The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Please,” I beg, the words barely escaping. “Don’t.”

Lugh is still in there. We’ve fought side by side for so long, we don’t have to think anymore. We move and breathe and kill as one. I know he hears me, because there’s a split-second opening, a loosening of hands.

I draw my arms inside his and push them out, exploding up and knocking him off balance. A hard shove finishes pushing him off me. He hits the floor and skids away, as I stagger to my feet, coughing and gagging. The moment he starts to rise, I know he’s lost to me again. The shade’s back in control and its rage could consume the world.

My fingers brush over soft fur. Queen Mab’s magick explodes through me and—

It’s Lugh. It’s Lugh in there and I won’t let this transformation take me, not when it will turn on him. The magick cuts off, ripping through me as it springs back into the belt, its energy redirected to lash back at the user who dared limit its power.

Lugh’s drawn the short seax, his favorite because I gave it to him as a gift when he took over the Wild Hunt, and I watch as the new blade slices through the air toward me. I let it come, brace against the hot flash of pain when it parts the fabric of my shirt and scrapes over my ribs. Then I reach out, praying I’ve made the right choice. My hand settles at the back of Lugh’s neck. I clamp down, drag him in close, and spin him so his back is pressed to my front. The shade realizes my intention. It uses Lugh’s lean muscles to claw at me, but it’s too late. His neck’s cradled in my elbow, my other arm pressed across his nape, allowing me to use my greater weight to tighten the hold. He sags against me, his knees buckling, and I lower him to the ground, keeping him trapped.

He gives one choked gasp and I want to cry when I recognize the sound of my name falling from his lips in his voice.

The fight leaves his body and I loosen my grip before he slips into unconsciousness. He hacks and chokes and lets me hold him, though I ease the pressure on his throat. Even before I hear him speak again, I know the shade has retreated. Warmth has returned to Lugh’s skin, to mine, and even to the world around us. The belt’s quiet. The buzz that grew under my skin as we fought has died out.

“Fuck,” Lugh gasps, and clutches at my arm.

“It’s gone,” I tell him.

He makes a horrible, pained noise, and his fingers dig into my arm, smearing in the blood from the knife’s cut.

“It’s gone, Lugh,” I promise. I loosen my grip even more, trying to release him from my hold, but he doesn’t let me. He reaches up and keeps my arms pinned where they are. It takes a moment to realize the wetness on my arm isn’t more blood; Lugh’s crying, silent sobs mixed with his coughing.

“Sorry,” he says, over and over, and my heart breaks for him. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” I murmur into his hair. “I know. When I asked you to stop, you did. You chose well, Lugh.” For some reason, that makes him cry harder, so I abandon all hope of fleeing this cursed cottage immediately and cradle him to me instead. We stay there until he calms. Then we gather up our discarded weapons, try to ignore the blood smearing both of us, and flee to the trees, where our horses and our escape back to the Hunt await.

Lugh

There’s no avoiding a conversation with the Hunt about my magick, not when Keiran and I ride into camp hours later than we were supposed to, bloodstained, exhausted. With Keiran at my side, I explain my ability to see shades and interact with them, though I hedge on the reality of how entwined we can become. Instead, I tell them I sometimes get lost in the memories, using it as an excuse for our injuries.

Drest shrugs and goes back to skinning out the hares he shot. Armel says he’ll get us some bandages. Cybel is silent the longest, and I steel myself for his disappointment. As one of the soldiers who fought beside Mother in her war for the Winter Court, he has known me my entire life. He’s trained me, treated me like a grandson, and his acceptance matters almost as much as Keiran’s.

After a short forever, he sighs, shakes his head, and says, “At least you talked,” and goes about preparing dinner.

I help Keiran clean and dress his wounds, while he makes me use compresses of snow against my bruised throat in an attempt to lessen the swelling. We sit pressed together beside the fire, silently contemplating what happened to us in that damned cottage, and let the men work. Later, after a hearty meal, we lay our bedrolls down beside the fire and curl up facing one another. The others drift off around us, but we seem to have made a mutual decision to avoid sleep. Keiran lets me brush my fingers over his hair and watches me with thoughtful dark eyes.

“How did you get it to stop?” he asks me.

My stomach churns and I worry the hare I ate at dinner is going to come right back up. “What?”

“I thought I’d lost you to it, but then you were back in my arms. You stopped its attack. But how?”

“I... I don’t know,” I lie. “I don’t think I was the person it was looking for.”

“It was looking for someone?”

The tickle of a memory. A small boy, hands stained crimson, looking up from the carcass of a dead bird he was playing with. His eyes are flat, bored, and I shudder when he reaches out to take my hand, turning it so he can examine the blue veins pressed against the skin of my wrist.

I shake myself free from the disturbing sensation of small fingers tracing over my skin. “A boy, maybe. I’m not sure. It was hard to understand.” I jolt a little when Keiran reaches up and skims his thumb against my wrist.

“Why?”

“Every shade has a reason they’re stuck here. If they tell me, I can help. But this shade... There was no purpose. I couldn’t feel anything except its rage.”

He frowns. “I’ve heard of those.”

If he starts a recitation, I’m guaranteed a few more hours I won’t have to close my eyes and see the violent snippets of the shade’s piecemeal memories. “Oh?” I ask, hoping it prompts him further.