Warrior Fae Princess (Warrior Fae 2)

Vlad was trying to woo Charity’s father into his way of thinking—casting doubt on the elves and their dealings in the Realm. Letters were left in Romulus’s yard, or in Halvor’s pants, taunting them with what Vlad must’ve known the fae would deem their faulty security. He was silently telling the fae that they were rusty, and Vlad was…not.

Romulus refused Devon’s offer to erect a ward. Charity had taken up nagging as a new pastime. It wasn’t getting her anywhere. Apparently, the warrior fae had a problem with hardheadedness.

Roger waited at the edge of the parking lot in his tearaway sweatpants and loose white shirt. His people spread out around the vehicles, on full alert. The sun sank slowly toward the horizon.

“Shall we?” Romulus put his arm out for Charity.

They walked out from between the SUVs, Charity surveying the large white building in front of them. It stretched across the expansive property in the small Nevada town.

Emery and Penny drifted in behind Charity, having offered their help.

“This isn’t a trap,” said Reagan, who had not been invited but was apparently unwilling to be left behind. She stood a little removed from everyone, looking out over the grounds. “This is an offer of goodwill. He has nothing to gain by waging war on someone whose help he wants. He won’t snatch Charity, either, and risk upsetting the Arcana.” Her thick boots crunched on the dirt. “No, he sees what’s coming, and he’s working on his allies.”

“What’s coming?” Roger asked.

“Haven’t you heard the red-haired nut?” Reagan grinned. It didn’t reach her eyes. “War. The elves have been unchecked in their brutality for far too long. There’s unrest. And if there is anyone to capitalize on unrest, it’s Vlad. He’s planting his garden, so to speak. When it blooms, it’ll be a helluva show.”

“A hallucination says I’ll play a key part in that war,” Charity murmured as they neared the building’s large, scuffed, and scraped doors.

“We’ve talked about this, darling.” Romulus patted Charity’s arm. “It was not a hallucination; it is your birthright. One that will grant you much status. Now, let’s turn our attention to the matter at hand. We have all the time in the world to discuss the coming war.”

A shiver arrested Charity. She somehow doubted how much time they had, number one, and she didn’t want to talk about it, number two. She didn’t want any part of it.

She forced the situation from her mind.

Alder jogged forward to reach the door first as Roger fell in behind them, taking the back. His people moved in around Charity’s party, covering the fae, who covered her. It should’ve been a cluster of chaos with so many people filing up at the entrance, but somehow, it worked seamlessly. If they’d needed any proof their two peoples could work together, this was a good example.

A tired and drawn woman looked up from a worn desk in the middle of a large, run-down space. Her gaze took in all the people suddenly entering the hush, and a spark of recognition lit her eyes.

“Yes, Miss Charity Arcana?” The employee glanced between the women of the group.

“Me. I’m Charity.” The group opened up a little so Charity could reach the desk.

The woman nodded and ducked down, seeming to grab something from under the desktop.

“Goodness.” An older woman entered from a hall on the right, her gray eyebrows winging up and a delighted smile on her face. “What’s all this?”

“They’re here to visit the Taylor plot.” The woman straightened up with a beige envelope on which Charity’s name was written in delicate, easily recognizable scroll.

“Plot?” Charity said, heat pricking the back of her eyes.

“Yup. Head back out the front door, hang a right around the building, and go through the fence.” The woman used two thin fingers to point. “We’ve agreed to keep the grounds unlocked until nine.”

“But plot… That’s a grave, right?” Her legs didn’t seem to want to move. Tears overflowed from her eyes.

“It’s okay,” Devon said, one arm around her waist. “It’s going to be okay.”

As they made their way to the cemetery, Charity caught sight of Macy. The shifter’s eyes were haunted. She’d just been through this with Dillon, visiting a plot they’d selected so that people would have somewhere to mourn…

The rickety old gate stood open, rusty and tangled with weeds and dying plants. A sob ripped from Charity’s throat when she saw the rows of neglected headstones beyond it. She clung to Devon as they walked through the gate, certainty pounding through her. Part of her had hoped her mother was living her best life somewhere. But Charity was too late; her mother wasn’t living at all. Charity wouldn’t get to speak to her again. She’d never get to hug her, or slap her. She’d never need to work up the courage to ask why she’d left.