Bran slumped on his throne, leaning an elbow on the edge while cupping his head in his hand. The sluagh cleaned up his mess quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but not wanting to leave the blood and gore slicking the stone floor any longer than it needed to.

He’d lost control. More than that, he’d used his own people as a weapon. When had he become that kind of Unseelie Fae? He’d always thought to be a king who saw the sluagh as something more than a sword or blade.

Instead, he’d used them much the same way his predecessors had.

A scuffle near his elbow made him lift his head. One of the sluagh knelt beside him, male or female, he couldn’t tell. Its big eyes glowed in the dim light.

“Master?” it asked quietly, voiced pitched low and calm.

“What is it?”

“Thank you.” Reverently, it reached out and touched a hand to his boots. “We’ve desired to destroy that monster many nights. All our dreams are filled with the sound of his screams for mercy now, and that is a very good thing.”

At the very least, he’d freed them from a demon who plagued their nightmares. He gave the sluagh a curt nod and flicked his fingers. It raced back to the others, picked up the rag it had left on the floor, and scrubbed with renewed vigor.

Warmth bloomed deep in his chest. They were pathetic creatures, but they were his. He’d been gifted a kingdom of people who were afraid of every shadow. Now, they had finally taken their retribution and perhaps could heal. The sluagh deserved more than just fear, and no one had ever offered them anything else.

Elva strode into the throne room, a cloak firmly wrapped around her shoulders. Was it cold in the castle? Bran couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt cold, or warm for that matter… He furrowed his brows. He should be able to remember that. Temperature was something people remembered easily since it was part of basic bodily functions.

When had he lost that?

She’d braided the long tail of her hair, a few golden curls escaping the weave. Each ringlet framed her lovely face, enhancing her beauty and also making her appear more out of place.

Underhill was a home for the forgotten and the ugly. The children no one wanted or cared to remember existed. She should be in the Seelie Court with fields of wheat surrounding her. Just as Bran remembered her from so long ago.

Elva met his gaze and made her way to his side. “Your castle is falling apart.”

He lifted a brow. “I don’t remember you being so forward.”

“As I said before, a lot has changed since we were children.” She swiped a nervous hand down her stomach as she said the words.

“Not so much, I think.” He glanced away from her blinding beauty, choosing instead to stare at the dark shadows of the sluagh lurking in the corners of the room. They waited for a single word from him, an order, some reason to exist. Gods, it was too much.

Elva glanced down at the sluagh on their hands and knees, blood splattered up to their elbows. “Was killing him absolutely necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

“She won’t like it, you know. And now we have no way to find her.”

“I don’t need him to find her,” he growled. Agitation stirred to life. His thighs twitched, and he drummed his fingers on the arm of the throne. “The sluagh will find her.”

“Are you willing to take that risk? Truly?” Elva clenched her teeth, the muscle on her jaw bouncing. “It could take them weeks to find her. Underhill is endless.”

“How would you know that? Is this your kingdom now as well?” The words came out too harsh.

An answering rage bloomed in her gaze, and she cocked her head to the side. “Well, you did pledge yourself to me. Again. Does that not give me some claim to this kingdom?”

He abruptly stood. Though his pride was stinging, Bran logically knew she was simply lashing out because he had. It wasn’t fair to punish her for words that came from a place of pain. He didn’t know how to stop. Couldn’t without the cool water of Aisling’s magic lapping at his wounds.

Bran stepped down from the throne, then strode until he was so close to her that their toes touched. To her credit, Elva didn’t back down.

“You have no claim to this land, no right to stand on its shore, and no place in this kingdom,” he growled. “You may be my queen’s sister, but that does not mean I cannot destroy you as well. I want that to be very clear.”

She licked her lips. “Bran, she’s my sister. I know you think I don’t love her, or that I don’t feel as deeply as you. I’ve had so many years stolen away when I might have learned who she was, listened to her stories, found out what kind of food she liked. There is so much I want to know, and I can only do that if she’s here with me.”

