“Silence.”
Even icier than before, the wind rages, tugging my clothes and gnawing at my flesh.
“Once again, you try my patience, Wasp. I’ve had enough of you. So, I will give you three rules, and you must obey them.”
My teeth chatter as my extremities turn numb. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“Good, because I’ll only tell you one time: Honor your vow. Stay still. And don’t speak unless I command it.”
“That sounds simple. It should be easy enough to follow.”
The wind whips faster, and for a brief moment, my lungs collapse and I can’t breathe. “Alright! Alright. I promise I’ll do my best to follow your rules.”
The mini tornado instantly disappears, and I blink back tears of frustration.
I hate this fae jerk, and the first chance I get, I’m going to show him how much. For the moment, though, I’m powerless against his stupid air magic, his body’s strength.
However, he does seem very keen to shut me up, so perhaps I do have a weapon I can use against him—my voice.
I’ll try and talk him to death.
Chapter 4
TEMNEN
Ever
As it turned out, the human’s best efforts to hold her tongue were pathetic.
Yesterday, we rode west until the creek crossed Fire River, a favored spot to camp for the night, and she prattled the entire two-hour journey—while I fought the urge to slit her throat. The only reason I didn’t seize my knife and permanently end her babble was for Jinn’s sake. My horse isn’t fond of violence. And stealing the air from her lungs wouldn’t have satisfied my blood-lust. Not even a little.
Instead of committing murder, I raised tempests and squalls and tortured and battered her with them as we traveled. And how did she respond to my harsh punishment? With laughter.
I cannot fathom why she doesn’t fear me. Most mortals cower down before a fae, be he a huntsman or a prince, and beg for their miserable lives. But not the freckled wasp. Despite my warnings, the mortal talks and talks. And then talks some more.
By the time we arrived at the river, it was late afternoon and the sun had nearly disappeared. I hastened to make a fire and a sleeping bower from branches, and the girl queried my every move.
How did you get all those tree bits down so quickly, Never? Was that air magic? And where did all those flowers come from? What are you doing now? Never? Why aren’t you answering?
I ignored her as best I could, but that ridiculous name she calls me whirled on the breeze like sylphs’ whispers.
Never.
Ever.
After.
Gritting my teeth while I worked, I finally remembered I had dried meat and hunks of sourdough bread I could fill her mouth with. As soon as I did so, all that tiresome speaking ceased. Then, with languid limbs, weak as a newborn changeling’s, she lay on the mattress of wild thyme and commenced snoring. The ensuing silence was the closest I’ve come to bliss in years.
I lay down opposite.
But I did not snore.
I didn’t even doze.
Too irritated to sleep, I watched fireflies dance through a black-ink sky, my mind buzzing with the wasp’s words all night long.
Now it’s morning, and my thoughts are fixed on home. Returning to the Court of Five feels like quenching my thirst from a poisoned chalice, blessed relief on arrival, followed by intense nausea, and in the end—a curse.
Instead of going back to court, I should wander the wild lands forever. But of course, I won't. Like a well-trained mutt, I'll be reclining in my suffocatingly lavish chambers by tomorrow eve at the latest. It is a sickness, a failing, how I always return. A disease I cannot cure.
A gold sun rises in the east, burning away the mist with a gentle sizzle. On my back, head resting in my linked palms, I risk a glance at the girl, relieved to find her still asleep—and quiet.
Beside me, Balor groans as he shuffles closer, and I give him a lazy pat. Then I expand my senses and drift along currents of air, checking for distortions and disturbances in the patterns, finding none.
The girl sleeps on.
The dog sighs.
The forest waits.
No danger looms, and all is well. I can return to my gloomy thoughts.
With my prisoner in tow, I suppose the court won’t be as boring as usual. And witnessing my mother’s face when she first lays eyes on the human will be a vicious pleasure.
But will it be enough to counter the monotony of the queen’s lectures? Will it balance out the pain of her harassing me to be the son she wishes for—a smug Prince of Air, eternally pleased and amused by the Emerald court? I think not. Her expectations leech all energy, leaving me no will to fight the black poison siphoning through my veins.
Can’t someone else become heir to the throne and leave me to hunt the wild lands with my horse and hound for all eternity?
Smoke twirls through the camp, an interesting scent borne on the morning breeze—unwashed human—earthy and moist, like a rich soil my hands could dig through and plow. What a strange idea. Frowning, my boots scrape over grass as I turn on my side to watch her.
The wasp’s purple gown flutters and flaps like a rag on the wind, snaring my attention. It’s an unbelievably odd garment and warrants closer inspection.
I roll into a crouch and slink toward the bower. She sleeps like the dead, so I’m free to reach out and rub her gritty hem between my fingertips. I sigh. The gown feels disgusting.
Her hair is red. She’s as dirty as a river-maid. Thick as a tree stump. Plain as a sparrow. And yet… and yet…
My vision clouds over. Hands steal. Creep. Crawl. Grip around her neck and squeeze. I imagine the crush of bone. The snap and tear of pipe and sinew. Her final gurgling breath. The idea appeals, intoxicates like cherry wine.
Then Balor barks, waking me from a dark fantasy.
We both watch to see if she stirs. She doesn’t. Then Balor sniffs her body from ill-made shoe to troll-like thigh, drinking her scent deep, satisfying his curiosity.
It’s less sinister than my initial desire to wring her neck, but still, I have to stop myself from copying my dog’s actions. Inhaling a human-troll before breakfast will hardly improve my morning, so I refuse to give in to the urge. Even so, I can look my fill.
And I do.
The faded blue leggings she wears are laughable in style, like something a court jester would choose to adorn themselves with. Her cloak is dark green, ripped and filthy as if it has seen better days. At least it’s made of wool, so must’ve once provided her with warmth.
But what is this lifeless material of her gown? The thread it’s spun from is not made of earth or animal, nor any natural element. The Merits would like it a great deal.
On the whole, the coarse outfit brings to mind the castle’s kitchen workers, and it holds a fading scent of animal fat and sour sauces. Only a servant’s clothes would smell this way.
The smoke snakes around her dirt-smudged face, and I drop my hand from her clothes as she sits up coughing. When her gaze finds mine, she makes an ugly grimace. “Oh, great. It’s not a dream. You’re real then?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes move back and forth, assessing the short distance between our bodies, then she gapes at Balor by my side. Externally, my dog looks calm, but I know he's readying to spring should I command it.