The pain of the sickle biting into Dean’s hand was enough to snap me out of the spell. I slammed back into my own skin so hard that it was like hitting the water after a badly-botched dive. It didn’t hurt. “Hurt” was too small a word. It burned.
The fragments of my shattered spell hung in the air around us, reeking of cut grass and copper. The finger dropped from my hand, rolling away. It wasn’t just a bit of discarded meat and bone anymore—I remembered it as part of my body. It would take time for the memory of being Dean to fade, and until then, it was my finger on the floor.
Turning my head, I bent as far to the side as I could, and threw up.
Patrick didn’t move. His eyes were saucer-wide in his pale face, and his hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles gone white from the pressure. “Did it work?” he asked.
I wiped my mouth with one shaking hand as I turned back to him, barely managing to keep from snapping,
“It worked.” I wiped my mouth again, only spreading the sticky taste of blood. My head was pounding. I hadn’t had a headache this bad since Amandine shifted the balance of my blood. Apparently, I still had limits. That wasn’t as reassuring as I’d expected.
“Is he . . .” Patrick stopped mid-sentence, and just looked at me.
“He was alive when the finger was taken. They’re keeping him in a stone room, above water. There’s straw on the floor, but the stone is rough, like it wasn’t milled or worked at all.” I shook my head. “There was no iron in the air. Whoever has him, it’s not the Queen. I’ve been in her dungeon, and the iron is
Patrick nodded. I could see the hunger in his eyes, the burning need to know everything there was to know about the place his son was being held. I didn’t blame him. I just wished that Dean had been held in the same room as Gillian, so that I could have some reassurance of my own. “Is he hurt?”
“Other than the missing finger? I think they used at least one knock-down spell on him. He’s in a lot of pain, but there are no other serious injuries.”
“Was Peter there?”
“No. I’m sorry. He was alone.”
“Did you see who was holding him?”
I lowered my hand, looking up. He stared back with eyes that were suddenly cold and implacable, filled with a deep fury that I was glad wasn’t directed at me.
“It was Rayseline,” I said. Picking up the finger, I put it gently back into the box. That made me feel a little better. “She can’t be working alone, but she’s the one who . . .” Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say “cut off your son’s finger.” “. . . hurt him,” I finished lamely.
Patrick’s expression darkened further, something I hadn’t been sure was possible. “That little bitch will regret the day of her birth by the time I’m finished with her,” he growled, in a voice like waves crashing against the shore.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost a child here, Patrick,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Rayseline has my daughter, too. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t agree to go in swinging. I’d like half a chance in hell of getting Gillian back alive.”
The darkness parted, replaced by a grimace of apology. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Most people do.” I handed him the box before I stood, wiping my hands against my jeans. It wasn’t enough to wipe away the feel of phantom blood. Very little ever is. “I’m scared as hell about what they might be doing to her. Her father was human.”
“Ah,” said Patrick, sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t know how to defend herself. I never had the chance to teach her.” Something about that bothered me. Patrick wouldn’t have known Gillian existed if I hadn’t told him. She was never a part of my life in Faerie. Rayseline knew that she existed, had even met her before, but . . . how did she know where to find her?
“If anyone can find her, I believe that you will,” said Patrick.
“Somehow, that’s not comforting,” I muttered. More loudly, I asked, “Shall we go reassure your subjects that I haven’t shoved you off a balcony?”
“You have balconies?”
“Not in this room. But we have a few.”
“In that case, we should definitely reassure them.” Patrick looked at me gravely as he stood. “We are in your debt for this.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You’re not in my debt until they’re home.”
“Still. At least you’re willing to try. That’s more than I can say for anyone else in this benighted Kingdom.”
“The Queen’s not all bad.”
He lifted his eyebrows and looked at me.
“Okay, maybe she is,” I admitted. “But I’m going to bring your sons home.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Patrick said, and smiled. He still looked exhausted and afraid, but there was hope in his expression. I considered him a moment before smiling back. There might be a way out of this madman’s game after all. That was worth smiling over.
Neither of us spoke as we walked down the hall. We both had too much to think about. He was probably dwelling on his missing sons and the impending war, while I thought about my own missing daughter, and the chances that captivity in a shallowing had already driven her insane.
Even more, I thought about who, out of everyone I knew, could have told Rayseline where to find my little girl. There weren’t many options. I was pretty sure I knew which one was the winner.
The delegation from Saltmist was waiting in the throne room. About half of them had chicken-and-strawberry sandwiches and glasses of lemonade. Marcia and May were circulating through the crowd with more refreshments. Quentin and Raj stood guard on either side of the door, watching the crowd with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Connor sat on the edge of the dais, his head in his hands, looking exhausted. The Roane woman was sitting next to him, patting him comfortingly on the back.
Raj straightened when Patrick and I entered, pointing us out to Quentin. Having both of them looking in our direction was enough to tip off the rest of the room, all of whom turned, one by one, to look at us.
I raised one hand in a small wave. “Hi. Miss us?”
“Done more than she thought she would, but not as much as she’ll do, once she’s given cause to eat the fruit of the Judas tree.” The Roane woman stood. Connor started to follow, and she patted his shoulder, motioning for him to stay. “Now, now, my little soldier boy, stay as you are, and rest. Your place in this tale is nearly severed through, and the time for roving’s done. Rest a while, before the end begins.”
Connor sat again, looking as perplexed as I felt. The Roane smiled like she was giving a benediction and walked over to us, seizing Patrick’s free hand in both of her own. “She’s seen him in the halls of stone?”
“She has,” Patrick replied. Pitching his voice to carry to the rest of the courtyard, he said, “Dean is alive.”
The resulting cheer was loud enough to rouse a swarm of pixies from the rafters. They swirled around us in a
