Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

Him.

Three dark speckles in the dust. Roark’s blood. Probably from the blow to his head. He was injured. I press my fingertips to them and the ley line bays like a hound, flinging itself forward. It wants me to let it loose. It wants to hunt and chase and find Roark. It wants to rub against his glamour because nothing else in the world feels as good, and it wants me to be happy. All it’s ever wanted is for me to be happy.

“I can find him,” I whisper to no one in particular.

The ley line hums its agreement. We’ll find him. Bring him home. Protect him.

I glance over my shoulder as I stand. “I’ll call when we’re safe.”

Herman reaches out, confused. “How are you going to—?”

I close my eyes and give the command the ley line’s been waiting for. “Take me to him.”

That immeasurable void. Speed and heat. Rivers and streams and creeks of energy crisscrossing the earth. Pathways lighting up like fireworks.

Roark. Focus on Roark.

Tell me what he is, the ley line whispers. So many places to look.

It hurts to answer. I piece together fragments. Cold and heather and fresh—

I stumble and nearly fall on my face. Wind cuts at my back and thick gorse tangles at my feet. A slow turn confirms my suspicion.

Nothing but sky around me. The valley below is hidden by a blanket of dense clouds skating over the dark fields. Craggy rock juts this way and that on the meandering path to the peak. I glance up and am met with a multitude of stars sparkling and blinking in an inky blackness.

“Why am I on top of a mountain?” I complain.

There’s no sign of Roark. A momentary lull in the wind sends the fragrance of freshly crushed plants up. It’s almost perfect, only missing that heady note I’ve only ever smelled when my face is pressed to his skin. The pieces are right, but the combination isn’t.

The ley line nudges my hand. Try again.

“Okay,” I mutter.

Roark. Roark. Roark is...

Feathers and bright eyes and wildness—

“Son of a bitch!” I howl when my nose slams into a tree branch.

I flail for balance, blinking away blinding tears of pain. Huge trees loom around me, weighted with heavy branches, silent sentinels keeping watch while the moon rises and dapples the forest floor with its light. Overhead, a shrill call cuts through the silence.

I try to rub the pain away. “Ravens. I had to think of ravens.”

This time, I’m faster than the ley line, already trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent.

When I’m dunked back into that current and feel myself breaking apart, I don’t go with the first things that pop into my head. Instead of focusing on a tiny piece of who Roark is, I focus on his glamour, on the low, sweet pull when it brushed against me, when I could finally see its weave and knew that there was something hidden beyond it. I nudge that toward the ley line, along with all the memories of his skin and his eyes and his hair and his smile and those quiet moments alone in our rooms when there was nothing between us but air—

The overwhelming rush eases and the blazing golden energy that had been hurtling past me slows.

Oh, you want him, the ley line says.

Yes. I want him.

Here.

The room drowns in shadow, except for the tiny pool of light in the center, which I find myself standing in. The acrid bite of rust and fouler things is accented with the sickly sweet odor of drying blood. My nose still throbs from my last mistake and now my eyes burn from the harsh light. But as the blinding spots fade, I make out the slumped form in the chair before me.

“Roark?” I whisper.