As I fumble forward, I watch in horror as Malia fends off Nolan, Maddox, and Charlie with only a dagger in her left hand, one she must have had on her body.
Malia isn’t fae, and even if she were, it’s three against one, and she has a baby in her right arm. She shouldn’t be this agile, this strong…
I glance at the satchel at my side. Ripping the flap open, I rummage inside. Most of the vials appear to be for healing purposes, though a few of the labels I don’t recognize. I glance back and forth between these, wracking my brain for any memories of John rambling about any of these names. I find myself wishing I could summon his wraith on command, when I realize there’s one vial that’s not labeled at all.
I unstopper the bottle and take a gulp of the foul liquid.
Instantly, something within me changes.
I stand, my feet steady—no, not steady—weightless on the sand.
My child cries out, his screams piercing my ears, amplified by the body of water between us.
I run.
CHAPTER 42
I’m halfway across the cove, energy pulsating through me, when Malia wails.
“No,” she cries out. “No, please!”
Nolan stands over her, a bundle held tightly against his chest, Charlie still wrestling with Malia on the ground. Triumph accelerates through my veins. He did it. My husband did it. He got our son back.
Tears of joy stream down my face, and I can almost feel him—my son, cradled in my arms, pressed against my chest, his tiny hand wrapped around my little finger.
But then Nolan’s head tilts upward, and his gaze meets mine. There’s no triumph written on my husband’s face. Only the slight furrow of his brow and the tensing of his lips into a hard line, a mouth that cannot bring itself to utter even a silent goodbye.
Pain ripples across my husband’s face.
And then he turns, our child in his arms, and runs.
Something primal overtakes my bones,my muscles.
Faintly, as I pass Maddox and Charlie, still pinning Malia to the ground, I hear her wails. Her pleas for her son.
On the ground is a shiny black object. Charlie must have dropped it in the struggle. Thanks to the agility afforded me by Malia’s potion, I hardly have to slow my run to crouch and pluck it from the ground, tucking it into Malia’s satchel.
I don’t dare to look at my friends, my vision homed in on my husband’s back, threatening to disappear into the distance.
Soon, Malia’s wails fade, the wind coming off over the cove whipping past my ears, through my hair.
I am a gazelle. No, a lioness, and my husband has taken my cub.
Though he starts out a shadow at the far reaches of my vision, his form grows larger as I close the distance between us. Whatever potion is pumping through my veins has not only closed the gap of speed between me and my fae husband, but overcome it.
It’s not long before I overtake him. With a shove of my foot against a tilted boulder, I launch myself into the air and onto his shoulders, my arms wrapping around his neck.
Nolan grunts, grasping at my wrist with his hook, his hand occupied with holding our son to his chest. He tugs, but I maneuver around it. Nolan shouts, but where he could dig his hook into the flesh of my wrist and rip my grip from his throat, he hesitates, unwilling to truly hurt me.
“Darling—” he gasps, my grip tightening around his throat.
“Just give me my baby!” I scream.
“Darling, this isn’t you. This is the bargain.”
It hits me then. He’s right. This instinct—it isn’t my motherly instinct at all, but an instinct of the Sister’s. It’s wound itself up within the agony of losing my son, and I can’t distinguish the two.
My husband gasps between breaths. “Darling, trust me.”