His jaw ached as he clenched his teeth together tightly. The words were in the air in front of them, yet, he couldn’t register them. All he could think was that she wanted to stop him from doing things his way, the only way he knew how to control.

“Bran,” she repeated. Elva didn’t reach up to touch his chest or move at all. Instead, she remained perfectly still, a woman who knew she was in the presence of a predator too powerful to kill. “I know what it feels like to lose everything. She’s not dead. We would know if she was. We’d feel it. So I need you to listen to me. There is another way to find her. One that doesn’t require your sluagh to search every inch of Underhill for her soul.”

He almost didn’t hear the words. His memory was filled with the tiny moments he’d forgotten to tell her that he appreciated. Small things, like the way her dark hair would stick to her lips when she was muttering spells. The way her hands gracefully traced the air with runes because lifetimes ago she was a dancer. And the beautiful poetry of her body underneath his hands late at night.

The words eventually sank into his mind, and his eyes snapped up to Elva’s. “Another way? Is that so?”

She nodded. “Aisling is still considered a changeling. The Wild Hunt could find her.”

“I refuse to call another hunt and then chase her down like an animal. The sluagh would just as likely kill her as they would rejoice in her finding. They aren’t themselves during a hunt.”

“No, they aren’t. The leaders of the hunt could find her without any issues.” Elva took a deep breath. “You could petition them for their assistance.”

“Midir and Etain owe me no favors. They despise my court for all the darkness in it, and they have no interest in entertaining me. Once the hunt is done, their use for me ends,” he replied with a huff.

They were as old as faeries could get, and old prejudices ran deep in their veins. They saw Underhill as a kingdom of mistakes. Proof that faeries weren’t as perfect as they liked to think, and therefore something that needed to be hidden.

Elva shook her head. “Midir and Etain are no longer the leaders of the Wild Hunt. That honor was passed on to the people who will spend the rest of the year planning for their first time in leading the sacred festival.”

“Who?”

“The Seelie King and his druid queen, who perhaps will understand the suffering of the changelings a little more than the previous leaders.”

Blood froze in his veins. Eamonn had agreed to lead the hunt? Knowing what he did?

Bran didn’t know if it was anger or sadness that locked his muscles in place. His age-old friend had never hurt him before, but this seared deep into his bones. Eamonn knew who Aisling was. Had Bran not made it clear enough in their first meeting? And certainly he’d heard the story from Sorcha herself. The witch was not just a witch. She was a changeling who had feelings and memories.

He couldn’t allow someone so close to him to lead the hunt. Not when it would destroy her so.

Elva stepped back, her lips parting in surprise. “I had forgotten you and the king used to be friends.”

“Still are.”

“Even after everything that happened?” Her brows lifted. “Eamonn was banished for his deformities, and his brother took the throne. I don’t care what the Seelie King looked like. I care that he didn’t even try to take it back for centuries.”

“You’re holding a grudge for that?” he asked. “Eamonn did what he thought was best for his people. The Seelie court likes to brainwash its people, as you well know. He’d been told he was nothing more than a shadow in his own home. Did you really think he would rush back just because one Seelie faerie was being mistreated by his brother?”

She shook her head. “I thought he would rush back to save his kingdom.”

“It wasn’t his kingdom anymore. He didn’t view them as his people. Only as the misfits on the isle of Hy-Brasil needed him.” Bran gestured around them. “Similar to this. It seems we both ended up on thrones that are moth-eaten and destroyed. A shame he let go of something so splendid to take back what was his.”

Old memories filled Elva’s gaze with darkness. He’d seen such a look before. She wanted retribution, revenge, destruction, and an ending that would satisfy her bloodlust. She’d likely not get it. The previous Seelie King, and Eamonn’s twin, was banished to the human world forevermore.

It was unlikely the spoiled faerie had done well.

