By the time it returns to me and curls protectively around Roark’s unconscious form, there’s no threat left. I walk down the hall. They still stand there at the end, their sightless eyes trapped on the space where I had been standing, their chests frozen in paroxysms of shocked breath. I stop in front of the ringleader.
His face is caught in a twisted snarl and his hand rests on the hilt of a short knife in his belt. He’s as tall as me, our noses nearly even. I blow on his face and he crumbles. His movement stirs the air and the other two disintegrate as well, their ashes hissing softly as they settle into piles that slide over the floor.
I step through their remains and down the hall they came from. It opens into a wider workshop. Moonlight fractures through the few remaining windowpanes and the holes where the roof has caved in. No doors here, just a large bay too buried in debris to open.
I set Roark awkwardly on one of the worktables. His skin’s pallid and clammy, his breathing labored, and no matter how many times I whisper his name, he doesn’t stir.
I have to get him back to the sídhe. I may have plenty of power I can feed him so he can heal faster, but unless I know what I’m supposed to heal, I’m afraid I’ll do more harm than good. I need Mab’s direction.
But he said the way was sealed.
We can find it, the ley line promises.
“Can you take him, too?” I ask while I gather Roark back into my arms.
He’s ours.
There isn’t another option.
Convinced I have the best grip possible on him, I close my eyes and try to center myself. With this new weight, it’s harder. I’m off balance. I’m distracted with worry. Slowly, with painstaking focus, I push the fears and doubts aside and focus on what matters. Roark is here and he’s still alive and I’ll get him home so he can heal and I can have him back.
His home. The sídhe. I don’t remember it well enough, except for the torture room. But there is one thing there I’ll ne
ver escape.
Mab... Unearthly beauty and power and desire and fury. The Queen of Air and Darkness. The creature who haunts my nightmares. The artist who carved Roark into the man I love so desperately.
Ready? the ley line asks.
The world lurches and that glittering web is before my eyes again. I step forward toward the first river and prepare to fall apart, but Roark’s weight tethers my mind and keeps me whole. Reminds me what I’m looking for.
Mab. I need to find Mab.
I let memories of her swamp me. It doesn’t take much. As we pass, whispers and dancing and twirling points of energy rise and fall. Mab is something else. A timeless entity. The ley line knows where those hide. It buoys along until we’re stopped by a veil, a thin, sticky web. Beyond it, I sense a pulsing energy so strong it sets my teeth on edge. It’s cold and familiar and I know she’s right there. The ley line can’t force us through that thin barrier, but maybe, if I try, I could. I reach out a hand and push—
—only to stumble to my knees, nearly losing my grip on Roark, as I land in the center of what has to be the Unseelie throne room, right in front of the queen.
For a moment, I think the ley line must have paused time. There’s not a sound. The milling crowd around us goes stiller than a statuary.
And then everything speeds back up. The fae explode into a frenzy of movement and noise. Mab raises her hand, snarling as she throws a hex toward me. To my left, a redcap guard rushes in, halberd extended.
I hunch my shoulders in a vain attempt to protect Roark, and the ley line explodes around us protectively.
Mab braces herself, hex forgotten. Her dress, a heavy silver tapestry, flutters behind her like mercury.
The redcap is swallowed by a searing white heat radiating outward from behind his ribs. His corpse stands there like the three kidnappers’ did, a pillar of ash. The only telltale sign of his death is the fine trickle of dust spilling from the gaping hole that once made up his chest.
The wave of my power knocks everyone else to the ground.
I push myself up off the floor. Mab’s gaze latches onto Roark and, for a moment, her careful mask shatters.
“Help him,” I demand.
She rushes to us, hands outstretched. Her fingers skate over the split in his cheek. At the contact, she flinches and rears back, cradling her hand to her chest.
“Out,” she orders the room, her command thunderous even over the chaos of her subjects. The room empties around us.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.