Warrior Fae Princess (Warrior Fae 2)

Another dark thought wafted through her mind, stemming from her conversations with her grandmama. Little comments about suitable matches. About what status meant and how to achieve and maintain it. Approved smiles and knowing nods whenever Hallen accompanied Charity places…

Did her grandmama expect her to accept Hallen as a match? Not a chance. She had a love, and she would not settle for any other.

Period.

Devon had better be in the guest house. Or on the battlefield. He’d better not have run out on her in the middle of the night.

This had better be deeply ingrained paranoia.

“Which way?” she asked at the other end of the village, and guilt ran through her. She should know how to get to the pack blindfolded. She’d neglected them.

“Right,” Kairi said. When they reached the next corner, she said without prompting, “Left.”

The houses grew smaller and smaller, and Charity’s guilt mounted until she reached what looked like a collection of shanties. They were neglected, tiny dwellings shoved out of the way. The gardens were being beautified, her father’s signature touch obvious, so that was something, but other than that, they were barely fit for wild dogs.

Charity laughed sardonically as she registered the stillness of the ramshackle cabins. They felt abandoned. Her heart pushed up into her throat. Tears clouded her vision.

“Wild dogs,” she said softly, stalling outside of the closest shanty. The door stood open, but she already knew it would be deserted. “You put them in the backyard, like dogs. They were your guests, and you sequestered them here, in a shithole, while you celebrated the woman they risked everything to get to safety. And here you talk about politeness. About doing what’s proper. About the right way of doing things.”

Charity turned and threw out her hand.

“This is not the right way of doing things,” she yelled, and the first tear rolled down her face. “When I was in a tough time, they put me in Devon’s house. He bought groceries, protected me, welcomed me into his pack…and look how you’ve treated them in return. They brought you the Second’s daughter, and you put them here!”

She marched inside as another tear fell. Then a third.

“Why would they want to stay when they were welcomed with this sort of red carpet?” she said to herself. There was barely any furniture. A teeny communal kitchen, a common area with a little table shoved in the corner. Doors led to other sleeping areas, in which dingy mattresses littered the ground. All empty. The robes the shifters had borrowed from this place lay in piles or folded and cast aside. Left behind. Like her.

That was when the strange hollowness inside her finally worked into her awareness. The wrongness that she now realized had fired the paranoia. She could no longer feel the back-and-forth dance of her magic and Devon’s. Had Penny reversed her spell?

Distance.

The thought curled out of her mind. An assurance greeted it.

The connection Penny had forged didn’t work with distance.

“No.” Her stomach rolled. “Please no, Devon. Please…” She was begging. Pleading.

But he wasn’t there to hear her. None of them were.

A stark white square stood out on the dingy brown table. Paper.

She snatched it up, fumbling to open it.

It was from Macy, written in a clumsy hand.

Charity’s eyes flew over the words, and guilt threatened to consume her. She sank to her knees. Sobs heaved from her middle.

“Dillon was killed,” she choked out, her hands shaking so badly that she couldn’t read the words. “Dillon—”

“Third.” Kairi knelt by her side, her hand on Charity’s shoulder. “Are you unwell?”

“Don’t I look unwell?” Charity screamed, shaking the letter in Kairi’s face. “Dillon died getting me here. He sacrificed his life for me. Why wouldn’t they tell me? Why—”

But if Charity had made the short trek to their shanties, she would’ve seen Macy’s grief. She would’ve known. And she would’ve seen the horrible conditions they were being forced to endure.

She could’ve fixed this. She could’ve organized a candlelight vigil for Dillon, and put them somewhere nicer.

“What a horrible bitch I’ve been,” she said to no one, the tears coming quickly. “What horrible bitches my people are—putting guests in a place like this.”

Was her not recognizing Dillon’s death why her father, or why grandmama, ignored it also? They surely knew. Charity was in a daze when she came in—they were not. Why had they not honored the death of a man who fought bravely to keep their family alive? To bring the Third Arcana home?

“What is up with this place?” she seethed, guilt and anger turning her stomach. She rounded on Kairi and Hallen. “What are you hiding from? How could you possibly call yourself warriors? What do you do all day, but play with wooden swords and pretend at happiness? This is happiness?” She flung her arms wide. “Treating people like this resonates with you all? This is the identity of your people?”