She huffed. “Actually, there is a story I heard long ago and I’ve always wondered if it was true. They say that the Lovers’ Moon was named for you and Perchta.”
The Erlking cocked his head at her, but did not reply.
“As the tale goes, it was beneath that moon that the two of you shared with each other your truest names, therefore tying your fates together for eternity. That is why some people share their secrets beneath the Lovers’ Moon, because supposedly, the moonlight will protect them.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” he muttered. “Any idiot should know that if you wish to protect a secret, you should speak it to no one, no matter which moon you’re under. But you mortals give such power to fairy tales. You believe fate is determined by old gods and superstitions. That every misfortune can be blamed on the moonlight, the stars, whatever ludicrous thing suits you in the moment. But there is no fate, no fortune. There are only the secrets we share and those we conceal. Our own choices, or the fear of making a choice.”
Serilda stared at him. How many times had the villagers of Märchenfeld blamed their misfortunes on her?
Yet she couldn’t ignore that she was the goddaughter of Wyrdith. She had been cursed by the god of stories and fortune, and to say that those things were of no importance didn’t feel entirely true either.
Perhaps there was something in between.
A place for things that were out of control, things guided by destiny …
But also, for one’s own choices.
Dread welled inside her. The tragedy was that she wanted to believe in choices. She wanted to believe that she could have control of her fate. But how could she? She was a prisoner of the Erlking. She had made choices and she had made mistakes. But in the end, her fate had been decided for her.
The irony. How Wyrdith must be laughing, wherever they were.
“So,” she started uncertainly, “the story isn’t true, then?”
He scoffed. “That Perchta and I shared names beneath the Lovers’ Moon? Hardly.”
“Shame. I thought it was romantic.”
The Erlking shook his head as he refilled his wineglass. “We do not need fairy tales to distort our romance. Perchta and I … our love was destined from the beginning. I am incomplete without her by my side.”
Serilda stilled, embarrassed by his candor.
It didn’t help that she knew the Erlking intended to bring back Perchta. On the Endless Moon, that rare night when the winter solstice overlapped with the last full moon of the year, the Erlking and his wild hunt planned to capture one of the seven gods. And when the first rays of sunlight struck the realm, that god would be forced to grant a single wish.
The Erlking would use this wish to bring Perchta back from Verloren. The cruel huntress would once again walk the earth, and he would have Serilda’s baby ready to hand over to her. The Erlking had kidnapped many children in attempts to please her, but never before had he given her a newborn babe.
The thought of it sickened Serilda. To him, the life growing inside her was a thing to be wrapped up and given away. A doll, a toy, a thing easily discarded.
And while she might not have met the huntress, from all accounts, Perchta was not the motherly sort, despite her yearning for a child of her own. They said she was ruthless and haughty and cruel. Whenever she tired of one of the children gifted to her, the Erlking would take him or her out into the woods, and he would return alone.
That was the way of the dark ones.
That was the mother her child was destined for.
That is, except for one little problem. A small caveat that the Erlking himself didn’t yet know.
She had already promised this child to Gild. Her firstborn, in exchange for him spinning a roomful of straw into gold. The bargain was struck with magic. She did not think it could be broken.
But she wasn’t about to tell that to the Erlking.
She would figure it out, she told herself. She still had six months to come up with a plan. To save her child. Herself. Gild. The children asleep in her room.
“How thoughtless of me,” said the Erlking, startling her from her thoughts. He paced around the table until he was standing beside her chair, then dropped to one knee beside her. “To be pining for another when my bride sits before me. I hope you can forgive me, my love.”
“Of all the things you might apologize for,” she drawled, “telling me that you are in love with a sadistic demon who died three hundred years ago would not even make the list.”
His jaw twitched. “Keep that fire, little mortal,” he said, taking her hand into his cool fingers and bending over it. “It makes it easier to dote on you.”
He stood and grabbed an untouched nectarine from the table. He took a bite as he towered over her. Juice dripped down his chin as it had hers. He grinned smugly and used his sleeve to wipe it away. “Another ten minutes, I think, before you can see yourself out.”
Picking up his wineglass, he turned his back on her, which was exactly the moment Serilda had been waiting for.
In one motion, she grabbed the silver-handled knife on the table and drove it into the Erlking’s back, right between his shoulder blades. She felt the give of flesh. The crunch of vertebrae.
The king stilled.
For a long moment, Serilda wondered if maybe, just maybe … this time …
Then he took in a long breath and released it—a slow, drawn-out sigh.
“Please,” he said, “remove the knife from my back. I would hate to ask Manfred to do it. Again.”
Serilda cursed beneath her breath and yanked the knife out. Rather than blood dripping from the wound, there was a wisp of black smoke that dissipated into the air.
She scowled. The first time she had stabbed him, she’d been sure he would fight back.
But he hadn’t even tried.
That first knife had gone into his side, just beneath his ribs.
The next time she’d tried, it had been a knife to his stomach, or approximately where she thought his stomach should be.
The third time—she hit his heart, and she’d been so proud of herself for her exceptional aim, she’d squealed with delight.
The Erlking had merely rolled his eyes as he pulled the knife out and held it up to the light. Spotless, as if it hadn’t just been buried in his chest up to its hilt.
Serilda dropped the knife onto the table. “The next will be to your head,” she said, petulantly crossing her arms. “Maybe I’ll take out one of your eyes, like one of your hunters took out Manfred’s.”
“If it makes your time here more tolerable,” he said, taking a sip of his wine, “then do your best.”
Chapter Four
Anna was supposed to be Serilda’s lady-in-waiting, but as she was only eight years old and had the attention span of a housefly, she was not particularly adept at her role. Instead, on the day of the summer solstice, two ghost attendants wearing blood-drenched aprons arrived in Serilda’s chambers to mold her into something resembling a queen. Or a bride.
Or rather … a demon huntress, as it turned out.
Serilda had been expecting a gown. Many of the dark ones enjoyed dressing themselves in luxurious fabrics, and she had imagined the king would procure some lavish spectacle of a dress for her to wear during the ceremony.
But no—when the maids swept in, they were not carrying silk and brocade and voluminous skirts. Rather, they brought her a leather tunic that laced up over a flaxen blouse. Riding breeches and arm braces, goatskin gloves and the softest boots she had ever worn. Most notably, they brought her a finely crafted crossbow—smaller than the Erlking’s, but with bolts just as sharp. Serilda was afraid to touch the weapon for fear she would accidentally bump the trigger and send an arrow straight into someone’s head. No one in this room needed any more open wounds than they already had.