She Escaped
“Someone’s making a move this way,” Lorcan murmured to Gavriel.
“But Whitethorn’s still over there.”
Fenrys. Or Connall, perhaps. Maybe Essar’s sister, who he’d never
liked. But he wouldn’t give a shit about that if she hadn’t betrayed them.
He pointed north of the entrance. “You take that side. Be ready to
strike from the flank.”
Gavriel sped off, a predator ready to pounce unseen when Lorcan
attacked head-on.
Death glimmered. Whitethorn was nearly at the camp’s center. And
that force approaching their eastern entrance …
To hell with waiting.
Lorcan broke from the cover of trees, dark power swirling, primed to
meet whatever broke through the line of tents.
Freeing the sword at his side, he searched the sky, the camp, the world
as death flickered, as the rising sun gilded the rolling grasses and set the
dew steaming.
Nothing. No indication of what, of who—
He’d reached the first of the hollows that flowed to the camp edge,
the dips narrow and steep, when Aelin Galathynius appeared.
Lorcan didn’t expect the sob in his throat as she raced between the
tents, as he beheld the iron mask and the chains on her, hands still bound.
As he beheld the blood soaking her skin, the short white shift, her
hair, longer than he’d last seen and plastered to her head with gore.
His knees stopped working, and even his magic faltered at the sight of
her wild, desperate race for the camp’s edge.
Soldiers ran toward her.
Lorcan surged into motion, flaring his magic up and wide. Not to her,
but to Whitethorn, still charging for the center of the camp.
She’s here, she’s here, she’s here, he signaled.
But Lorcan was too far, the grassy bumps and hollows between them
See you next book
Fight it, he willed her, sending the words down the bond—the mating
bond, which perhaps had settled into place that first moment they’d become
carranam, hidden beneath flame and ice and hope for a better future. Fight
her. I am coming for you. Even if it takes me a thousand years. I will find
you, I will find you, I will find you.
Only salt and wind and water answered him.
Rowan rose to his feet. And slowly turned to face them.
But their attention snagged on the ships now sailing out of the west—
from the battle site. His cousins’ ships, with what remained of the fleet
Ansel of Briarcliff had won for them, and Rolfe’s three ships.
But it was not those boats that made him pause.
It was the one that rounded the eastern tip of the land—a longboat. It
swept closer on a phantom wind, too fast to be natural.
Rowan braced himself. The boat’s shape didn’t belong to any of the
fleets assembled. But its style nagged at his memory.
From their own fleet, Ansel of Briarcliff and Enda were soaring over the
waves in a longboat, aiming for this beach.
But Rowan and the others watched in silence as the foreign boat crested
through the surf and slid onto the sand.
Watched the olive-skinned sailors haul it up the beach. A broadshouldered young man nimbly leaped out, his slightly curling dark hair
tossed in the sea breeze.
He did not emit a whiff of fear as he stalked for them—didn’t even go
for the comforting touch of the fine sword at his side.
“Where is Aelin Galathynius?” the stranger asked a bit breathlessly as
he scanned them.
And his accent …
“Who are you,” Rowan ground out.
But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the
color of his eyes. Turquoise—with a core of gold.
Aedion breathed as if in a trance, “Galan.”
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To save him...
“Fine. Now, will you tell me how to save Raphael?”
He stretches out a long arm and plucks an apple from a tree. “Of course.
To save him, we must learn exactly where they’re keeping him.”
“So, you don’t know where he is?”
“In my dreams, I see mere glimpses. He is in Auberon’s fortress, but it’s
a vast place, with countless dungeons, cells, and torture chambers. I need to
think.” He takes a bite of the apple, closes his eyes, and leans his head back
against the column.
I grit my teeth in frustration as I turn back to look at the banquet table.
He’s actually still got ancient wine in the decanters. Dust and snow cover
the plates and the faded gold tablecloth. There are food trays with silver
domes on them. I hate to think of what’s underneath them.
I have no idea what Mordred is doing right now. Eyes closed, he seems
deep in thought. He begins to hum, an eerie, haunting tune that raises the
hair on my nape and pulls my attention from the banquet table. The song is
uncanny, strangely familiar, and his body glows with silver. And for some
reason, I feel as if the tune is beckoning me closer.
After a while, movement catches my eye from above, and I glance up to
see a cloud of silver moths fluttering down from the ruined ceiling. As
Mordred hums, they twirl and dance in the air, their wings ignited by the
slate-silver moonlight. Mordred holds out his hand, and a moth lands on his
palm.
He opens his eyes and clamps his hand into a fist, crushing it. The rest
of the moths scatter, flitting away from him. He opens his hand again, and
my breath hitches. On his palm is a jeweled silver moth, its wings decorated
with tiny, sparkling stones.
“Take it,” he says.
I take it from his palm, a lifeless moth made of metal.
