to the area around the palace due to some kind of special rock Micah had used. And yet, Kaysar no longer believed the pair occupied the tent. None of the twelve silhouettes fit the exact measurements of his targets.
Yet how could the two kings have left the shelter? Unless Hador employed the same strategy Kaysar had once used against him—an underground tunnel.
There hadn’t been time to dig—except the two hundred years of Kaysar’s absence.
Kaysar cursed and launched into a sprint. Had Micah constructed tunnels throughout the land?
Anyone who stepped into his path, he rammed, clawed or stabbed, whatever proved necessary. He hurled his body through the entrance of the tent, the flap ripping. Quick scan. Twelve guards, no royals. He dispatched his foes quickly and searched—oh, yes, a tunnel.
Tricked. Because he’d been distracted by thoughts of Chantel.
Did the males approach her? The desire to gaze upon her amplified as a gut-wrenching thought occurred. Kaysar had left her undefended.
Fear grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. If the kings reached her before he did...if they harmed her... Not her. Anyone but her.
Eye knew to provide him with a mental image if trouble arose. But what if she couldn’t?
Pounding footsteps registered, more guards rushing in his direction. Kaysar had a choice. Take the tunnel wherever it led, hoping to catch the royals, or return to the castle, where the two were probably headed.
Castle, he decided, already speeding across the campgrounds, barreling past anyone in his path. When he cleared the tents , a cool wind resisted his momentum. He cut through the bluster with fierce determination matched by few.
Kaysar hated himself for leaving Chantel. His war could’ve waited another few weeks or months. Instead, he’d opted to prove to them both that he had the strength to stay away from his mate whenever his foes neared.
Fool. He flew along the plains. Leaped over naturally generated fires that sparked from the ground, throwing embers. Smoke stung his eyes and clogged his lungs. All had better be well at home. Not one scratch on her.
He’d never desired a female of his own. Now, he couldn’t imagine his life without her in it.
A ragged bellow broke from him. Just get to her. All will be well.
The second Kaysar moved into range of the mountain, the ability to flitter powered up. Between one step and the next, he entered the castle. A unique but familiar charge electrified the air, and an emotion he hadn’t experienced since childhood gripped him. Sheer, unadulterated terror.
Goblins. Hundreds of them. Where?
Where was Chantel?
His thoughts sharpened. Claws at the ready. Dagger in hand. Kaysar flittered through the rooms. No sign of Chantel. No hint of goblins. Not that he could see them unless they embodied. And they would embody. Their only means of feeding.
Goblins couldn’t possess royals with Kaysar’s power, his mystical superiority acting as a physical shield. Yet, despite his dominance, his glamara had little effect on the beings. Compelling one, much less an army of them, required time and toil.
A brush of putrid cold against his cheek—there. Kaysar spun and slashed, his claws raking through a goblin’s throat as it materialized. The dagger finished the job; the body dropped with a thud. Thick black blood gurgled onto an elegant rug.
Goblins remained interconnected with a hive mind. If one caught sight of you, all caught sight of you. Come and get me.
As he waited, he surveyed his kill, his lip curling in disgust. A bag of rot and bones. It had pitted gray skin oozing with pus, razor-sharp teeth as big as sabers, and claws longer than his own. Unlike the others, this one had an oddly shaped patch of mold growing from the side of its skull. Four interconnected lines, creating a W. Or an M.