“Where is the banshee kingdom?” Aisling grumbled, picking her way over a fallen tree. Breath sawed in and out of her lungs, leaving behind a faint metallic taste. When had she gotten so out of shape? The night was young at least. She didn’t have to worry about turning into a swan just yet.

Lorcan hissed a low breath ahead of her. “If I knew, don’t you think I would have teleported us there?”

“Since when do you know that kind of magic?”

“I’ve always known it. You just don’t remember because I’ve been a cat for the last fifteen years.”

He had a point. She didn’t remember him all that well when he was a human. She knew what he had looked like. His beaklike nose was a little hard to forget, but she hadn’t remembered his magic. Mostly, she just remembered being hungry and wondering when they would find their next meal.

Aisling smacked at a dead branch that flung back at her as Lorcan made his way through the underbrush. “Do you even know what it’s going to look like?”

“I know we’re going in the right direction.”

“How?”

“The hanging tree, all right? The souls happen to know which direction the banshee kingdom is in, but they didn’t know how far.”

It sort of made sense, considering the tree couldn’t really move. It was in the same spot in every kingdom, which overlapped like the pages of a book if one were teleporting. Although, that magic had always been far too difficult for Aisling to try.

“Why are you even talking to them?” she asked. “The hanging tree has always been a bad omen for witches.”

“That doesn’t mean the souls trapped inside are bad. We can trust them.”

“How do you know that? The dead can still trick us.” She frowned. Already, she was in the same habit as long ago. Aisling hadn’t trusted anyone in a very long time, had thought perhaps she’d gotten over that with a kingdom of her own. Now she realized she was far from it. That ancient wound had split open instantly and spilled its blood over every fiber of her being until she was questioning even Lorcan’s decisions.

He glanced over his shoulder and shoved at a dead tree. Light spilled through the branches, revealing an opening in the tangled brush they fought. “Aisling, they’re all witches, just like us. You trusted the sluagh witches, even though many of them are twisted and warped, so you’ll have to trust me and the hanging tree soon enough.”

She paused in front of him, staring up into his eyes. “Can you promise me that the tree isn’t trying to get me into a position where I will join all the others in swinging from its branches?”

“I can’t.”

“Then why should I listen to you?”

“Because I will do everything in my own power to make sure that you don’t end up there.”

Her shoulders curved in a slump. “Fine. I appreciate the support, I guess.”

“Ever the child.” Lorcan nodded at the opening. “Out with you. I think we’re finally moving in the right direction.”

“What makes you think that?” she muttered, then stood stock still in the clearing and stared at the strange sight before her.

A meandering river split through Underhill, its waters darkened with swirls of blood. Laundry floated throughout. Shirts of men with red blooms on the chests, pants missing a leg, a dress with a bright spot of blood on the skirt.

Aisling stepped forward until her toes nearly touched the water. It was here where the clothing of every soul ended up. Legend had it that if one saw a banshee washing their clothes, it meant that person would die soon. She’d heard of it many times, but never thought it was actually true.

“The banshee kingdom?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” Lorcan replied.

She looked up at him and then in the direction where he stared. Giant carved stone hands jutted out of the earth, holding their wrists to the sky in supplication. Massive shackles surrounded each wrist that made a doorway onto a path that started in the center and snaked up a large mountain range, disappearing in the distance.

“Keep your wits about you, Aisling,” he said while straightening his shoulders. “The banshee are not to be trifled with.”

“I well remember the stories. I am their queen. They owe me their allegiance and their help when I request it.”

“The banshee haven’t recognized a queen in over ten centuries. You’ll be lucky if they don’t threaten to kill you where you stand.”

She’d heard the stories before, although she couldn’t remember when. The banshee had forsaken all the faeries long ago. In the beginning, they were Unseelie faeries. They had quickly despised the way the court was run and renounced their people. The Seelie court refused to welcome the pale, rotting creatures and had banished them.

Instead of becoming wandering fae with no land to call their own, they had disappeared into the wilds of Underhill, rarely heard from again. Sometimes, they could still be seen washing faerie clothing, but even that was rare now. They mostly kept to themselves.

Wasn’t that what Underhill was for? All the creatures who didn’t have a place in this world had come to Aisling’s home for something that nowhere else could give them. Understanding, safety, hope that the world was still a good place.

She wished it were that easy.

They passed by the great hands reaching up, chained like slaves. As she drew close, Aisling realized the carvings were far too lifelike. She could see the skin texture and a faint scar on one wrist where a previous, larger shackle had marked it for all eternity.