“This moth will be my ears and my eyes. Carry it into Auberon’s
New Faces and Lullubies
“I’m Darius.” He waves. “Nice to meet you. I’ll get out in just a
moment. I just came for a quick reading.”
“Darius is addicted to Tana’s readings,” Serana explains. “You know
drug addicts? He’s like that, but for cartomancy. He’s here every night,
asking about love. Tana, where is my soulmate? Tana, is the fella I met
today the one? Tana, does this devil on the card mean I stop following my
old lovers through the streets of Camelot, or am I destined for a gorgeous
bad boy?”
“I also ask about weightier subjects, not just my love life,” Darius
snaps.
“I don’t mind either way.” Tana is shuffling her cards. “But before we
do your reading, I promised one for Nia.”
Darius scoots to the corner of the bed and gestures at me. “Ladies first.”
“It’s not necessary,” I say warily.
“Oh, let her get on with it,” Serana says. “Or she won’t stop harping
about it.”
I sit down between Darius and Tana, and she hands me the deck of
cards. “Shuffle and think of the future.”
I shuffle the cards, but thinking of the future seems impossible. I used to
have everything planned years in advance. But now? I have no idea what’s
happening.
I finally hand the cards back to Tana, and she flips the first one. I peer
down to see what it is, and a chill sweeps over my skin. I don’t know a ton
about tarot, but this one is obviously ominous. It looks like a tower struck
by lightning, with silhouettes of bodies falling from it. Flames rise from
some of the windows, and dark storm clouds surround it.
“The Tower,” she says.
“Like…Avalon Tower?” I ask.
“Perhaps. The cards shouldn’t be taken too literally.”
She frowns and flips another card, which she places across it. This one
Love concuers all
“This is as close as we get,” Jacks said.
He stroked her throat, and she knew that in a second, he was going to let
her go. He was going to release her, pluck a leaf, and set his heart on fire.
Evangeline felt terrified to move, petrified of speaking for fear of saying
the wrong thing. Her hands were shaking and her chest felt hollow, as if
there was a hole and the hope was draining out of her as well, disappearing
into the same place that had stolen all of his hope.
But she knew where that place led and she refused to go there.
“I love you, Jacks.”
He closed his eyes as she said the word love.
She hoped a little harder. She wanted to ask him to look at her, but all
that mattered was that he didn’t let her go.
“I used to wonder if fate was real,” she said gently. “I used to fear it
meant that I had no real choices. Then I secretly hoped fate was real and
that you and I were fated, that by some miraculous chance I was your true
love. But now I don’t care if fate is real—because I don’t need it to decide
for me. I don’t need it to make this choice. I’ve made my decision, Jacks.
It’s you. It will always be you, until the end of time. And I’ll fight fate or
anyone else who tries to tear us apart—including you. You are my choice.
You are my love. You are mine. And you are not going to be the end of me,
Jacks.”
“I think I already am.” He opened his eyes and they dripped red tears.
“Let me go, Evangeline.”
“Tell me you won’t set fire to your heart, and I will let you go.”
“Don’t ask me to do that.”
“Then don’t ask me to let you go!”
His eyes bled more tears, but his hand held tight to the jar. “I’m broken. I
like to break things. Sometimes I want to break you.”
“Then break me, Jacks.”
His fingers tensed against her neck. “For once I want to do the right
thing. I can’t do
Could it be him?
Evangeline wondered why he would have two brides-to-be. What
could have happened to the first?
She flipped the page again, hoping for more information about
Vengeance or the rest of the Slaughterwoods, but there was just another,
unrelated portrait: The dutiful daughters of House Darling.
The page after that showed a group of young noblemen.
It seemed this book wasn’t just about the Slaughterwoods after all. It
was just some sort of portrait book.
Disappointed, Evangeline considered returning to her packing. But on
the next page, she came across a picture of three young men standing near a
tree that had a bullseye board tacked onto it. One young man looked
friendly, one looked highborn, and one looked exactly like Jacks.
The hairs on her arms rose up. Jacks’s clothes were different, an older
style that made her think of days when roads weren’t mapped and much of
the world was still unexplored, but his handsome face was unmistakable.
Her eyes shot to the bottom of the page.
She found herself holding her breath as she searched for Jacks’s name,
but the caption just said: The Merrywood Three.
The word Merrywood flickered to Bitterwood, and suddenly,
Evangeline remembered that she’d seen another reference to this trio. It had
been in the book that had disappeared after she’d dropped it.
The book had described the members of the Merrywood Three as
scoundrels. They were Prince Castor Valor, Lyric Merrywood—son of Lord
Merrywood—and a nameless archer who she suspected could have been the
same Archer from The Ballad of the Archer and the Fox.
Evangeline studied the picture again, attempting to figure out which
one of these three young men Jacks could have been.
The young man beside Jacks looked the friendliest—with brown skin,
the warmest smile she’d ever seen, and an arrow in
