Nothing is left of that city. It’s as if it never existed.
Inside, it’s a cavern. The antechamber is vast, with great arched columns that lead up to a ceiling lit by flickering candles suspended in the air. Every inch of the black rock walls is covered in fae symbols. There’s an aura to the room, a strange glow of energy that casts a shimmer along the stone archways, like when sunlight strikes water at a certain angle.
The walls breathe as if they were alive, as if this entire place were living, a sleeping creature. It’s unnerving and beautiful, terrifying and darkly lovely. A million different dichotomies. Like everything fae.
“MacKay?”
No response.
You invited me in, and now you’re stuck with me, Kiaran MacKay. You’ll have to speak to me if you want me to leave.
I cross the antechamber and head toward a massive oak door that connects the great hall to another room, equally vast and deserted. An empty dais occupies the far end, indicating this as the throne room. But there is no throne there, no sign that anyone rules from the palace at all. My skin is covered in gooseflesh as I pass the vacant dais.
I swear I can feel the age of this place as if it were written along the walls, a tapestry of power depicting the rise and fall of the original palace that the crystal came from. This is an extension of the Old Kingdom, then. Not a replacement palace, but the Morrigan’s home, created anew.
I wince as my footsteps echo across the floor. It’s so loud: the only sound in this empty place. Despite the candles floating near the ceiling, the air is cold. Like the ruins of an old cathedral, desolate and filled with memories long lost. An old fallen kingdom risen out of the rubble and destruction of another.
“MacKay,” I call again. Still no response. “Fine, if you won’t speak then I will: I killed your soldiers in the woods. Your sister didn’t do it.” Nothing. Not even footsteps. “I would apologize, but I’m not sorry.”
I sigh in irritation when there’s no response. Bloody hell, MacKay.
Fine. If he won’t speak to me, I’ll make myself feel welcome. I’ll shout annoying questions down the halls if I have to.
I stride across the throne room and through another door, pausing just beyond the threshold. Now this looks more lived-in. It’s an intimate space, furnished. At the far end of the room is a window that spans from floor to ceiling. Right in front of it is a single black leather chair. I almost smile at the memory of Kiaran’s flat in Edinburgh, what seems like so long ago now. The only furniture he’d had in that place was a chair, a table, and a bed with warm wool blankets. Practicality and small comforts over opulence.
Aithinne was right: He is a creature of habit.
I approach the window. The view overlooks the cliffs of the mainland down to where the waves crash against the rocks just below the palace. I slide my fingertips across the back of his chair. I can picture him sitting there so easily, listening to the sea raging below. Kiaran always found solace in stillness; we both did. It’s one of the reasons we trained so well together.
To my left, I notice the bed. The bed. It’s exactly the same as it was in my dream, right down to the carvings in the headboard. How is that possible?
Aithinne’s words brush across my mind. The Cailleach’s power recognizes its own. And it’s easier because he’s your lover.
When my memories came flooding back, it must have helped our connection. My fingertips graze my neck. Despite the smooth, unmarked skin, the pressure of his teeth hasn’t faded. Nor has my memory of this room. It wasn’t entirely a dream, then. Somehow, my power linked with Kiaran’s and I saw this room before ever setting foot in it.
The only difference is a massive table constructed of heavy oak on the far end of the room, set right in front of the grand fireplace. From here, I can see a scattering of objects on it.
I approach the table slowly.
A map is laid out there, branded into what looks like tanned leather and topped with old chess pieces carved from ivory. I trace the lines of the map and recognize the curve of the bay just beyond the castle, the forest I traveled through with Derrick that stretches eastward along the isle. Each piece is set very deliberately across the map.
Pawn. Pawn. Pawn. Three of them fallen like trees in a forest.
I swallow hard when I realize they mark different camps on Aithinne’s land. The ones he’s planning to attack first. Right in the center is the Queen.
And her crown is broken off.
The heavy wooden door behind me closes and I go still. I sense him standing there, as surely as if he were touching me. I hold my breath and turn.
Kiaran.
CHAPTER 17
KIARAN IS even more uncanny than I remember, every inch the faery King he was born to be. His luminous, pale skin stands out in contrast to his gleaming dark hair. The candlelight casts him in a halo of red and gold, an effect that’s unsettlingly angelic. But an angel could never look that dangerous, that savagely beautiful. An angel wouldn’t look at you as if torn between desire and violence, between yearning and something else. Something primal. Something dark.
I go still when our gazes meet. His once vivid lilac eyes are now cold and ringed with black, like ink spattered across flower petals.
I can’t recall the last time I was so uncertain about him, so torn between fighting or running or want. The memory of his lips against mine surfaces, unbidden. I recall it perfectly now. White-hot kisses and trembling hands sliding down my arms, my back, my hips. The sounds he made, his whispered encouragements against my skin.
Kiaran lets out an uneven breath. I wonder if he’s remembering, too. If he’s thinking about every word we’ve ever said to each other, every promise we’ve ever made. I wonder if he sees that space inside me that belongs to him and always will. And he didn’t take it by force or coercion. He wore away small pieces of it until so much was taken up with him that before I realized, I had given him the whole of my heart. I had given him my soul. I had given every part of me that was mine to offer.
Kiaran turns his head away sharply, his entire body tense. As if he’s getting himself under control—or, at least, trying to.
Then he looks at me again, and his expression is too even, too composed and unreadable. I grip the table. Not ready to run. Unable to step back. Uncertain about stepping forward.
Aithinne’s voice in my mind is a reminder to remain cautious. No matter how normal he might appear at first, his hunger will always win out. Always.
Is he Kiaran right now? Or is he Kadamach? “Hullo,” I say softly.
Then he’s striding toward me with a hard glint in his gaze, purposeful. Threatening? I can’t tell. I can’t tell. I grasp the hilt of my sword in warning, but he doesn’t even glance at it.
His hunger will always win out. Always.
I pull the blade from its sheath. In the space of a breath, the tip is pressed to the base of his neck.