Cold air blasted through the cage, and Maeve threw her arms up to shield her eyes. The freezing wind bit through the thin material of her blouse, and she shuddered. Tendrils of hair whipped around her, tangling, and she clawed at the unruly strands, desperate to see what was happening.
“Presenting my pet, Maeve.”
Maeve shoved her hair back from her face and lifted her chin to a severe angle. Rage caused her blood to boil. “I am Maeve Ruhdneah! High Princess of the Autumn Court, Queen of the Furies, the Dawnbringer, blessed by the soul of the goddess Danua, warrior of Kells.”
Her fingers coiled tightly around the dagger in her hand. “And I show mercy to no one.”
The strange mist cleared slightly, and Maeve found herself in an arena of some kind. Gray stone walls too high for her to climb encircled the vast space. But she had no idea where one wall ended and the other began. Directly across from her was a towering archway with gates made of bronze spikes that drove into the earth. Rows of seats rose up on all sides from behind the wall, forming an oval-like shape. The audience consisted of a few Spring fae, but they were too far away, and she couldn’t tell if they were in the stands of their own free will or if they’d been forced to attend. What Maeve could see, however, was that the Spring fae were vastly outnumbered by the dark fae.
They wereeverywhere.
Hideous creatures of nightmarish quality, they hissed and screeched from the shadows. There must have been hundreds of them, at least.
Maeve clenched the dagger in her fist until her fingers cramped, the terrifying realization was enough to steal her breath.
There was no way she was getting out of here alive.
Parisa was seated in a box with curtains of shimmering emerald draping on either side of her. She looked like a charlatan of a queen pretending to rule over her Court, acting as though Maeve was her jester, or a puppet of some kind. Canopies of dark green stretched out over Parisa, held in place by two gold poles where twin banners of midnight rippled in the strong breeze. She wore a new crown, this one was simpler—onyx had been twisted to mimic vines and each silver leaf was embedded with black pearls. Stabbing the mantle of wood before her was the Aurastone, its gleaming iridescent hilt calling to Maeve like a beacon.
“Are you ready for the games, my pet?” Parisa asked, leaning forward and propping one elbow upon the wooden mantle. She trailed her excessively long nail down the flat edge of the Aurastone’s blade.
“What games?” Maeve asked, taking a tentative step backwards.
“Originally, I meant for you to partake in the BloodFest alone. But now it appears you’ll have some company.” Parisa gave a sharp nod of her head, and the wind picked up once more. This time, the skies darkened and icy rain fell in slashes from the seething clouds. She stared at Maeve, the corner of her mouth curling. “I told you they’d come for you.”
Maeve whipped around. Through the churning mist, she could just see three more square metal cages, enclosed on the top and bottom by long planks of wood. Each one held a figure trapped within its confines.
She shook her head.
No. This couldn’t be happening. It had been be some kind of terrible dream, or horrible nightmare, one she would wake up from at any moment. This couldn’t be real. Surely they hadn’t been foolish enough to come after her.
But the mist evaporated completely, and revealed Tiernan, Rowan, and Casimir each locked away in a cage.
“No,” Maeve breathed.
Iron was clamped around their wrists, and though each of them appeared to have taken a beating of some kind, they were alive. Disgruntled, and clearly pissed off, but alive.
“Maeve!” Tiernan rushed to the edge of his cage and shoved one arm between the bars, the tips of his fingers desperate to reach her.
Maeve sprinted toward him, stretching out her own hand, when the cage enclosing her dissolved into nothingness. It vanished completely. She tried to stop herself, but the momentum hurtled her forward and she stumbled, flailing. The tip of her boot snared in the overgrowth covering the ground, and she flung her other arm wide to keep from accidentally stabbing herself in the chest.
One strong hand snagged her shoulder, dragging her upright.
Her breath caught in her lungs and held tight as she stared up into a pair of striking twilight eyes.
“Tier.” His name broke from her lips.
“Astora,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
He hauled her closer, trailing his hands up her neck to cup both sides of her face. One thumb ran lightly back and forth across the top of her cheek. She inhaled deeply, breathing him in, fusing every fiber of their souls together. He smelled of palm trees and warm sandalwood, he smelled like home.
“Maeve, listen to me?—”
Another harsh noise filled the air, like sand grinding against stone, drowning out his words.
“I’ll fix this,” she promised, gazing at the strong line of his jaw, at the flecks of gold reflected in the jeweled hue of his eyes. “I promise I’ll find a way to get us out of here.”
But Tiernan was no longer looking at her. His gaze was focused on something beyond her, behind her, something that made his pulse jump.