To distract her, Bran took a deep breath. “What would you have me do then? Beg on hands and knees that Eamonn and Sorcha tap into a power they haven’t used before to find a single changeling and then not send the hunt after her?”

Elva shook herself clear of the old memories and glared at him. “Yes. That’s precisely what I’m asking you to do.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“When has danger ever stopped you before?”

Magic pulsed deep in his navel, and he realized the boon given to his curse had ended. The sun set on the horizon, and with that darkness his form would disappear. Sadly, he looked at Elva and held his hands up. “I am running out of time.”

“Then let me speak for you.” She reached for his hands then clasped them delicately in her own so his clawed hand wouldn’t break the delicate skin of her wrist. “They are dear friends of mine as well. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

He felt the curse churn in his belly and could only nod. They didn’t have the time to wait, and he knew she was right. The sluagh couldn’t find her in the ever-growing outskirts of Underhill.

Black and angry, the curse burst in his belly, and he shattered into a rainstorm of raven feathers. Letting out a croaking call, he signaled Elva to start moving. He would follow her on wing to the castle of the Seelie Fae.

Bran dove through the white mist and spread his wings wide to slow his descent. The Seelie castle was just as he’d remembered it. The high spikes rose into the air, glimmering gold in the sunlight. White marble made the entire thing blend into the clouds as if it were seated in the sky itself.

Green gardens spread all around it. Mazes where faeries raced through the high walls, their laughter bubbling up as they tried to catch each other. Large blossoms, far bigger than anywhere else in the world, filled the air with their cloying scent. He had once wanted to live here more than anything he’d ever desired. And yet now, he looked at its splendor as dull and shallow.

Elva stepped through the front gates, entering the castle and waiting for a chance to petition the king and queen for a few moments of their time.

He clacked his beak. Foolish woman. She always forgot that he wasn’t a patient man, and he had no interest in making it easier on Eamonn and Sorcha. They would come to him, and he would force them to understand what he wanted them to do.

Speak for him. He hadn’t been in his human form long enough to tell her that he didn’t let anyone put words in his mouth other than Aisling. He’d simply have to show her that the Raven King needed no one to assist when he asked another king for help.

Soaring through the air, he found the window he was looking for.

The king’s bedroom was usually in the center of the palace. That was far easier to defend should there ever be an attack, and the king could easily flee into the many passages that led deep into the belly of the castle.

Of course, Eamonn had no interest in being a pampered king. He’d fought countless battles, likely still trained even without Bran to give him a wallop over the head, and would want something that would please Sorcha.

And she would want to see the entire kingdom at her feet.

Bran carefully hovered in front of the window, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes as he searched for any clues. The room was as splendorous as he’d ever seen. Pastel paintings depicting forest scenes covered every inch of the white marble walls. Gold filigree framed the ceiling while strands of gossamer hung around the giant bed with its golden four posters and cream sheets. A large mirror hung above the headboard, gilded edges so pristine they almost glowed.

These weren’t the details he was looking for however. Bran noticed instead the herbs hanging in the corner, a brush with strands of bright red hair and, of course, wrinkled bed clothes.

When Sorcha had made her way here from the human realm the first time, Bran had been with her. She’d come across on a ship destined for the faerie world. She had no idea he was faerie and likely thought him a pet of the captain. She’d quickly realized that he’d watched her journey carefully, knowing she was going to be the one that won Eamonn’s heart.

Long ago, he’d been a romantic. Bran landed on the gilded windowsill and tucked his wings against his side. When had he lost that romantic side? Perhaps Aisling would enjoy it once and a while.

He reached forward and slid the top part of his beak through the window. Carefully, he felt around for the latch and then flipped it up. Simple enough, he’d have to chastise Eamonn for having such a ridiculously easy room to break into. Anyone could have done this if they could make the climb up to the highest tower.

Did they think they were in some kind of fairytale?

He rolled his eyes and nudged the windows open, then hopped down onto the desk abutting the opening. They had to come to bed soon. The night might be young, but they wouldn’t stay with their people for much longer. Elva was far too late, and they would ask her to come back tomorrow. She’d grow angry, likely throw something, and that temper tantrum might make Eamonn and Sorcha remember her.

