The Fae King's Dream (Between Dawn and Dusk #2) - Jamie Schlosser Page 0,101
runs from the gaping wound on his neck, soaking his vest.
I’m caught. He’s faster, stronger, and damn near immortal.
Refusing to give up, I untie the strings at my throat, thinking if I can get free, I can still run.
And my fingers touch a silver chain.
My whistle.
I get an idea. It’s a last resort, but if I blow the whistle loud enough, Damon might hear it and come to my rescue. It’ll also blow my secret to hell, but it’s a better alternative than being some man’s plaything.
As the brute tackles me, I suck in a deep breath and put the metal between my lips.
Damon
“An ambush is a good tactic.” Spreading his map out on the table, Zander feels the ridges on the paper indicating raised terrain and forests.
His fingers bump over the waterfall before moving to the clearing where the premonition took place. Face pinched with concentration, he puts two small figurines there.
A crowned woman and man. Whitley and me.
“Did the sky indicate time of day?” he asks, going back to the box of tiny props.
“Not really. The horizon toward the Day Realm wasn’t very bright, so not dawn or dusk. It could’ve been afternoon or midnight. I’m assuming they’ll attack sometime during the honeymoon. They’ll think we’re distracted. Less guarded.”
Nodding, Zander sets a few soldiers in the trees around us. “After your wedding, my men can be stationed throughout the forest. Hidden here and here.”
“It’s not exactly an ambush if the coven knows about it,” I point out. “And it’s likely they will.”
Shrugging he places two kings by the waterfall. “We might not have the element of surprise on our side, but we’ll still be a threat. Once they have you corralled, Kirian and I will be here waiting for your signal.”
“My signal?”
“This.” Digging in his pocket, he pulls out a whistle made of gold. Unlike Whitley’s, this one is long and thin, about the size of a finger. It hangs from a golden chain, and it’s decorated with rubies. “This was my father’s.” Zander tosses it to me. “Now it’s yours.”
I hold the precious heirloom like it might break. “Not to keep.”
“Yes, to keep. I don’t want it.”
“But it’s valuable.”
“To you. To me, it represents something unpleasant. I’ve considered throwing it away or melting it down. This way, I can be rid of it while giving it new meaning. A rebirth of sorts.”
A gift. I’ll owe him one in return if I accept, but I want it, and I know exactly what to do with it.
Looping the chain around my neck, I say, “Thank you, Zander. I’ll put it to good use.”
He gives me a nod and continues with his plan. “We’ll have the clearing surrounded. I’m hoping we can capture the coven before they do too much damage.”
“And remember,” I emphasize, eyeing Thayne and the other soldiers around us, “Capture, don’t kill.”
Zander inclines his head. “Yes. Everyone has been instructed to injure them somehow. Incapacitate and separate. Their power might be subdued if they’re in pain and alone. My archers are skilled and—”
I don’t hear the rest of what he says because the uneasiness I’ve been experiencing for the past few minutes becomes full-on fear. I’d chalked up my emotions to the subject matter. A confrontation with the coven isn’t a topic I enjoy discussing.
But now I realize I’ve been feeling Whitley.
Suddenly there’s a burning sensation on my ankle and an ache in my head.
I stand, causing my chair to fall back as I stagger away from the table.
Kirian calls after me, sounding concerned, but I don’t give an explanation as I leave the strategy tent and head toward mine. Two guards are stationed by the doorway, stoic with spears in hand. Passing them, I lift the flap. Astrid’s sitting on the side of the bed and she sends me a strained smile.
“Your majesty.” I can tell she’s trying to be still, but there’s a nervous energy about her. “Done with your meeting so soon?”
“Where’s Whitley?”
“Oh.” She glances around like she’s just now noticing her absence. “A girl can’t explore a little?”
“She wasn’t supposed to leave here.” I’m trembling with a mixture of anger and dread. “Something’s wrong.”
Astrid drops the cheerful façade. “Are you certain?”
“You think I can’t feel what she feels? She’s hurting and scared.”
“The distillery—” That’s all she has a chance to say before I march outside.
“The distillery is north?” I ask to no one in particular.
Striding over, Zander’s expression is grim. “About a half a mile. Why?”