The prince dusts imaginary snowflakes off his black cloak. “No rules. We can use magic if we like.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to wipe that pretty smirk off your face?”
Thiago snorts. “Terrified.”
The fight’s been brewing for days.
I don’t know why, but I feel stretched thin. Dancing around him hasn’t solved this.
I toss my cloak aside, then draw the knife. The prince’s gaze drops to the iron blade, but his eyebrow merely quirks.
I hate that eyebrow. I hate its arrogance. Its mockery.
“If I draw blood, then I win.”
Not even fae magic can conquer iron.
I lash out, the knife cutting toward his arm, but the prince merely sidesteps and blocks the blow.
It’s like trying to fight a will-o’-the-wisp.
One second he’s there, and then next he simply isn’t. I don’t know what sort of magic this is, but he moves like no one I’ve ever fought.
“Curse you.”
A thumb digs into the pressure point in my hand, and I drop the knife.
That doesn’t mean I give up. I simply spin beneath his hand, slamming the flat of my palm against his side. It’s like hitting a stone wall.
Thiago grins at me, as if he’s enjoying this. Perhaps he is.
He trips me with his magic, time and time again, even as I try to break through his guard.
“Give up, Princess,” he mocks. “You won’t defeat me.”
I push harder. I can see the knife in the churned-up snow near his feet. I just need to get it. Driving forward, I feint to the side, then dart in to drive my knee into his thigh.
It’s the perfect move, flawlessly executed.
Or at least, it should be.
Two seconds later, I hit the snow, the breath slamming out of me. The prince pins me, his shoulders blotting out the weak sunlight.
“Surrender,” he says, pressing his weight over the top of me.
“Never.”
I expect him to be furious at my defiance, but he’s still grinning at me, as if this is the most amusing thing he’s seen all day.
“You will never back down, will you?” He shakes his head. “Fine. This is your own fault.”
Grabbing hold of me, he throws me over his shoulder as though I weigh nothing at all. I catch a glimpse of a slick of ice to our left, right where he’s headed, and suddenly understand his intentions.
“Don’t you dare!” I kick him in the midriff, but he merely curls an arm around my legs and traps them. “Thiago!”
“Thiago. I like the sound of my name on your lips.” His arm softens, becoming a hand that slides up my thigh. “Perhaps if I heard it again, with a few additions like ‘please’ or ‘I’m sorry I threw a snowball at you,’ then I might reconsider my current intentions.”
“You pig-fucking merciless prick! I swear—”
A sharp slap on my ass makes my eyes pop wide. Did he just…?
“Manners, Your Highness,” he says smugly. “Now apologize.”
We’re getting closer to the ice. He wouldn’t. We’re in the middle of a snowy wasteland, and this will set us back hours.
But his steps aren’t slowing, and I’m starting to recognize the set of his shoulders at times.
“If you dump me in this pond,” I snarl, “then you’re going to have to wait until I dry.”“I have a hunting cabin nearby. I could just chain you to the fireplace and return when I’ve done what I need to.”
A hunting cabin? It momentarily sidetracks me. “Why do you have a cabin here, in disputed territories?”
“Because I sometimes like to hunt.” He hauls me down into his arms, where I make one last effort to escape as he threatens to heave me onto the ice.
“Fine!” I yelp, clinging to him like a barnacle. “I apologize!”
Thiago stills. “You apologize for….”
Gritting my teeth, I look him in the eye. “I apologize for throwing that snowball at you.”
Even if you deserved it.
“Good.” He sets me on my feet. “Next time, use your magic. It’s far more effective than any punch. You’ll never beat me without it.”
I’m left staring at his back, quivering with fury and shock as he strides away.
The ground shakes, snow shivering off trees and a squirrel fleeing with a sudden squeak. It startles me enough that I let go of the anger I’ve been building.
Instantly, everything falls quiet again.
Thiago looks back at me.
What was that?
It wasn’t the same frenetic energy I’ve felt inside me but couldn’t touch. No, this came from far underground, as if my anger somehow roused a sleeping giant. I can still feel it, stirring beneath the frozen earth like a sluggish river of power.
“Princess?” Thiago calls softly. “Are you coming?”
I bolt after him, suddenly feeling the trees press in all around us.
I can’t sense that power anymore, but perhaps that’s a good thing.
Whatever it is, it’s not coming from inside me, even if I suspect it responded to me.
And it’s not fae magic.
Mistmere looms out of the frozen wasteland of the lake, the ancient keep’s spires soaring toward the skies. It was built on a rocky island, a single bridge connecting it to the land. Dawn silvers the skies in the east, but shadows cling to the city, making it look like some sort of eerie graveyard of rubble.
“It’s said there was only one way onto the island,” Thiago murmurs, crouching behind a rocky outlook to peer down at the ruins. “What do you see?”
I squat beside him, surprised to realize he’s actually curious about my opinion. I’m an accessory in my mother’s court, hungry for more responsibility, chafing at my reins, and yet denied attending the most basic of councils.
It’s strange to realize that it’s only here, with the Prince of Evernight, that I’m being treated as an equal.
Movement shifts near the other side of the bridge; merely the faintest ripple of a guard prowling the shadows there. If I wasn’t looking for it, I don’t think I’d have even noticed. “A guard,” I murmur. “There’s someone guarding the other side of the bridge.”
Which is highly unusual, considering the entire place is supposed to be abandoned.
“Something,” he corrects, slipping between rocks and ghosting along the ridge. “Angharad’s brought her pets.”
Banes.
She’s the only queen in the territories with the ability to curse-twist a fae into one of the monstrous creatures and then bind it to her will. Most of them can cast the curse, but reining in such brutal beasts is near impossible.
I trail behind Thiago with my hand on the hilt of my knife. The enormous brindle-backed banes that Angharad wields have been bred to tear fae apart, their teeth capped with iron tips. One bite would burn like poison.
It’s a breathless feeling to know Thiago’s Unseelie spy is correct: Angharad is up to something.
Which means the prince wasn’t lying.
I don’t know how to twist that into my mother’s narrative that he’s working with the Unseelie, when he’s clearly trying to stop their queen.
“What now?” I murmur, trailing him through the rocky crags overlooking the ruins and the lake.