The snapping of his beak warned that he was getting a little too worked up. He remembered Elva as a ridiculously foolish young woman. She’d changed since then, trained to be a warrior, so he shouldn’t judge her so harshly.

A soft exclamation from the hearth made him pause. He spread his wings wide and hissed at the maid who had entered the room.

Her arms were filled with laundry, and she still tsked when she saw him. “Shoo,” she said. “Get out, vermin! How many times do I have to remind them to close the damned window? They’ll let in all manner of beast.”

Gods, how he hated it when a faerie didn’t recognize its own kind. What kind of creature was this anyways?

He looked the maid over and would have sneered if he could. The pixie was a familiar face, one he had thought would remember him. Her leaf-shaped face was deep red at the tips above her forehead, changing into an almost flesh color by the time it reached her pointed chin. Bright purple dragonfly wings spread wide behind her.

If he remembered correctly, her name was Oona. She had served Eamonn since he was a child, had even willingly been banished with him to an isle far away from her home. Apparently, he’d thought it a smart idea to keep the sharp-tongued woman in his employ.

She’d hated Bran back on the isle, and he didn’t think that would change any time soon.

The pixie gently set the laundry down on the end of the bed and waved her arms. “Go on with you. Shoo!”

He snapped his beak at her, set a foot against the side of a stack of paperwork on the desk, and threateningly shifted.

“Don’t you do it.”

As if he wouldn’t take the chance to mess with something Eamonn owned. Hissing, he shoved the paperwork slowly toward the edge of the desk.

“I’m warning you bird. I will pluck out your feathers and serve you on the table tomorrow.”

She wouldn’t. She didn’t like cooking living animals, like all lesser fae. Oona and her kind existed on little more than honey and cream, sometimes bread if they were lucky.

He let out a huffing chuckle and carelessly pushed the paperwork onto the floor. It fell in a shower of vellum and papyrus, satisfying as it hit the ground in quiet patters.

“Oh.” Oona moaned. “That’s it, out you go.”

Croaking angrily, he flapped his wings, picked up a pen in his mouth, and threw it at her. How long would it take for this foolish faerie to realize he wasn’t just any old raven? Hissing angrily, he continued snatching anything he could off the desk and tossing it at her head.

The words coming out of her mouth might have made him blush if he were in a human body. His hiss quickly turned into a cackling laugh as he kept messing with her. When had the pixie learned such language?

It certainly wasn’t from the Seelie court. They’d hang her up by her toes if they heard her using such language. He had a feeling it was likely from his very own old friend. Eamonn had always been particularly creative in his swearing, and Oona was using that to her best advantage.

She chased him around the room as he slowly destroyed it bit by bit. He hopped over the bed, head bobbing for momentum, and snatched up the teacup left on the bedside table.

Oona pointed at him. “Don’t you dare.”

On the other side of the bed, she could only yell at him as he held it precariously over the edge.

“Don’t!”

She managed to surprise him when she leapt over the bed and landed in the center. Unable to help himself, he muttered a quick spell that tangled the blankets up and over her. Wrapped securely in the center, she swore a blue streak as he let the teacup fall out of his beak and shatter on the marble floor.

He’d missed being Unseelie so much.

Laughter filled the room from the doorway, interrupting their entertaining battle.

Eamonn leaned against the door jam, large arms crossed over his barrel chest. He wore the uniform of the Seelie king. Gold overcoat spilling like liquid over a cream-colored shirt and soft leather breeches that were tucked into black knee boots that shone in the candlelight.

His face was free of crystals now, although a faint white scar still ran down his eye and around his throat. He’d kept his hair cut like a heathen, something Bran was certain made the Seelie faeries skin crawl. Shaved on either side, he braided the long length from his forehead to the tail that swung at his hip.