“This is a giant, an actual giant, isn’t it?” she murmured.

Lorcan looked at the nearest wrist and licked his lips. “It’s highly likely. The history of Underhill hasn’t been told in centuries. I don’t know who he is or where he came from.”

“He?”

Lorcan shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

She placed a hand against the nearest wrist and blew out a breath. “My apologies, great beast. You should have never had your final resting place here. It is, and I swear to you, I will protect whatever memory is left. I won’t let this final resting place be of an unnamed man who gave his life for a reason no one knew.”

There was a rumble deep in the earth, and she knew the spirit of the giant had heard her. The vow tightened around her throat, but it was one she intended to keep. No one in her kingdom should ever be forgotten, especially by their queen.

They made their way down the winding path and up into the mountains beyond. Her legs burned and her tongue tasted blood again. She would not stop. Lorcan kept up with her.

Eventually the path was nearly straight up. They traveled hand over foot, their fingers grasping onto crumbling rock and feet finding notches in the stone to continue pushing them ever forward.

Aisling grew more and more worried as they traveled. The sun would soon rise, and then what would she do? They would have to pause, or she would have to fly ahead. If they reached the banshee kingdom, she wouldn’t be able to speak.

Did she trust Lorcan enough to voice her concerns? Aisling wasn’t certain of it. He seemed to know what he was doing, and she had a feeling he wasn’t telling her the entire truth.

Now she understood why faeries so hated humans and their ability to lie. He let the words slip from his tongue so easily without a single worry on his mind. He didn’t freeze the moment a lie crossed his mind; his lips didn’t seize as they tried to say the words. Instead, Lorcan could let them drift out like a steady current from the sea.

She wanted to demand that he pay attention to her. That he say every single thing that he’d heard from the hanging tree and explain further. She wanted to dive into his memories and pluck them from his skull. Force him to relive every moment over and over again so that she might see what he really meant when he said the words.

A stone under her hand broke. Frantically, she reached up to find the next handhold.

And her hand slapped down on flat earth.

Breathing hard, she looked up and saw that they had finally reached the peak of the mountain. Her breathing eased. Aisling yanked herself up and over, rolling onto the ground and lying flat for a few moments to still her thundering heart.

Lorcan joined her, crouching at her side and staring around them in shock.

“What is it?” she asked. “What fresh horror has you so afraid?”

“I didn’t think they glowed in the moonlight.”

She turned her head, cheek pressing again moist earth, and stared at the hundreds of banshee women who caught the bloody clothing and washed it clean in the river.

Each was more beautiful and haunting than the last. Their hair was white as snow, touching the ground and pooling around their feet, strands dipping into the river and gently floating on top. They wore white gowns, and their pale skin glowed as moonlight stroked it.

Their cheeks were hollow, eyes sunken into dark, smudged shadows. Each banshee reached into the stream with a strength she envied and pulled out articles of clothing.

She’d always thought it would be a frightening sight. They would vigorously scrub the wool and linen, forcing the life out of it like wringing the neck of a bird. They weren’t nearly so cruel.

Instead, they handled each piece with obvious care. They stroked the collars, easing the stress of life from the fabric. They smoothed hands down dresses and pressed the wrinkles out with a mere touch. Every drop of blood and dirt was washed clean with careful attention to every detail. Only then would they let it drop back into the water to continue down the stream where the person might find it later and wear it to the land of the dead.

Aisling pushed herself up onto her forearms. “Can we ask one of them where their queen is? They all look identical.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to interrupt them,” Lorcan replied.

It seemed he might be right. None of the banshee looked up at them. Instead, they all remained dedicated to the task at hand.

Aisling frowned and stared around them, hoping for some kind of clue. There didn’t appear to be a castle anywhere, nor a town or hovel where these creatures might live. Did they ever stop washing the clothes of the dead?

She eased to her feet. There had to be something here. Some kind of clue that there was more than just a river. More than just banshee who endlessly worked. She had to find something before the sun rose on the horizon and she missed her chance.

Aisling might have spent the rest of the night frantically following the river upstream if she hadn’t heard one of the banshee’s let out a soft keening cry. They hadn’t shown any reaction to the clothing at all, not until now.

Moving slowly so as not to frighten them, Aisling looked across the river at the banshee who held an article of clothing in her hands that was eerily familiar.

