Nia lifts to her elbows and peers down at me with her brow crushed up. “Who? One of the Unseelie?”
I nod.
“Heaven help us. If that’s true, we’re lucky to be alive.”
Are we though? I felt no malice from the man, only the same curiosity that hums in my veins.
That night, when I finally manage to drift into sleep, I dream of shadows, black eyes, and blood-drenched blades.
8
Everett
“Leaving home without one’s blade is a death wish.”
Surviving the Unseelie Lands, Author Unknown
The day started out the same as any other, with the young, able-bodied males in our clan preparing to make the mile-long trek from the camp to the well, and yet an uneasy feeling in the pit of my gut followed me the entire way. I remained on high alert, scanning the fog for signs of danger that never materialized.
Then the soft scent of honeysuckle drifts through the air. The aroma isn’t entirely outside the realm of normality considering everything in this damn place reeks like flowers, but there’s something about the scent that calls to me.
A moment later, the sound of shuffling footsteps reaches my ears. The others must hear it too, because their movements aren’t nearly as fluid as they should be. “We are not alone,” I murmur.
“Alley to the right,” Gryff says under his breath, hoisting another jug onto the raised path surrounding the well while Ivan cranks the wooden lever until the bucket inside lifts. River fills the first jug to the brim and then he and Saint carry it back to the first cart.
Maddox stops beside me to bend down and tie the fraying laces on his boots. “What do we think they are doing?”
Can you see any fangs?
No. You?
Not from here.
My lips twitch. “They have come to gawk at us.” If the women doing a piss-poor job of keeping to the shadows by that café want to see sharp teeth, I would be more than happy to smile at them. That would send them running back to the safety of their cottages of flowers and stone.
Maddox chuckles. “Then we should probably give them a show.” He rights himself and stretches his arms toward the sky, twisting to give the Seelie a clear view of his stomach.
Gryffin calls him a gowl, but I notice Gryff flexing his arms as he stalks back to his cart to retrieve another jug. We have been hauling these things since we turned fifteen, so our movements are practiced, almost reflexive at this stage.
The potters of our clan made the jugs from the clays along the banks of the Ishka river—about five days north of our camp. Without them, we would be reduced to rationing like they used to back before the bridge was built.
The Seelie in the alley continue their conversation, unaware that we can hear every word.
They’re…
Monsters. I know. I did warn you.
My teeth clamp so hard my jaw aches. I set my jug down with far too much force. Luckily, the thing does not crack.
“Monsters.” A name I have been called since the first day I crossed the bridge. When we were smaller, Gryff, Maddox, and I thought it would be a brilliant idea to sneak into Rosehill.
At twelve, we were already larger than the largest Seelie but too tall and gangly to look like much of a threat to the softer fae. The woman who saw us hid behind her male companion, whispering for him to tell the monsters to return to our side of The Divide.
I had looked around for wolves, but there were none.
That was when I realized the Seelie were not frightened of the true beasts.
They were terrified of us.