“Beautiful.”
Falcyn snorted derisively. “Cut their hearts out. Their heads off. Incinerate them. Best of all, they taste like duck and are quite filling, if not a little gamey.”
Medea arched a brow at Falcyn’s dry tone. “Pardon?”
“You asked how to kill them. It’s what always worked for me. I am a dragon, you know.”
With a sarcastic laugh, she sighed at him. “You really are violent to your core, aren’t you?”
There was a light in his eyes that she didn’t quite understand. “From the moment I made the mistake of crawling out of my egg, everyone around me has tried their damnedest to kill me, for one reason or another. Starting with my own mother. That kind of survival doesn’t exactly lend itself to benevolence or trust. Just a whole lot of pissed off.”
Those words choked her as they gave her an insight into him that was brutally honest.
As hard as things had been for her, no matter the hell life had unleashed, she’d always had the shelter of her own mother’s love. She couldn’t imagine being alone the way he had. Of being left to fend for herself.
And while the death of her family haunted her, there for a time, she’d been deliriously happy with them. It was a happiness Falcyn couldn’t even begin to fathom.
That thought brought an unbelievable ache to her chest. How could he keep going when they’d taken everything from him?
In that moment, she saw him for what he really was.
A survivor in the purest sense of the word.
With a coldness she knew was only surface protection, he turned toward the others. “Blaise? Can you open the portal out of here?”
“The key I have only works in Avalon. My father keeps everything locked here because he doesn’t want anyone to discover that he’s still alive. But we should be able to find him in his palace, and get him to open it. Although … he pitched a glorious fit about opening a gate the last time I was here with Varian and we asked him. Might be easier to get a kidney from him than a key.”
Brandor scowled. “Your father?”
“Emrys Penmerlin.”
“Your father?” he repeated. “That bastard?”
“Hey now! No shit-talking the man who took me in and saved my life. I owe him everything.”
And still Brandor sputtered as if he were an overinflated tire that had sprung a leak on a hot afternoon. Really, the sounds were quite impressive.
A part of her had the urge to tip his teakettle before he exploded.
But after a few seconds, Brandor pulled himself together. “Well, we have him to thank for the lovely traps in this place. So I’d caution all of you to be wary of where you step and to keep your senses alert. At all times.”
Blaise let out a fake laugh. “He would not be wrong about that. My father was a little overzealous when it came to populating the landscape with terrifying creations.” He rubbed awkwardly at his neck. “You definitely don’t want to fall into the pits of despair.”
Medea scowled. Did he really mean what he’d just said? “The who … what?”
Blaise flashed a nervous grin at her. “They have a gas in them that makes you unbelievably depressed and you lash out at everyone. Although … Merewyn was kind of entertaining when she stumbled into a pit—at least for a while. Still, it’s best to avoid them.”
“Goodie. What else?”
“Standing water,” Brandor said irritably. “It explodes when you touch it.”
“Oh yeah.” Blaise smirked. “I forgot about that.”
Brandor snorted. “Wish I could. Lucky me, I learned the lesson when a hare made the mistake of trying to drink it before me. Least I got some hasenpfeffer out of it.”
Medea wrinkled her nose at his offbeat sense of humor. Although, she appreciated his ability to turn lemons to lemonade, or in this case, rabbit entrails to stew.
Without pausing, Brandor continued with the warnings. “Basically, Merlin controls everything here except for the sylphs, who hate his guts. They hate ours, too. So, again, avoid any water where the water sylphs might live—including deep puddles—and the trees where the tree sylphs are, as those are nasty men-hating bitches who will rip our limbs from us just for entertainment.”
“And the rocks will attack, too.” Blaise flashed another grin.
“Are you shitting me?” Urian was aghast.
“Nope. A lot of them are bantlings and goylestones.”
“Who? What?” Medea asked again.
“Baby gargoyles. They’re not real bright, but they are rocks and they will attack en masse. So get your rocks on takes on a whole new meaning.”
Why wasn’t she surprised? Damn. It was as challenging to live here as Kalosis—which was the Atlantean hell realm where you had to avoid all manner of scary things. Things that included hungry Charonte and her parents. “Lovely.”
“And whatever you do, you have to avoid the SOD.”
Medea looked down and shifted her feet as a wave of severe trepidation went through her. “The dirt? Seriously? Why? What’s it do?”
“Not sod. SOD.” He stressed the word as if there was a difference to her ears. “S-O-D. Shadows of Doubt. Cousins to the sharoc, they reach out from the shadows, grab you when you least expect it, and suck the life out of you. You won’t feel them at first. Just a little twinge that you can’t complete what you’re doing. Next thing you know, you’re paralyzed with doubts. Incapacitated and they have their fangs in you. Once they do … you’re theirs. They own you and you’re dead.”
Medea passed a less-than-amused gape at Urian. “And they think Daimons warrant a dedicated execution squad? Seriously? At least we give the humans a quick, painless death. And a choice. We don’t come at your back.”
He shrugged. “What do you want me to say? They’re shadows. No one’s afraid of a shadow—that’s Peter Pan kid shit. But everyone fears the dark. Besides, only cowards and thieves lurk in the shadows. It takes a true warrior to hunt in the darkness where your actual fears and threats thrive, and to kick the ass of real evil where it lives and breathes. That’s a real man or woman. Not some sneaky piece-of-shit coward.”
Falcyn snorted. “Hence the other so aptly named branch of Were-Hunters they use for my brethren.”
Because Were was the Old English word for man and was a shared root word for fear and war. Meaning that the Were-Hunters were men-hunters or those who hunted what men feared most and weren’t afraid to kick its ass wherever they found it.
And speaking of the great evil … “So where do we find this Merlin?”
“Dad!”
Falcyn cringed at Blaise’s unexpected shout. Not that Medea blamed him. Her own ears weren’t happy about that shrill decibel level, either.
And no one answered the bloodcurdling screech.
Blaise cocked his head to listen. “Weird.”
“What is?”
“My father always answers me.” Stepping back, he put his hands to his mouth to shout louder. “Father? Nimue?”
Again, nothing.
Not even an animal stirred. And now that she noticed it, that was very peculiar indeed.
Medea had that bad feeling again. Something about this wasn’t right. She could feel it deep inside.
Without a word to them, Blaise headed for the trees. “Sylph?”
Curious, Medea headed after him, toward the forest. She’d never seen a real sylph spirit before. Only heard legends and stories about them.
But as the tree came awake with a reddish color and in a twisted form, she had her doubts about all the great beauty they were supposed to possess.
Let’s hear it for creative license.
She thought it was just her being judgy about them until Blaise jumped away with a curse.
“What is it?” Urian asked.
Transforming into a bleeding, demonic body, the sylph advanced on them with a round of cursing and hissing.
Blaise turned pale before he grabbed Brogan to pull her back from the tree. “She’s a gallu! Run!”
7
Light and sound exploded all around. It was as if the entire forest had come alive to consume them. Or at least tear them down. Everything was blowing up like some kind of slick heavy metal light show.