The dark gown spilled over the banshee’s hands and sank into the river like ink. Red blood stained the bodice, completely invisible other than the streaks across the banshee’s pale hands. Beetle wings decorated every inch of the beautiful dress, carefully hand sewn like emerald beads down the waist and skirts.

Aisling let out a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“Don’t,” Lorcan said with a gulp. “Don’t look at it.”

She couldn’t stop staring because it was the most famous gown of the Raven Queen. The one she wore to court as all her predecessors had done before. That gown had never seen bloodshed before.

At least, not yet.

Aisling strode into the river before she registered her own movement. The powerful current pulled at her legs, sending shards of icy pain through her body. But she didn’t stop. She continued until it reached her chest and then she was swimming through the river of death and blood until her feet touched the opposite side.

All the banshees stopped what they were doing, watching her in shock as she waded through the water. Aisling batted other articles of clothing out of her way until she stood in front of the banshee holding her dress.

She reached out and grasped it, tugged hard, and growled, “That is mine.”

The banshee stared back at her, dark eyes wide, hands trembling where she gripped the fabric. There was uncertainty in the depths of that gaze. The creature didn’t know whether or not she should let go. Perhaps no one had ever done this before. Or perhaps it would end poorly if Aisling’s clothing was not properly washed. Damn it.

She’d rather stride into the otherlife with the blood of her foes on her dress than arrive clean and untouched.

A voice interrupted her thoughts, high and haunting like the wail of her kind. “You are a fierce creature, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

“Release the dress, my sweet. The Raven Queen has come to see us, and I would very much like to hear what she wants.”

The banshee released the dress, and Aisling tossed it up onto shore. There would be no death for her tonight, nor soon. She would see to it.

Climbing out of the river, she met the gaze of what could only be the banshee leader. The woman was the only one with dark hair. Black as night, it slithered down her body like snakes, undulating with her movement. She, too, wore a white gown that revealed the shadowed hollows of her body. Eerily pale, she reached out a hand for Aisling to take.

“Welcome, Raven Queen, to the Kingdom of the Banshee.”

“And you are?” Aisling took the offered hand hesitantly.

“Many call me the Duchess of the Dead.”

“What do the few call you?”

A soft smile spread across the banshee’s face. “Aoife.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aoife. My name is Aisling, and I need your help.” Aisling bit her lip, then added, “Not just as your queen, but as what I hope might be as a friend.”

“Ah, another Raven Queen who thinks she can control us.” The banshee closed her hand around Aisling’s with surprising strength. Her nails bit into Aisling’s wrist as she tugged her closer. “Yet another who thinks the banshee might provide some benefit when we have been forgotten for so long.”

“No.” Aisling shook her head. “I need your help. Carman has awakened, and I fear she will try to renew her power through me.”

Aoife’s eyes widened, and her grip loosened. “Then it is good you have come to me. Carman… I never thought we would hear from the witch queen again.”

The curse tightened around her neck and the now familiar pain blossomed in her spine. It spread tendrils of power through her entire body until she felt the feathers wiggling out from underneath her skin.

She croaked through an ever changing mouth, “I ask protection for the day, for myself and my man servant.”

“Then you shall have it.”

Aoife watched with a pitying gaze as the change warped Aisling’s body and thrust her back into the prison of a swan. Exhausted, though encouraged she was moving in the right direction, Aisling waddled toward the bloody waters to await the night once more.

Bran paced the drawing room, hands behind his back so he didn’t tap them incessantly against his leg. He followed the same path. First, he rounded the edge of the small sofa, then stalked past the large, stone fireplace, made his way around the twin chairs, one currently filled by Elva, around the table where tea had been set, then back to the sofa. Over and over again.

“You’ll wear holes in the carpet,” Elva murmured, sipping her tea delicately.

“What is taking them so long?”

“They’re probably laughing behind the door because you’re so worked up about this. They’ll find her. They’ve already agreed to it.”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm,” he growled.

“Why are you so surly with me and not with everyone else? They can find her, Bran. We wouldn’t be here if they couldn’t.” She delicately crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned forward to place the teacup on the table in front of her. “Rushing them certainly won’t get Aisling back any faster.”

“I believe that’s the definition of rushing.” Heat from the fireplace blasted out of the hearth and seared his legs. Cursing, he whipped around to find Sorcha striding into the room.

He was still pleased to see she hadn’t changed a bit since he’d found her on the docks and knew there was a story to her. Red curls tumbled from the top of her head and swept the delicate swells of her hips. Freckles coated her from head to toe, while the spark in her green eyes resonated with power. She was a sight to behold, and he was glad that hadn’t changed now that she was queen of the Seelie fae.

