Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“It was the first time I felt the full strength of the fae magic in my blood,” she said. “And that blood runs in you.”
It’s a nice thought, but ultimately untrue. I have no magic. I won’t find it now, lying exhausted in the cradle of the tree’s roots. The tree where my mother made a wish that brought her a thoroughly un-magical, human child.
“I wish,” I whisper, sinking my hands into the soil. But there is too much to wish, and my tears will not make them come true, anyway.
“What do you wish?”
I push up on my arms, glancing around frantically. I was alone in the graveyard when I put down my head. Now, someone is with me. Not Thrace. The voice is too lilting and musical, but also deep and sonorous. Something moves at the edge of my vision, as if detaching from the shadows of the tree roots. A sleek black boot rests its toe delicately near my face, and I follow a lean leg painted in dragon-scale leather up to a muscular abdomen and broad chest revealed by a deep part in the fabric of his black shirt. The skin covering that expanse is as gray-blue as twilight and rises in a thick column of neck to a face with a wide jaw, strong chin, and cruelly slanted lips of deep silver. They match the gleam off the stranger’s eyes, which flash like mirrors one moment, a fathomless, starry sky the next. The glaucus face doesn’t seem to know where it should end, pulled back in points as if held by invisible pins. Long, gleaming hair of blue-black hangs unbound down the stranger’s back, almost touching the ground.
“Who are you?” I whisper in wonder.
“Luthian of Mithrax,” he says. He bows so deeply, our noses nearly touch. “Think of me as your faery guardian.”
Chapter Two
I open my mouth to ask a million questions, but I can’t settle on one.
Luthian offers me his hand. “Come on. You’re soaked to the bone. Let’s get you someplace dry.”
Not knowing what else to do, I reach up for him. The moment my muddy fingertips touch his gloved hand, my vision goes white. I blink it away and find myself in a place I don’t recognize.
The room is small, with deep cerulean walls and black furnishings. Even the fireplace is black, and the scorching blue flame from the hearth casts long, eerie shadows. I suspect that wherever I am, Thrace will not be able to find me, and I am warm and dry.
Warm and dry? I glance down at my hands in alarm. Just seconds before, I was lying in the crook of some tree roots, weighed down by my sopping funeral raiment. Now, silver satin brushes my comfortable skin, and over that, a luxurious robe of dark-blue velvet with a high collar and outrageously puffed sleeves.
There has been no time to change, and I don’t own anything so fine. My usual nightdress is a simple linen shift.
“There.”
I turn in my chair, peeking past the tall wing. Luthian stands framed by an enormous, round window, through which only a brilliant night sky shows. I’m not an expert in constellations, but intuition tells me that, should I study those stars, I will find they aren’t the same ones that shine in the sky above Fablemere.
“Isn’t that so much better?” he asks, striding to the chair opposite mine.
“Y-yes.” I swallow thickly. “Thank you?”
“Refreshment?” He rolls his hand on the end of his wrist, and a goblet appears. Its contents glow like a sapphire lit from within, and glittering metal embellishments cup the glass.
I reach for it, mesmerized, then pull my hand back. “We’re in Faeryland, are we not?”
He nods, the corners of his mouth curling up in mischievous acknowledgement.
“I know better than to eat or drink anything.” But my mouth becomes more parched the longer I stare at the glass.
“You’re here as my guest. I would not trick you into staying forever.” He leans forward and presses the cup into my hand. “Not for lack of wanting. But I can’t, even though you are…”
His eyes rake down my body.
The nightgown is thin. I grip the front of the robe closed with one hand. “Why couldn’t you trick me into staying? Not that I’d prefer it. But why did you even appear to me, at all?”
“The deal I made with your mother.” He waves his fingers at the glass. “You can trust me. You must be thirsty, after your run.”
“You saw me?” I wet my lips before I touch them to the rim of the glass. Whatever is inside smells fruity and sweet and cold, and my sandy throat can’t resist it any longer. I take a huge gulp.
“I knew it would only be a matter of time until the cenere tree drew its namesake,” he says, a lazy, predatory smile growing across his face. “Destiny is a force one cannot ignore.”