My throat thickened, and the beginnings of tears stung my eyes. Not because of the Dagda’s words. It made no difference to me if Drayce and I were mated or not. The love we shared was strong enough to overcome the lack of a magical bond.
What broke my heart was Nessa’s words. She’d told me that only Drayce’s mate could break his curse. If he already had a mate somewhere, if his mate was Queen Melusina, I couldn’t stand to see him return to her clutches.
I thought back to Drayce’s request that I stab him with iron. If I wasn’t his mate, my dagger in his heart might mean his death or banishment into the Otherworld.
“Then I would like to make a request,” I whispered.
“For such a moving tale, you may ask me for anything.”
“The use of your harp,” I said.
He blinked. “My…”
I leaned toward him, clutching the arm of his throne. “You have a magical harp that can rouse anyone from sleep. I brought Prince Drayce here as well as a harpist to awaken him. Please—”
The Dagda raised his hand. “I cannot fulfill your request.” He reached into his beard, pulled out a silver ring engraved with runes and dropped it into my hand. “This is the ring your mother used to force a mating bond with King Donn of the Otherworld. The magic is extremely volatile and will transfer your power to King Drayce if he does not truly love you.”
I stared down at the ring, which glinted gold in the firelight. What was the point of creating a mating bond with a male who couldn’t wake? My gaze rose to meet the Dagda’s. “I don’t care about being mated to him. The curse he’s suffering might consume his soul.”
His brows lowered into a frown. “I cannot lend you my harp. Nor can I play it for your king.”
“Why not?” My voice broke.
“Because,” he snarled with his teeth bared. “The blasted harp got sucked into the Fomorian mist.”
One of the females on the other side of his throne giggled.
Fury broke out across the Dagda’s features, and a roar tore from his lips. He twisted around and lashed out with his staff, striking nine of his lovers dead.
Chapter 13
I scrambled to my feet and stared at the Dagda, who bared his teeth and snarled at the nine dead females now lying slumped on the tabletop. Huge breaths heaved in and out of that mighty chest, the sound of his seething like a serrated edge to my ears.
Now it made sense. How the skulls from supposedly immortal beings lined the palace’s exterior walls. He had probably killed his lovers, subjects, offspring, over the millennia, only to replace them with new, more compliant sycophants.
The Dagda saw people as disposable—it’s why he didn’t seem fazed by the return of a son who had been missing for a thousand years, why he had more children than he could remember. The Dagda was exactly like Queen Melusina.
“How could you?” The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them.
The Dagda turned around, his handsome features twisted with rage. “This is my palace.” He slapped his palm on his bare chest. “Mine! Nobody disrespects me within my walls.”
“What kind of male would murder nine innocent people because somebody laughed?” I swept my hand over the expanse of the table. “What kind of male has so many lovers?”
He bared his teeth, his golden eyes flashing with rage. “You would dare to judge me?”
My heart thrashed against my chest, desperate to escape this foolish body that had dared to stand up to the Dagda’s wrath.
Fury radiated off his mighty form, hot and bright and crackling with vengeance.
“You would dare question me at my own table?” He raised his staff, ready to strike. The women behind me screamed and scrambled off the bench. “I will end your wretched life!”
I gripped the Sword of Tethra with my left hand and unsheathed it with my right, making sure to slice my palm and coat its blade with my blood.
With a roar, the Dagda swung his staff at my head.
On instinct, I swung, blocked, and my blade sliced clean through the Dagda’s staff. Wood clanked against the table, spraying potato soup onto us both.
The Dagda’s eyes bulged. “Lorg mór.” He stared at the broken end of his staff. “You just destroyed the last fragment of the Crann Bethadh.”
My throat thickened. I had read about the Crann Bethadh in the Book of Brigid. It was also known as the Tree of Life, an ancient oak that formed the gateway between the living world and the Otherworld.
Its canopy was said to be tall enough to reach the realm of the gods. According to the book, the tree burned down when humans and faeries overran Bresail and the gods retreated to their realm.
I stared from the broken staff now lying in a tureen of soup, to its wooden handle, which the Dagda gripped with knuckles as white as diluted milk. How was I supposed to know it was an ancient artifact? And even if it was, I had to defend myself.
“You just killed nine people and were about to kill me.”
“Fix it.” He pointed the broken staff into my face. “Fix it or I will boil you in my cauldron and serve up your stewed carcass.”
My mouth dried, and I gulped several times in quick succession. What in the name of all that was holy did the Dagda expect me to do? Stand there and let him kill me and eight others with that staff?
“Father.” Aengus stood at the other side of the table. “This is my doing. I failed to explain to Queen Neara that Lorg mór has the power to restore life as well as kill. Please, show her.”
The Dagda glowered at his son as though considering whether to slay him, too. I bit down on my lip. There was no escape