“Rushing me could end with her losing a limb,” Sorcha scolded. “Besides, asking the ancestors to help isn’t precisely easy.”

“Why?” His voice was gruff, but the tension immediately eased from his shoulders. Words of assistance meant nothing. If she was speaking of her druid ancestors, then she would actually help.

Sorcha’s lips twisted into a wry grin. “Because they don’t want to help you.”

Big surprise there. The ancestors hadn’t exactly been a fan of Bran for a long time. Even the druids knew he’d forsaken his family and all the traditions of his people.

Tradition was tradition, at least to the old souls. They wanted him to follow in line the way he was supposed to. Without that, faeries were simply magical creatures running amok.

No, the druids wouldn’t like the idea of someone like him existing.

With a dark grin, Bran shook his head. “Well, they’ll have to get used to it. I need them to find her.”

“They’ve agreed to it,” she said. “They also said it’s unlikely they can find her without calling a true Wild Hunt. I suspect that’s something you want to avoid?”

He felt as though she was prying into his soul. Her eyes saw far too much for comfort. Nearly twitching, he replied, “What would make you think that?”

“Because then all of the Unseelie Court would be looking for her as well, and it seems as though you want to keep her to yourself. Or, perhaps, that you have enemies you don’t want to find her?” Sorcha’s gaze sharpened. “Enemies, I suspect. Although, she’s likely capable of taking care of herself.”

Too well, although he didn’t want to admit it. She made him feel like less of a man sometimes. Aisling would go on without him just fine.

Was that so bad, though? At least he had the reassurance that should anything happen to him, dismemberment, dethroned, murdered, maimed beyond all hope, Aisling would continue on. He didn’t want her to fade into the shadows simply because he was no longer there. It didn’t feel fair to him.

Even if the thought of her with someone else made him want to start a war.

“Fine,” he admitted. “I have no interest in letting the Unseelie court sink their claws into her. They aren’t precisely the kindest of creatures, and they’re all ridiculously interested in the new Raven Queen. I don’t know why.”

Sorcha laughed. “You do know why, Bran. Because you haven’t shown interest in another woman for hundreds of years. Now, all of a sudden, you’re completely, foolishly, irrevocably, head over heels for a woman who spent most of her life as a hedge witch. They want to understand why you’re so mad for her.”

She was probably right. Faeries notoriously hated things they couldn’t explain and would dedicate their lives to understanding the why of something. Hell, he’d done it himself multiple times in his long life.

The muscles in his shoulders tensed at the self-realization. He didn’t like being picked apart in front of Sorcha, like she was pulling the flesh from his bones just to see how white they were. She already knew him as well as anyone else. She knew those bones were blackened and charred by a hundred years of mistreatment.

“Enough talking,” he grumbled. “Can you just get it over with?”

Eamonn stepped out of the shadows beyond the door and into the room with his wife. “I don’t like your tone, Unseelie, but I’m just as eager to get this over with as you.”

Bran lifted a brow. “Care to explain, Seelie King?”

The new king’s immediate wince was answer enough. Bran had suspected his age-old friend wasn’t entirely in love with his new title. At least now Bran knew he was correct in his suspicion.

Becoming a king wasn’t easy. Even Bran didn’t like the sudden attention it had thrust upon him. Eamonn had lived alone on an isle for hundreds of years without anyone’s eyes watching him. Now, everyone wanted to know what the king was doing, what his favorite dish was, what color they should wear next season.

At least Bran was more practiced at this than Eamonn.

Sorcha made her way to the hearth, gracefully twitching her skirts to the side. “I’m going to try to use the spirits to find her. If they can’t, then we’ll likely have to resort to other means.”

“Other means?” Bran asked.

“The druid spirits are still talking about it, but most are fairly confident they know someone who can help you. Not necessarily to find Aisling. If she’s out of their reach, then she’ll be out of the reach of other druids. They might be able to help you stop Carman.”

It was a start. Bran strode to her side and crossed his arms over his chest. “Begin.”

She sighed. “This isn’t a spell, Bran. I’m asking for help, and usually that requires at least pretending to be polite. Would you ask them, like a gentleman, to assist you?”

He didn’t want to. It felt a little too close to owing someone a debt, and Bran didn’t owe anyone anything. He also wanted to find his queen, so he crossed his arms, dug his fingers into his ribs, and nodded. “Ancient ancestors of the druid line. I seek your help in finding the Raven Queen, as she has been stolen from her home and deposited somewhere in Underhill.”

