The urge to sleep washed over my being, wrestled with my consciousness, tussled with my brain, threatened to drown me in slumber until I succumbed to its demand. My limbs turned leaden, my eyelids drooped, and the first rivulets of dreams seeped in from the back of my mind.
Just when my eyelids fluttered shut, the door opened, and I fell backward into muscular arms, which wrapped around my chest. The scent of ale and sweat and roasted meat filled my nostrils.
The Dagda chuckled low and deep. “If you wanted my staff so badly, you should have asked instead of breaking Lorg mór.”
It took a heartbeat for the innuendo to reach my brain, and heat flooded my cheeks. I stumbled back into the cell of bones, still clutching the broken pieces of the wooden staff.
The Dagda stalked in after me, the Sword of Tethra hanging on his belt. Hunger gleamed on his handsome features, and his nostrils flared as though it wasn’t enough to devour me with his eyes. Without the flickering light of the chandelier flames, there was no mistaking his roiling power, no mistaking the flecks of burning gold dancing within his irises.
“I have a proposition for you,” he purred.
My throat dried, and I tore my gaze from those glittering eyes to his amber beard. The Dagda’s lips widened into a smile. “Your sword is a very interesting magical artifact. How did you acquire it?”
“I—” Why was he asking? Did he plan on adding it to his collection? Or perhaps he would swap my sword for his broken staff.
I couldn’t let it fall out of my possession. Only the Sword of Tethra could release the Fomorians from the mist, and I didn’t trust the Dagda to keep it safe.
The huge male advanced on me, his golden eyes shining bright as though they would illuminate the truth in the darkest corner of my soul.
“It was embedded in a stone,” I replied.
He dropped his gaze to the sword’s golden hilt. “Serve me willingly until Lorg mór repairs itself, after which you are free to leave my lands.”
My brows drew together. “Why would you need me when you have so many lovers?”
The Dagda’s smile broadened as though my words had just confirmed that I desired his… staff. “It’s your blood I want, my dear.” His gaze flickered down my leather armor, making me step further back across the uneven floor of bones. “You will serve as my sword maiden.”
“Sword…” I’d never heard of such a thing, but it sounded like a personal guard.
“You will obey my commands, stand at my side, wield this fascinating sword, and open your veins to coat its blade.”
My throat convulsed. He could force me to commit any number of atrocities with the Sword of Tethra. “How long—”
“Until one side of the staff regenerates,” he replied, his eyes dancing. “Until my staff both kills and heals.”
I exhaled a long breath. He meant forever. I’d be no better than the human slaves that toiled a lifetime and beyond. I would serve the Dagda until my body wore to bone and my remains crumbled into dust.
“There’s a third option,” I replied.
The Dagda narrowed his eyes.
“What if I removed the darkness that has consumed your property?” I asked. He opened his mouth to protest, but I continued. “Only a small part of the palace exists in the Free Folk territory, and you’ve had to shield the rest from the curse. What would you give me if I broke that curse and freed your palace?”
“And kill the dogs attacking my pigs?” he asked.
A breath caught in the back of my throat, but I tamped down my excitement. If he let me leave with the staff, I might be able to use it to revive Drayce.
Keeping my features even, I murmured, “I can do that, too.”
He rocked back on his heels, seeming to think it over. I thought back about the story I had told the Dagda about having met Drayce and lost him to the sleeping curse. I hadn’t once told him that the caster of that curse had also caused the darkness over the Summer Court.
The Dagda ran his fingers down the braids of his beard and hummed. “You will remove the curse that has consumed my lands and repair Lorg mór to its former splendor, or serve as my blade until Lorg mór fixes itself.”
I gulped. “What if I—”
“Do not negotiate any further,” he snarled. “I could kill you right here and serve you up as a stew.”
“Alright,” I replied.
He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for me to elaborate.
I licked my dry lips. “I’ll break the curse over your land and fix your staff.”
His large fingers lifted my chin, forcing us to lock gazes. The smile on the Dagda’s lips vanished, replaced by a menacing snarl. “You have three days.”
My heart leapfrogged to my throat. “But I can’t—”
“Three days,” he barked. “At the end of which, if the curse is not broken and my staff not restored, my sons will descend up on your palace and drag you and your sword to my domain.”
Tremors skittered down my spine, palpitations of alarm rang through my chest. This was a terrible bargain, one I should reject, but I had no other choices, no other means of escaping this cell of bones to awaken Drayce.
“I’ll need King Drayce’s help. Can we wait until I wake—”
“No.” The Dagda released my chin, his refusal as heavy as stone.
My eyes snapped up to his face. He stared down at me, his golden eyes gleaming, calculating. The Dagda wanted me to fail, wanted to add my blood and my sword to his collection. As a direct descendant of Dana, he knew the importance of what was flowing in my veins and knew the only way he would take possession of my blood was via a bargain.
“Well, Queen Neara,” he drawled with mockery lacing his voice. “Will you agree
