The Fae King's Dream (Between Dawn and Dusk #2) - Jamie Schlosser Page 0,132

eyes. “We were in the pond, retrieving the bodies.”

“Right.” I motion for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I reel in the impulse to throttle him. “Well? The witches were dead, yes?”

“Yes. They aren’t the problem. It’s your mother…”

The blood drains from my face as remember the utter despair I felt when the blade cut her skin. How I thought I was going to be forced to watch my own mother get beheaded. How I feared I’d always be haunted by her glassy, lifeless eyes.

Did the coven catch up with her before the Glow kicked in? Have I lost her after all?

My mouth opens and closes. I want to ask what happened, but no words will come out. If she’s gone, my father will be next. I can’t lose my parents after just getting them back.

Thankfully, a second dripping soldier speaks up. “She’s alive, your majesty. We heard your father’s calls for help coming from the honeymoon cave. Apparently, they went there to hide out before The Great Sleep.”

The Great Sleep. If I weren’t so worried, I’d scoff at the name they’ve given the monumental event. “And?”

“And she woke up sick this morning.”

“Sick in what way?”

“Fever, cough, internal hemorrhaging.”

Not good.

“The plague?” I rasp. “Could it be?”

I’ve never seen a case of the Day Realm plague firsthand, but I’ve heard enough to know it’s gruesome. The symptoms mimic iron poisoning, and it’s a slow, agonizing end.

Zander steps out of the crowd forming around me. “Did your parents pass through my realm on their way here?”

“I don’t know. I assumed they came straight from Earth.”

“It doesn’t spread outside of my kingdom. Unless…”

“Unless?”

He frowns. “Infection directly from the source.”

Whitley joins us, still doing up the front laces of her dress while carrying her shoes underneath one arm.

“The chant, Damon,” she says, her voice tinged with concern. “I couldn’t understand the words the coven said before they let your parents go, but they could’ve cursed her.”

I feel unsteady.

Gently pushing her hands away from her dress, I busy myself with tying the ribbons over her bust into a perfect bow. “I didn’t recognize the language either. It wasn’t Old Fae.”

“This is my fault.” Whitley breathes out.

“No, it’s not.”

“I should’ve been more specific with the deal I made. Instead of blood, I should’ve said harm. Damn it. If I could kill those tricky bitches all over again, I would.”

A few warriors inch away from Whitley, as if they’re afraid their very presence might piss her off and send her on a rampage. She’s not the one they should be worried about. As badass as she is, she doesn’t have the same darkness I do. She didn’t enjoy killing the witches. To her, it was a task that needed to be done. But me? Whether my mother survives or not, when I get a private moment later, I’m going to relive the slaughter of the coven. Every last breath. All the screams. Their limbs twitching before going slack, never to move again.

A soothing hand on my forearm brings me back from the brink of madness, and I’m anchored by my mate’s sympathetic eyes.

“Let’s go to her,” she says. “She needs you.”

“Survival rate?” I bark at Zander, not waiting for his reply as I stalk across the grass.

He heaves out a dejected sigh behind me. “Five percent.”

“Is there medicine? Any kind of treatment to improve those odds?” My mind is a jumble of possible solutions. “What about Glow? If injected, could it help her like it did me?”

“No idea, but it doesn’t matter because Whitley used every drop I had on you. I do have tonics to take down the fever and reduce pain, but the virus has to run its course.”

My legs feel numb as they carry me toward my dying mother. Time and attention is all I can give her, but it’s nowhere near enough.

“I didn’t see this coming.” Whitley’s voice is heavy with guilt as she matches my quick strides. “I’m sorry.”

I’m about to tell her she isn’t to blame when a blur of pink sparkles zips through the air.

“Luna.” The little sprite hovers in front of me, her wings going a mile a minute. “I expected you back sooner. Did you encounter trouble along the way?”

“Trouble? Not exactly.”

“Talk while I walk.” I gesture for her to follow us as I start down the marriage stairs.

How ironic—Whitley and I were supposed to go up these steps together yesterday morning for our ceremony. Now we’re going backward. There’s probably a superstition about bad luck in here