Sorcha’s eyelids drifted shut. He waited for a moment before seeing her entire body grow lax. She listed to the side, straightened, then opened eyes that suddenly glowed with green power.

She spoke, and her voice vibrated with hundreds of ancient souls who knew him. “Bran. Unseelie Prince. Raven King. Forgotten boy who none know. Who none will never forget. You have asked us to find your queen?”

Gods, if that wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d seen in a while. Bran lived in a castle with creatures who held their heads in their hands, but this made him far more uncomfortable. It was Sorcha’s body, a woman who he remembered quite well, yet it was not the woman who talked to him.

He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I do.”

“We have searched far and wide. She is masked by someone even more powerful than our deep well of magic.”

He looked up toward the ceiling. “By who?”

“You already know the answer to this, boy. Carman, the mother of all witches, wants no one to find your queen.”

Of course, she didn’t. That would mean Aisling could be saved, and she wouldn’t want that. Carman wanted something with his bride, and there was nothing Bran could do about that. Aisling was on her own, at least for now. He prayed to all the ancient faeries in his line that she had the strength and the knowledge to get through this until he could find his way back to her side.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Aisling must prepare herself to face the first of her kind. Carman will try to trick her. She will try to tempt her. Most of all, Carman wants what Aisling managed to obtain that Carman could never do.”

“Which is?”

Sorcha’s eyes rolled into her head, shifting round and round until they settled on Bran’s raven eye. His raven eye stilled its endless twitching and focused entirely on Sorcha’s.

“Aisling is a perfect blend of faerie and witch. She can control the elements, call upon all that faeries can, and also can meld that knowledge, thatpower with the dark magic only witches can control. She is the perfect weapon, molded in a body that was made to house Carman herself.”

“Then we have to stop her.”

“If you wish to fight the witch, then there is one who can help you.”

Small blessings, he supposed. Bran didn’t want to involve anyone else in this madness, but if that was what it took, he wouldn’t complain. “Who?”

“Her name is Tlachtga, a druid soul who still remains on this plane. She is…” Sorcha paused, and the souls inside her slowly retreated. He watched the magic drain from her body until no one else stood in front of him than the little druid woman he’d followed so long ago. She licked her lips and shook her head. “Tlachtga is a myth, but they seem to think that she is still alive and well.”

“I don’t recognize the name.”

“No, I suspect you wouldn’t. The faeries tried to hide her from their history, mostly because she was such a powerful creature who helped them. Your kind doesn’t like to admit that sometimes they need help.” She reached out and placed a hand on the hearth.

It was the first time Bran had ever seen her look weak. She was such a beacon of light and power, constantly moving and asking people what she could do to help. Sorcha had always seemed less like a human and more like a deity who would live forever.

Her cheeks steadily grew ashen as she stared into the flame. He didn’t know if the spirits of her ancestors were still speaking to her, or if channeling them had taken out more than she had anticipated. Regardless, he reached out his forearm for her to take. “Shall we have a seat?”

She glanced up at him and smiled as she took his arm. “I don’t remember you being so willing to help another person. Ever, really. You were always more interested in putting yourself first.”

“A person grows.”

“A person learns,” she corrected, allowing him to lead her toward the settee where her husband waited for her. “It seems as though you’ve had a wonderful teacher, Bran.”

He handed her off. Eamonn reached up for his wife and delicately helped lower her to the cushions. He handled her as if she were made of glass, although Bran knew her to be the exact opposite. Still, it was good to see them together like this. If only to remind himself that he’d experienced it himself.

Bran lowered himself into the chair beside Elva’s and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Care to explain who this Tlachtga is and how she’s supposed to help us?”

Eamonn manifested a glass of water and handed it to his wife. “In a moment.”

“I don’t exactly have moments to spare, Eamonn.”

He thought his friend would launch himself across the room. Eamonn was ridiculously protective of his wife, yet she was a woman who had no need of a man to protect her. It was too easy to provoke him, and at the very least, it made Bran feel a little bit more like himself.

Sorcha placed a hand on her husband’s thigh and chuckled. “Stop, both of you. Goodness, I didn’t miss this. You two are exhausting.”

Elva shifted for the first time since Sorcha entered the room. Teacup in hand, she delicately sipped the tea and sniffed. “Most men are, I find.”