“Bran, have you terrorized my staff long enough?” the Seelie king asked.

Oona squeaked from her place on the bed. “Bran? That Unseelie rascal I used to chase out of Hy-brasil?”

“One and the same, my dear.”

She huffed out a breath. “I should have hit him with a broom.”

Bran narrowed his eyes on her and contemplated another spell that would have set her skirts on fire. See how she liked chasing him out then.

Eamonn shook his head forcefully. “Easy, pixie. He’s not a man to trifle with anymore.” He looked over at Bran and lifted a brow that had a bisecting scar. “Release her, Raven King.”

His feathers ruffled, he still muttered the counterspell under his breath. Let the pixie do whatever she wanted. If she tried to hit him with a broom, then he would absolutely set her skirts on fire.

As she untangled herself, Bran realized he hadn’t felt like himself so thoroughly in a long time. Perhaps the last moment had been when he and the witch were on their adventure together, disappearing into the wilds of the Unseelie kingdom, bantering back and forth.

He wished for that time back. When they both weren’t drowning under the responsibilities of a kingdom and a curse that clawed at their backs.

Oona stomped to the door, pausing to glare up at her massive king. “I don’t like him, and I don’t want him here any longer than he needs to be.”

Eamonn held up his hands. “I’m certain he’s here for a reason, not to visit. The Unseelie have rarely been the kind for house calls.”

“Good, because I refuse to feed him.” She glared at Bran over her shoulder. “Or anything else for that matter. And you can clean up after yourself. You’ve made a mess of this room, young man, and I am thoroughly disappointed in you.”

He clacked his beak at her, somehow managing to make a kissing sound through the hard surfaces.

“Oh, you!” She left the room in a huff, but Bran saw the smile she tried to repress. For all that, she was a stubborn little thing. Oona liked it when someone teased her.

Eamonn carefully shut the door behind his maid and then turned back to Bran. Laughter still danced in his eyes, the smile giving way to a contemplating frown. “Why are you here?”

Bran lifted his wings in a shrug.

“Bran.”

Again, he flapped his wings, severely pointing at the darkness outside and then tucking his wings back to his side. Had Eamonn really forgotten that Bran was cursed as the Raven King? He couldn’t talk during the nighttime, not unless someone lifted his curse. Which, sadly, Eamonn now had the ability to do.

He watched as the Seelie king gave him a quirked grin. There was no pleasure or happiness in that expression, only pity that Bran had seen before and hated.

Eamonn lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. The curse fell from Bran like shackles hitting the ground with loud thumps. He slid from the bedside table into a crouch, feathers shaking from his body and landing onto the floor in a blanket of darkness.

He pressed his fists onto the stone, grinding his knuckles before looking up. “I hate that anyone has such control over my curse. That should be mine and mine alone.”

“And yet, it is not. You’ll have to give up that pride Bran, or you’ll lose your mind.” Eamonn gestured toward a pair of seats next to the fireplace. “Since you’re already in my bedroom, shall we?”

Bran slowly stood. His body creaked with the pain of transformation, but he didn’t let any of it show. Eamonn would be understanding of the weakness since he’d lived his own life in discomfort. His curse had been that crystals grew from every wound that split his skin until he took the Seelie throne and the curse was lifted.

Sinking into the seat, Bran let out a frustrated sigh. “How did you know I was here?”

“I know everyone who enters the castle, who they are, where they came from.” Eamonn shrugged. “And I might have had someone watch you for a while now. I’ve been curious to see how you perform as a king.”

“Doubted me, did you?”

With a wave of his hand, Eamonn summoned two glasses filled with amber whiskey in either hand. He handed one to Bran then held the other aloft in a toast. “Perhaps. I never thought you had the makings of a king, but you’ve proven me wrong. Congratulations on that.”

The toast was an insult. Bran’s lips twisted to the side, and he downed the whiskey without returning the gesture. He didn’t need to follow any of these ridiculous Seelie customs, not while there was more on his mind. “I see you’ve taken up magic again. I thought you were far more interested in brute force.”

