Her left elbow joint popped.
New white-hot agony manifested in and around the entire left side of her body. Her fingers disengaged from the bridle, not because she let go, but because her left hand stopped working, and her right hand responded with a spasm.
She slid down the cold stone wall to the floor.
The kelpie towered over her, his head up as he sniffed the air, and his bridle still on his head. His front hooves were close enough that he could rear up and trample her where she sat. He could, if he wanted, completely rip off her damaged arm.
He whinnied, then cocked his head as he listened.
Down the hall, another kelpie whinnied a reply.
The kelpie galloped away, toward his comrade, leaving her alone to pop her elbow back into place.
She yelled as she pushed herself off the wall and realigned her joint. Her witch-body resilience would have the pain settling momentarily.
Most of the weapons cache was in the Armory under lock and key. But some of it was not. Some of it was just too magical and too important to the King to have it out where mere acolytes could lay their hands on it.
Some of it needed to be kept close to the royalty.
Wrenn bolted down the corridor after the kelpie and toward the one room in the entire interconnected metropolis of Oberon’s Castle that a dark fae should not, and hopefully could not, enter: The Gallery of Artifacts.
Chapter 8
Robin had snuck Wrenn into the Gallery of Artifacts once. He’d waved his hand and touched her forehead. Then he’d nodded and said, “There,” as if that one word was enough to allow her to transit in and out of all the tiny, hidden pockets within Oberon’s Castle.
He hadn’t given her that kind of key, of course. After five minutes deep inside the Gallery, his spell had worn off and the room had flung her all the way to the Armory’s yard. She’d landed in the middle of a cloud of pixies running tactical drills.
She’d only gotten a glimpse of what was in there—a troll mace the size of her head. An ethereal silver bow, quiver, and arrows. Keys. Several daggers. Fae-made chainmail. Indigo and red kami-made leather and silk armor. Modern-looking leather-and-silver elven body armor that appeared to be more grown than built.
And swords. Hundreds of swords in all shapes and sizes stored on the walls that ran away from the door into what looked like infinity. Swords three kelpies could use to cause all sorts of suffering.
This level of the castle was mostly vast outer rooms surrounding a central column of stairs and elevators. The whole set was high enough up the spire that the curve of the outer hall kept you from seeing more than twenty feet ahead, but you could hear.
Wrenn ran along the inside wall, watching and listening for neighs and brays. Up ahead, clops turned to footfalls and horse noises turned to yells.
The kelpies were shifting to human form.
There was some sort of magical geometry and physics going on in the castle that probably had to do with proximity of pockets of fae-generated realities, the reporting henge, nearness to Oberon’s main rooms, and portal access. She’d never been able to consciously discern a pattern, though she sensed one.
So did the kelpies. She rounded the curve to find three handsome dark-haired men in kilts standing in front of a blank space on the inner wall.
Except it wasn’t blank, and they weren’t alone.
The biggest of the kelpies in human form—he was a good four inches taller than Wrenn, and looked to be carrying at least half-again her body weight in pure muscle—held Robin by the scruff of his neck.
They’d tied his hands with a black leather belt to keep him from zapping out spells, and from the looks of it, had smacked him against the wall enough times to stun him into semi-consciousness.
All three kelpies wore the same black polo shirt with the same little silver-green horse embroidered over their left pec. All wore matte black tactical kilts covered with pockets and body armor panels. Even their boots were black, though their socks were the same pale green as the little horse emblems.
They were also almost physically identical, except for a fair size variation. All had handsome square jaws, the same glorious ebony curls hanging over their foreheads as had the vamped-out one in the tavern, and enough of a five o’clock shadow to accentuate high levels of testosterone.
All had twisted leather straps tied around their necks. Each strap threaded around multiple silver rings.
Their bridles.
They were all things kelpie—dumb, pretty, arrogant, and dangerous.
“You know who that is, don’t you?” Wrenn pointed at Robin.
The huge kelpie scowled like a toddler. “That th’ lass, Ranger?” he asked the much smaller one standing to his left.
The smallest of the three, the one the big one called Ranger, sniffed the air. “She tried t’ steal my bridle, lads.”
So the massive draft-horse-sized kelpie turned into a squat little human.
A chorus of ohhhhs and ahhhs rose from the group.
Ranger pointed at Wrenn. “Run awa’ now, ye ugly sow, before we thrall ye an’ smash yer brains like we’re doin’ t’ the goat boy.”
The big one held up Robin and gave him a shake.
“The King’s going to have your heads,” Wrenn said.
The three kelpies laughed. “We’re th’ Queen’s stallions.” They all puffed up their chests as if they truly thought being the Queen’s favorites would save them from Oberon’s wrath.
She pointed at Robin. “That’s Puck, you morons,” she said.
The big one peered at Robin’s face. “All th’ goat boys look th’ same.”
Ranger shrugged. “Th’ fat ugly one thinks we care.”
How many times in her life had she heard that exact insult? You’re too tall. You’re too strong. No one wants a woman your size.
“The Shire horse thing was compensation, huh?” Wrenn held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.
Red demon fire shot horizontally
