Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
“What the fuck?” I mutter, staring at a horned head mounted above the mantelpiece. It appears vaguely human at first but is twice the size of mine and has a wide, gorilla-like nose.
Sylvan gets to his toes and covers my mouth with his hand. “Stay still and silent,” he whispers, as we hear footsteps, and cops slam their fists on the door.
We’re dead. We’re so fucking dead.
I glance into the window leading into the alleyway, and I swear there wasn’t one there before, but I can see a cop. Fog covers the glass, but he’s there, staring straight at us. And yet… also somehow right through us.
I flinch at the crash of breaking wood and the shouts that follow, but while the sounds echo all around me, they’re dull, almost as if they were coming from inside a massive fridge.
Are the cops… looking for us in the building next door? They might still find us here, so I look around in search of a weapon or hideout.
A few candles are scattered over a thick wooden table in the middle of the room, their green flames casting light over an unfinished letter written with a quill and ink instead of a pen. But then my gaze rests on a huge axe with an engraved blade, and I head toward it, ready to pluck it off the wall.
“I think we’re safe,” Sylvan says, exhaling behind me. “I need you to stay here. You cannot be seen by Tassarion before I get this collar off.”
He’s not phased to see me cradling the axe, which is actually way heavier than the replicas I’ve held in the past a couple of times, but calling our situation safe is plain ridiculous.
“Oh, so it’s him who is the problem? There’s cops everywhere around us,” I whisper.
Sylvan drops his bag on the grand leather sofa and runs his fingers through his silvery blond hair. “I will explain later, you can hide behind that.” He points to a suit of armor worthy of Sauron from The Lord of the Rings. Massive, covered in spikes, and yet somehow regal.
What is this place? I want to ask, but he’s already headed for a door on the other side of the room.
“I will be fine,” Sylvan says, looking back at me. “But we can’t allow him to see your shadow.”
Which to me sounds like alarm bells. This is his ex, and this ex will be so jealous he needs to be appeased before seeing me.
In these circumstances though, I have to let Sylvan take the lead. I still wonder about the door though. Sylvan knew some secret buttons to enter, but… how did it happen? Did I not notice when we were outside that he led me to a different entrance? Was I too frantic to pay attention?
I squeeze the wooden handle in my hands as he opens the door, letting in the smell of hot iron. I’m mesmerized when an orange glow deepens the shadows on Sylvan’s determined face, but the moment is cut short when a male voice asks, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Chapter 15
Sylvan
Ihold my head high as I step through the threshold. Built in a circle around the dark shaft of the hearth, the forge has runes and magical symbols carved into the floor and walls. Some of them emit the faintest red glow, and as I enter, inhaling air that’s hot and sulfuric like dragon breath, the steady tap of metal against metal stops.
My knees feel like marshmallows when I face the tall form of the grimsmith, who regards me from his place at the massive anvil.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
I’m struck how very out of place he seems in this elven forge. Tall and broader in the shoulders than a member of my kind ought to be, he reminds me of the old quarry workers who congregate at Best Burger Bonanza every Friday after work. The fire deepens the grooves marking the spots where his skin folds whenever he emotes, and seeing them makes me doubt it’s the man I seek in the first place.
“Tassarion?” I ask, keeping my voice steady only thanks to the training a life at the Nocturne Court has given me.
“Who’s asking?” the smith says, approaching me in slow steps. His bare chest glistens in the glow of the fire, and I follow a drop of sweat until it reaches his leather kilt. Over his heart, a dark brand marks him as banished. It’s the crest of the Nightweeds, a kelpie on a shell in a circle of seaweed.
I meet his dark eyes, mustering all the royal dignity I’ve been taught to carry myself with. “I am Prince Sylvan Goldweed.” I recoil when he pushes back some of his dark hair and I get a glimpse of his ears, cut short where they should become pointy. A symbol of his banishment being permanent.