“A redheaded lass convinced me it might be a good idea.”

“She’s convinced you of a good many things, it seems.”

Eamonn grunted. “A good woman does, although not all of us appreciate it. Where is your little wife, Bran?”

The words stung. “She’s not my wife.” Another thing he’d never asked her to be, or do, or even told her that he desired. Bran’s chest tightened at the thought of binding her to him for all eternity. He wanted that more than anything, but he also wanted it to be her choice. She needed to be certain she loved him, to be wooed, to have the life she wanted before he tried to change more things.

Eamonn watched all the emotions dance across his face, and Bran let him. There was more to this story than just asking Eamonn to repay old debts.

For all that he was a king, and a good man, Eamonn always fell for a story of unrequited love. It was why they had become friends so long ago. Bran was the boy who never got the girl, and Eamonn wanted to somehow change that.

Ever the fixer, Eamonn was a perfect choice for the Seelie King.

“She’s gone,” Bran said quietly.

“Left on her own terms?”

“The previous Raven King tricked me, forcing me to choose Elva because I didn’t recognize her and then tried to steal Aisling away from me.”

Eamonn frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I think it has something to do with someone waking up in Underhill that no one wants awake.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Other than some people who might have made a deal with said awakened.”

The frown deepened, old wrinkles showing on his face and severely marking his cheeks. “Is this someone I need to be aware of?”

“Possibly.”

“Bran.”

He huffed out a breath. “Carman. The old witch is back, although I believe she’s still stuck in whatever prison we tossed her into.”

The words acted like a weapon. Eamonn slumped back into his chair and his glass refilled with more whiskey that he knocked back quickly. “Carman. I didn’t want to deal with her again in my lifetime.”

“No one does. And it seems the witch wants to use Aisling as a vessel.”

“We’ll keep her here then,” Eamonn replied. His voice had aged, deepening with an ancient power that ran deep into the earth of the Seelie Court. “As far away from that witch as possible so Carman won’t be able to touch her.”

“I’d agree with you if I knew where she was. I cannot find her.”

“You lost the one thing Carman wants to use so she can take her kingdom back?” Eamonn pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. The fire popped, an ember leaping out and nearly landing on Bran’s foot. “Bran, you’ve always been irresponsible, but I never thought—”

“Spare me the theatrics,” Bran interrupted. “I’m fully aware of what this might mean for all the faerie courts. I’m trying to find her, even the sluagh can’t manage. Underhill is a large place, far bigger than either of us have ever given it credit for. I need you and Sorcha to find her.”

“What can we do?”

“Begin the Wild Hunt. Narrow it down to just her. She’s still a changeling. She’s never aligned herself with any of the courts and certainly can’t be considered a wandering fae. Once you find her, then I can go and get her. As it stands…” He rubbed the back of his neck then blew out another frustrated breath. “I don’t know where she is Eamonn, and she could be in trouble. She could be dead for all I know.”

Eamonn stared into the flames. He always seemed to withdraw into himself when he was thinking, and Bran knew he was measuring every possibility.

He’d already thought of them all himself. If she was dead, then they needn’t look. If she had already been captured by Carman, they’d know. The witch wasn’t one to hesitate. If she was still out there, then they stood a chance. They might be able to stop whatever reckoning was coming and put a bottle back on the witch who should have been killed long ago.

Finally, Eamonn nodded firmly. “I’ll go get Sorcha. She’s with Elva now, and I said I’d give them time together.”

Bran lifted his brows. “Elva made it here?”

“You were with her?”

“I wanted to see if I could beat her at her own game. She thought she’d speak for me.” Bran scoffed. “As if I’d ever allow that.”

Eamonn chuckled and stood. “Ah, Bran. You’ve a lot to learn about women. It wasn’t me you had to convince to help you. It was Sorcha, and I have a feeling Elva’s already convinced her. So you never stood a chance at besting your old love.”