Page 34 of A Court of Ravens
“Niall,” my father greets, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Have you found aceangal?”
Straight to the point, then. Typical Fallon. “I believe so…” I keep my voice even, though tension coils in my gut. I’m holding back because I don’t know what the hell to do about my sister. My plan went to hell the second I bonded with Felicity. And now? Madden will never let her go unless I deliver another human in her place. “…But we’ve got bigger problems. The Veil is thinning, and there’s a priest sniffing around where he shouldn’t be.”
“Tomas briefed me.” My father’s tone is as dry as the Skyreach Mountains. “But the Veil isn’t only a human problem. A villager nearly crossed intoTír na Scáil. Do you understand what that means?”
“When the photograph was taken,” Tomas adds, sotto voce.
I can’t help but push back. “Of course I do. But what if thinning before Samhain isn’t a curse? What if it’s an opportunity?”
My father’s laugh rumbles through the room like a landslide. “You’re a fool if you think the Ironlands want us back. Humans moved on, Niall. Stories of fae are entertainment now.”
“But—”
His gaze hardens. “No buts. This isn’t your decision to make. And the reporter—deal with her before she becomes a bigger problem.”
“With all due respect, sire, have we even tried? Yes, we wanted them to forget. And they did. But if we stay forgotten forever, how do we survive?”
Because if we don’t? The traditions that once tied us to the land and its people will vanish. We’re already seeing it.Aithreach Declineis taking root. The Crimson Court is suffering the most, clinging to purity while they wither. The Decline isn’t about numbers or strength. It’s about severing the lifeline that feeds us. It’s about losing our connection to the earth and its magic.
He scowls. “And what? Do you think they’d welcome us with open arms? ‘Oh, you need our daughters to continue your race? Sure, take them.’”
He has a point. The few who might accept us won’t outnumber the masses armed with fear and Internet access. I’ve finally figured out the meaning of this marvellous human invention.
Yet, each Samhain whispers of the Old Ways breathe life into our fading magic.
“They’d hunt us again,” Tomas says, locking eyes with mine in the portal’s reflection. “Fear turns to hatred, hatred to violence. It’s the way of the world.”
I groan. “So, we hide? Forever?”
“Time is running out,” my father says, his voice like iron grinding against stone. “When you sit where I am, you’ll understand. These choices saved us once. I won’t undo decisions made by men wiser than us.”
With that, he speaks—Go n-éirí leat—and the portal ripples before going dark, leaving only my reflection staring back at me.
I hesitate, my gaze locked on the shimmering surface.Time is running out.
Of course, it is, but the way my father said it wasn’t about the Veil or the priest. It sounded like a man bracing himself for the moment something breaks. Like he’s holding back, and I’m the poor bastard who will find out the hard way.
I run a hand through my hair, moving to stand in front of the fireplace. Firelight dances across the walls, shadows twisting like they’re alive. It pulls me back to the destruction Felicity left behind, the wreckage she caused. And beneath that memory lies the dark stories whispered to me as a child about the Sluagh and its insidious hunger. Hunger that devours everything in its path.
And then there’s the priest.
He knew the fae would rage over the construction. Worse, it feels like he twists things to suit his audience, stirring the pot enough to keep everyone on edge while keeping his own hands clean. He’s always there, meddling, playing the righteous saviour while the Veil thins under his very nose. Maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing. Or maybe not.
I can’t ignore the signs, how fear seeps through the village, how whispers of despair cling to the air. It reeks ofGnáthmharfóirí. The way they weave into human lives, infecting communities with doubt and hatred, makes it seem like they’re clearing a path for the Sluagh to feast.
But I can’t prove it.
My father wouldn’t see the nuance. He’d demand immediate action, and if I told him everything I suspect—Felicity’s connection to the shadows, the priest’s potentialGnáthmharfóiríorigins—it would be a disaster. His solution would be swift and absolute, disregarding collateral damage. The risk to Felicity would be too great. I’m not handing her over to him like some pawn in his survival game.
Not when the bond grows stronger every time I touch her.
I grip the edge of the mantle. The Sluagh are terrifying enough on their own, but ifGnáthmharfóirílearned to use them, to leverage that hunger…
I take a deep breath. This isn’t just about Felicity or the Veil. It’s about the balance between worlds, the fragile line we walk to keep ours hidden. IfGnáthmharfóiríinfiltrated the village, I need to deal with them. Quietly. Without my father.
And without dragging Felicity into it. At least, not until I figure out what the hell she is.
Tomas pushes off the wall. “You didn’t tell him about Felicity. Gods, I know I should have, but I figured I’d gauge your intentions before giving him half-cocked intelligence.”
