and quell the panic that kept rising inside her like a fountain. The Common was all frozen and picture-postcard pretty, but it was difficult to focus too much on that while her mind was constantly whirring with plans and possibilities.
She glanced at a family walking along the path, seeing how happy they were and having to drag her gaze away. A mother and father with their chestnut-haired daughter running ahead, laughing. Donna ducked her head and changed direction, dodging a cyclist on her way to the lake. A pair of joggers passed her, not wearing enough for the cold weather and trailing frozen clouds like dragon’s breath.
It was all so ordinary, so human, it almost broke her heart.
As soon as she left the path and took the familiar shortcut—happy, for another fleeting moment, that she was back in Ironbridge and actually able to take the familiar shortcut—she knew that she’d made a mistake. Most of the walkers and joggers were suddenly out of sight, further back on the open parts of the Common. Donna was walking among the trees where it was quieter, and she also had to slow her pace.
She heard something behind her. It sounded like something heavy landing on hard earth and fallen leaves.
Donna spun, preparing to fight, and then stopped with her mouth hanging open.
Cathal—the blond knight who’d represented Queen Isolde at Demian’s negotiations—was standing there. He’d clearly jumped down from one of the tallest trees. He must have been watching for her—or watching for something. Waiting.
She stared at the tall knight as he approached. Today, his shining armor was gone; instead, he wore dark leggings and a silver-gray tunic embroidered with green. The sword still hung at his waist, though. She wondered if he’d walked through the more populated area of the Common like that, or whether there was a door to Faerie nearby. That was probably too much to hope for … but she couldn’t help a burst of anticipation as she thought of the Ouroboros Blade.
“Forgive me,” Cathal said. “I would speak with you a moment, Initiate Underwood.”
Her eyes widened. She hoped it didn’t seem rude to be staring, but up close the faery was one of the most beautiful creatures she’d ever seen. He sort of rivaled Demian on that level. His face was a perfect blend of smooth golden skin, full lips, and angular masculinity. His hair was the color of spun gold, with the top part secured away from his face with a piece of green twine. His eyes were viridian bright, breathtaking in their intensity. They marked him as other, just as Xan’s eyes betrayed his fey heritage …
Donna gasped, unable to stop herself. She knew who this man was, and why he had requested to accompany Taran to the masquerade; perhaps even why he was here today, talking to her.
Cathal bowed his head, as though he had read her mind. “I was hoping to see my son when I journeyed Halfway, to the Demon King’s council. I am given to understand that you are friends.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. This freakishly gorgeous guy was Xan’s father. He looked way too young to have a grown son, but that was the way things worked with the fey. Age weighed upon them far less heavily than it did on mortals.
Donna closed her eyes for a moment, feeling terrible that Xan wasn’t here with her. But he could be! He didn’t live so far away, though she figured he probably wasn’t home. He still hadn’t responded to the messages she’d left him, and maybe Navin had tracked him down already.
“Your son,” she said, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. “You mean Xan?”
“Yes, that is his human name.” Cathal’s voice was deep and melodious, all at the same time. “I have not seen him since the night he was born.”
Since the night he was snatched from the hospital of his birth, taken by wood elves, and replaced with a changeling.
“How is … Xan?” Cathal asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar name.
“Why do you care?” Donna asked. Where had this guy been for the past twenty years, anyway? She knew she shouldn’t speak to a man such as Cathal like this, but all her mixed-up feelings made her brave. Or stupid.
His eyes flashed, but that was the only sign of anger that Donna could see. “I deserve that, I suppose. I would prefer to speak with my son about such things—perhaps there will be an opportunity for that later.”
“There might not be