The Dark Huntsman: A Fantasy Romance of The Black Court (Tales of The Black Court Book 1) (6 page)

He passed lumbering giants and clusters of the tiny blood-sucking winged fae, teeth gleaming in sharply pretty faces. Whispers spread in front of him in a shallow spill of oil, ready for him to slip. On the outside, he strode with a confidence none could deny. Inside, he tread warily.

Court hadn’t changed during his absence. Everyone in the sultry atmosphere competing for tiny bits of information that might push their tiny movements up the ladder. Or down. Long green expanses filled with bright flowers combined with the massive walls of thorns. Room after room spread out for the exotically dressed and politically charged crowd to gossip, play, or torture.

He split one large festive group in two, silks and satins rustling as he pushed between a large Indian tiger conversing with an elegant Tuathan lady and a tuxedoed satyr. He ignored the laughter and snide comments dropped behind the crowd’s hands and paws. Odds were, the crowd thought he was still in disfavor.

Odds were, they were right.

He was at the approach to the queen faster than he’d ever made the walk before and it increased his already strung-tight nerves. Sometimes, the magic of the audience chamber shuffled you away and you never could approach the thrones. Not today. Not for Logan. Today, the magic of the court was an escalator to hell.

Two ancient trees towered into the sky above, their roots twisted into polished seats for the queen and her counterpart. Prince Kian’s throne was empty.

No help there. And no knowing when he might see his friend and probably only ally. Please the Goddess, the prince was not still in disfavor with his mother. Logan should know, fifteen years of the queen’s disfavor was enough to kill a man.

Her majesty, The Black Queen of the Tuatha De Danaan, was a vision in a barely-there gown, a shimmering rainbow of purples, matching her eyes and exotic purple red hair. Once the poor, ignorant humans had worshipped her as a goddess, and no one had better forget.

Logan was relieved to see Aeval, her pleasure aspect, and not the Morrigan, the dark battle goddess. Or worse, the Crone. Aeval implied her mood was light. At least, as light as the queen’s mood could be. The queen’s appearance was one of the many gifts that had put her on the throne. Her changes were real, touchable, and dangerous.

He made his bow, exposing his neck for the ritual chopping block, and waited to be addressed. The small, inlaid box weighed heavy in his hands.

“So Huntsman, it is done?" Her unwavering gaze latched on to his and he struggled to remind himself that he too was of royal blood.

“I followed your instructions, my lady. You bade me go to the house of the witches and kill what I found there.” Her eyes constricted slightly, darting from side to side in a quick birdlike motion, but she didn’t call him on the deception. He hoped that meant he had successfully deceived her into thinking he had obeyed.

“I see you have brought me a gift. What is it?”

The court’s immediate silence hung over him, the crowd waiting for the queen’s languid hand to wave before the blade dropped. The hot, heavy smell of jasmine twined around him, tickling deep in his throat. He suppressed a cough and stepped forward to present the queen with the small box.

This had better work, or he was worse than dead.

“The heart of she I slew,” he said formally, holding the intricately decorated box out until his arms strained. An eternity later, a slender maid with sly, tip-tilted eyes took it from him and presented it in turn to the queen.

Aeval took the inlaid box, and opened it.

Of incredible Dwarven craftsmanship, the box was magically made to preserve whatever was inside. It held the fresh oozing doe’s heart as it had been moments after death. Logan concentrated on not holding his breath and looking the correct amount of disinterested.

The queen barely glanced in the box before she shut the lid and handed it off to her handmaiden.

“There is only one. What of the rest? There were to have been more of them!” Her lips compressed into a small thin line. He felt the court shrink behind him in preparation for flight. Another drop of sweat slid down his neck. The itching became almost unbearable.

The key to lying successfully for one of the fae was to never actually lie. That would get him through this. That, and the fact that the queen knew, as well as anyone, that none of the fae could utter a lie. Fifteen years of floating in the never land of
hibernieth
had given him ample time to think of how to deal with her majesty.

And how to dissemble. Not lie.

“There was only one.”

“No.” she said, rising to her feet. Her hands moved outward in a short chopping gesture. “My mirror said there were four witches living there!”

Logan stood his ground and held fast to the truth he chanted inside his head. The truth he wanted her to hear, to believe.

“There was only one.”

It was the truth.

One doe in the sage labyrinth. One doe called by his magics. One death for the queen.

The queen’s eyes swirled into a deep purple vortex, sucking him in. He couldn’t look away as she looked deep into his soul, as if she could force him to change his answer.

Only one. Only one. Only one.

Her slender fingers tap, tap, tapped together in a pyramid. He kept his gaze steady, facing her without flinching. His life, his uncles’ lives, and that of the woman he now hid, all depended on him. How had he come to this? Too long imprisoned without a woman and he’d made a snap decision looking at her naked body.

He must have been mad.

He forced himself to drive all doubts from his mind, all thoughts of the witch and her possibilities. All desires. He held fast to his statement. His truth.

One death for the queen.

Tap, tap, tap.

She had better be worth it.

Tap, tap, tap.

The moment hung in the air until his back was wet. The queen eased back down onto her throne, never taking her disconcerting eyes off of his.

“Haddon!” she snapped out. Still looking at Logan. Still tapping her fingers.

The queen’s secretary and chief counsel scurried over. A tall, thin man with pale green skin and lank, green, weedy hair whose boot-licking had propelled him a long way up the social ladder since Logan had first met him as a child. They whispered back and forth. The queen’s eyes never breaking their vicious hold.

Logan waited. Legs slightly spread, hands folded behind his back, knees bent. He could stand like this for hours, and he might need to. She’d left others until they dropped. Did she forget, just move on? Or did she do it on purpose? She did love to torture.