They both chuckled, and Bran tried to tell himself to grow angry at their jesting. Instead, all he could do was shrug. He knew he was a pain in most people’s asses. That was his role in life. To annoy people who needed to lighten up a little bit, as well as relieve tense situations.

Sorcha sipped at the water in her hand before nodding. “Tlachtga was an ancient druidess who was far more intelligent than any who have ever lived before. Her father was an arch-druid, and he taught her everything he knew. Her power, her knowledge, is far greater than even the combination of all the druid ancestors I can speak with. She’s an incredible woman and more valuable than I could ever explain.”

“If she’s dead, why can’t you connect with her here?”

Sorcha shook her head. “It’s not that easy. Tlachtga knew people would try and use her, even when she died. So she placed her grave in the highest peak she could, then bid her sons to guard her. Her energy feeds the land, not the ancestors. It was such a powerful death that her magic has bled into the human realm as well, through the very fiber that separates the Otherworld and the next.”

It couldn’t be easy, could it? Bran growled, “Sons?”

“Perhaps I should tell you her entire story. Tlachtga traveled the world with her father and his mentor, Simon Magus. He was a sorcerer of black and blood magic. He caught her when her father had left for a fortnight and had his three sons rape her. Broken and bleeding, she dragged herself from his home to the same peak where she is buried.

“It’s not a happy tale. She birthed three sons, Cumma, Doirb and Muach, each looking like one of the rapists who had fathered individual children. And though she saw the monsters every time she looked at her own children, she still kept herself alive until their eighteenth birthday when she died. They named it the Hill of Warding, and they light Samhain fires in her honor.”

Bran had heard of such tales, and they were always in threes. Black magic liked to feast upon pain. Likely, the druidess hadn’t even realized she was feeding into the sorcerer’s spell for all those years she kept herself alive for her boys.

It wouldn’t be easy to convince her to help him, not when Aisling herself was a dark witch. Although his bride hadn’t dabbled in black magic, he’d seen her do many things that a good witch wouldn’t have.

“She won’t like helping a witch,” he verbalized. “That’s too much to ask of a woman whose life was ruined by one.”

“Sorcerers aren’t witches, Bran. And it’s been a long time.”

“Wounds like that don’t heal as easily as you’d think.” He heard the deep inhalation of Elva beside him and wondered just how far her wounds ran. Perhaps it wasn’t the same as Tlachtga. Elva hadn’t been raped. At least, he hoped not. When all this was over, he intended to speak to her and figure out what had actually happened in all those years he’d been gone.

Sorcha shook her head. “She’s still one of the druids. I am her only descendent, and she will help me if I ask.”

“Are you willing to give that up?” Bran held up his hand when Eamonn opened his mouth. “Not yet, I’ll let you have your say, Seelie King. I think we’ve thought of the same possibility. There may come a time, Sorcha, when you need to seek this ancestor’s help. I don’t want you to waste it on my queen. Tell me where she is, and I will go alone.”

Elva set her cup down on the table between them. “Not alone. She’s my sister just as much as she is your wife, Raven King. I go with you.”

He didn’t need a keeper, although it seemed as though Elva disagreed with him. He glowered at his previous love and wondered who had taught her to be so stubborn. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t like that when someone he loved was at the stake.

“Well,” Sorcha said slowly. “At least we know that someone will be watching your back. I can tell you where Tlachtga is, but it won’t be so easy to find her. If she decides to help you, then it might be more of a curse than a blessing.”

He blew out a breath and nodded. “That’s how it always is with druids, isn’t it? None of your magic is given freely or with ease.”

Sorcha shrugged. “When it’s powerful magic, someone has to pay for it.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face and waved the other in front of him. “Fine, that’s fine. I’ll meet with this Tlachtga, beg for her help, try my best to woo her, and then we’ll see if she helps us at all.”

“With Elva at your side,” Sorcha added.

The muscles on his jaw jumped immediately. His teeth creaked so loudly that even he could hear their grinding. “Yes, with Elva. If she slows me down, then I’m not waiting.”

Elva let out a loud laugh that startled him. “Oh, you pathetic little Unseelie prince. I’m not going to slow you down, but you might not be able to keep up with me.”

He glared at her between his fingers. “We’ll see. Sorcha, where is this druid and how long is it going to take me to find her?”

“At least a few days if you teleport to the base of her mountain. The rest is climbing. Magic won’t work on that mountain unless it’s hers.” She waved her hand between them, and an image appeared in the air. “This is where you will begin your journey.”