Heir of the Dog Black Dog - Hailey Edwards Page 0,65
just don’t care.”
They had kept me bent over a barrel since I arrived, hell, before I arrived, and I just wanted to go home. I had participated. That meant Mom went free. The rest wasn’t outlined, and I hadn’t signed any papers. Our verbal agreement, my obligation, was met to the letter.
Rook slid his hand into mine. I squeezed his fingers and let him guide me. We stepped onto, not into, the water. The sensation of falling tensed my knees, but he kept me standing as the water rose, never touching us, and the pit of my stomach stopped hovering overhead and dropped back into place.
Once the illusion of water receded, we stood in a cylindrical room made of what must have been glass or crystal. Beneath us, water rushed. It cascaded down the sides too. Overhead, a circular patch of blue sky illuminated the uncluttered chamber.
A low growl pumped to my left. Diode’s fur bristled, making him twice as imposing.
Poor guy, this had to be a cat’s worst nightmare.
A breeze stirred the loose hairs hanging from my braid, announcing the Watchers had joined us in the chamber. They crossed the room to where two clear benches extended from the wall, and sat. Over their heads, the rushing waters parted, and the same two likenesses as before appeared as watercolor portraits. Neither of the consuls looked pleased to see me.
“Thierry Thackeray.” Liosliath inspected me. “Your presence here is...most unexpected.”
“You agreed to take your father’s place in exchange for the return of your mother.” Daibhidh stared daggers at me. “Yet there you stand, as he has never stood.”
“Sorry, guys.” I kept my tone neutral. “This Black Dog gig didn’t come with an instruction manual.”
Air distorted to my right, and the Huntsman appeared with a snort.
“You laugh at this?” Liosliath spoke. “She murdered your hounds in cold blood.”
“Cold?” He chuckled. “No. Cold-blooded would be stealing a girl’s mother, ripping her from her life to participate in a game you savor playing every century. That this is the first time one of your houses has broken their blood oath and murdered a reigning king is the only surprise here.”
Liosliath’s reflection rippled with the force of his anger.
“This is not the first time a prince has died in pursuit of the throne, nor will it be the last. How many times have we crowned kings while their rival’s blood still stained their teeth?” The Huntsman drew himself taller. “The loss of both princes in one hunt is regrettable, but as we have offered past victors amnesty for crimes they committed in the heat of battle, so must we make allowances now.”
“Do the lives in your care mean so little?” Daibhidh asked.
“My hounds die in this tourney. Just as princes do. The beasts are made from my own blood and bone, my own soul and thought. When they die, it is I who pays the price,” he snarled. “Never think I don’t mourn their loss.”
The anguish in his voice resonated with me. “I’m sorry for my part in their deaths.”
“No one is truly sorry when they won and lived.” He sighed. “But I do accept the sentiment.”
“We sit here discussing dogs when each of the houses has lost a prince.” Daibhidh glared.
“The question set before us is this—” Liosliath spread his hands, “—do we forgive your trespass, allow you to atone by offering yourself as tribute for the next hunt, or do we behead you now as recompense?”
Rook stepped forward. “I propose a third alternative.”
That same taste of apprehension soured my mouth.
The Huntsman cocked his head. “What do you propose?”
“Your final words were, I believe, ‘May the best hound win.’” Rook addressed Liosliath’s image with a tight smile then swept out his arm to indicate me. “I would argue that the best hound did.”
Utter silence. Complete stillness.
Then the room caught its breath and the consuls exploded into shouted arguments with Rook.
“Silence,” the Huntsman bellowed. “I will have silence.”
“The fact remains.” Liosliath cleared his throat. “She is not a hound.”
“She is the daughter of Black Dog, who once led the Wild Hunt and was one of the Huntsman’s first and best hounds.” Rook snapped his fingers, and the Unseelie prince’s pelt appeared draped across my shoulders. “She claimed my brother’s skin as hers. She was a hound when she slayed the Seelie prince.”
“You are no doubt claiming this was an Unseelie victory,” Liosliath seethed.
Daibhidh’s reflection jolted as he grasped the implications.
“Perhaps we ought to hear him out,” he said thoughtfully.
“You can’t be serious,” Liosliath spluttered. “She