The queen and Haddon stopped whispering, their heads still close together. They eyed Logan. A pair of cats eyeing a mouse, deciding whether to play with him some more or move straight to devouring. The queen’s long tapping fingers stilled. Behind him, he could sense the court gathering for the feast.

“Haddon believes it is possible they might have had some warning. He will find out how they might have gotten the information. Owen, my current mirror, grows old. He’s only human, after all. Their bodies wear out so soon.” Her fleeting, feral smile chilled the sweat running down his spine.

“But what shall we do with you now?” Her lips grew taut, tiny sparks of anger crackled from her skin.

His world became small. All his instincts screamed in order to survive this moment all he had to do was hold still.

Very still.

He had no friends here without the prince. No one would go against the queen on his behalf. His agenda was clear.

First, survive this moment and get out of court. Second, safeguard his witch and find out why she was important. Third, find out where the hell Prince Kian was and enlist his help.

Or give Prince Kian what help he could.

“You’ve had time to think on what defying me costs, and this killing does provide some evidence of penance.” The queen’s lovely wicked eyes measured his value. “I suppose I could use your prison for someone else, if it were empty…” The entire court inhaled, sucking up the available oxygen and leaving a palpable vacuum.

“I will not put you back in. You may go." The queen relaxed back in her throne and gestured to a serving girl for a cup. Logan nearly toppled from the breeze of a thousand exhales.

“My lady, this takes care of my service to you.”

She looked down at him, surprise etched on her face.

“Do you think so?” She raised her eyebrows, her lips pursed. “I do not. You were supposed to be my Huntsman and you refused my wishes.”

“Fifteen years of imprisonment and this service should bring us even.”

“Even!” she hissed. “You defied me and worse than that, you encouraged my son to defy me. Do you think you can ever repay me?” Her eyes swirled into a maelstrom of purple. Logan struggled to retain his calm as the tapping began again, accelerating to a fast staccato.

“How can you consider this a service? One measly creature killed when you should have killed four. They should be dead! And you were supposed to have made sure they were dead, but you did not. I need them all killed. All of them. Every last MacElvy an-ni-hil-ated!”

Her shrill siren voice rose, becoming louder and louder until the more sensitive in the court keeled over. Her body glowed as her magic built up, threatening to explode. Sparks flew. One landed on his hand, burning it briefly before he shook it off. He held his position and stifled the urge to bolt.

A flow of bodies pushed away from the thrones and impending destruction. He forced himself to stand firm, regard her steadily, and not think of escape. Whatever these witches had done to her, she was never going to forgive. No matter how sexy the girl was, no matter what hold she might give him over the queen, keeping her might have been a fatal mistake.

Haddon leaned over and whispered something to the queen. The tension in her body calmed. The sparks slowed. She nodded, a small infinitesimal nod, never looking away from Logan.

“You may go. For now, Huntsman.” Her use of the title informed him she felt she could still pull his chain. “I may have some use for you. But don’t think you are off the hook. I require penance.”

“By your leave, Your Majesty.”

He bowed and made his escape.

He headed for the doors at a calculated pace, his mind spinning. He exited into the now-deserted antechamber and almost tripped over Bosco.

“Well, well. She didn’t exterminate you.” Bosco’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Yet.”

Logan moved past him, heading at a steady speed for the exit.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Huntsman?”

Logan winced at the title, but didn’t stop. He wasn’t waiting for the queen to change her mind and summon him back. He called over his shoulder, “The queen will need someone else to fill that role. Maybe you, Bosco?”

Not likely. Bosco’s hunting talents were not with horse and hound. Only Logan’s paternal bloodline had the Gifts of the hunt. Only Logan now.

“Oh, I think you’ll be filling the role for some time to come. Unless you want to come to the same end as your father?”

He continued walking, Bosco’s brittle laugh trailing after him.

Logan didn’t need Bosco’s reminder. Despite his hatred for his father, it still burned that the queen had ordered his father executed.

The queen had said he could go. He would be out of this section of Underhill as fast as possible. He wasn't released from his obligations completely, but he was not imprisoned. He would take what he could get. Use the breathing time to figure out a way to keep the queen from him.

And his new acquisition from the queen.

Chapter Four

They rode out of the portal and into the blaze of early morning sunrise. Logan blinked blearily at the dazzling light, pushed a knuckle into the corner of his eye and rubbed, nearly losing his seat as Solanum kicked his heels and twisted into a kicking buck.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Logan clamped his legs tight, slamming his fist down hard between the puca’s ears.

“Shaking off portal mist.”

“Well stop. Let it dissipate on its own.” He dug deep into a cloak pocket searching for any possible sunglasses leftover from before his imprisonment. Giving up, he raised his hand and blocked the glare. “What day is it?”

“Don’t you ken how long we’ve been gone?” Solanum asked, ripping up another clump of Uncle Eirc’s prized flowers and chewing as he spoke.

“I should, but I’m knackered to the bone.” Logan’s empty stomach lurched as they approached the cottage. “Shit. It feels like two days.”

“It’s piper paying time, old son.” Solanum’s thick, black equine lips twisted into a leering grin, one tattered, white daisy hanging from the corner. “Your uncles will be wondering why you left them such a succulent present.”

“My uncles will tear me to pieces, leaving a tasty morsel for them to fight over.” Logan dismounted, rolling and stretching his shoulders until they cracked. He was too tired for this. “I should have warned her.”

“Nah. It’s early morning of the same night.” Solanum said. “They’ll just have gotten home. You’re one lucky sod.” Logan stumbled at the news of his reprieve.