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It was almost pathetic how easy it was to take out the sentries around Tamlin’s manor. But Lucien had lived here on and off for centuries, and he knew every nook and cranny, every hiding place, every station. He knew exactly which alcoves contained secret avenues to conceal guards, and he crept along and drew them out, allowing two Frost Warriors to eliminate them with no magic in complete silence.
A week ago he still might have felt bad about turning on the court that had been his home for so long. A week ago he might have been horrified at the idea of returning to this place as an invader, an enemy.
But then they’d taken Elain.
He knew she was here, knew she was alive--deep within him, their bond still hummed and glowed, assuring him that she had not yet been harmed. When he tried to reach down it to stir a response from her, it remained still, as though she could not respond. But she lived. Praise the Mother, she lived.
He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d been killed. It might have been too much for his wretched soul to bear. He might have marched right up to Hybern and begged the king to kill him too. It would have been like . . . like Elspeth all over again. And he would have been unable to bear it.
But there was a chance to change things this time. He wouldn’t let Elain die, wouldn’t let her suffer, even if it took every last ounce of his strength and his breath. He’d already unleashed a part of himself that he had kept locked up tight for centuries, that he hadn’t touched since becoming Tamlin’s emissary and turning his back on the Autumn Court. It had been so natural to begin using the flames again--it was almost easier than not using them, as though he’d been keeping a muscle clenched tight for two hundred years and was only just now relaxing it.
And he had to admit that he enjoyed roasting the vile forces of Hybern, the ones who were trying to keep him away from his mate.
He and the two Frost Warriors with him finished with the sentries on the east side of the manor and met with Masaru and the other three in the courtyard, lingering in the shadows until Azriel, Feyre, and Mor emerged.
Lucien went ramrod straight when he heard Feyre scream from inside, but not long after that, a large shape slipped through the glass doors into the courtyard toward them. Azriel--supporting a weak but living Morrigan.
“Az, we have to go back in there!” Mor spat, trying to wrestle herself out of his strong arms.
“She told us she was coming,” Azriel said, refusing to release her. “We need to get you to Amren before you can do anything.”
“I’m fine!” she protested, but Azriel just growled.
“You left her in there?” Lucien demanded, striding up to the Illyrian. “What is she facing?”
“A Bogge,” Azriel said.
Lucien swore and immediately took off to rush back inside, but Masaru grabbed his arm. “Lucien, don’t be a fool!” his friend said.
“You don’t need me here,” Lucien said. “Get her back to Amren, and I’ll go in after Feyre and Elain.”
“By yourself?”
“You’re needed on the battlefield,” Lucien said, fixing his mismatched gaze on his friend and the Frost Warriors. He then looked at Azriel. “My father is out there, isn’t he? Fighting?”
Azriel nodded grimly.
“Your magic can challenge his,” Lucien said to Masaru. “I can handle this.”
Masaru’s lips went tight as he thought about arguing again, but at last he released Lucien’s arm. “Fine,” the Winter Prince said. “But you had better not get yourself killed.”
“I don’t plan on it,” Lucien assured him. “See you on the other side.”
Masaru nodded, and Lucien broke away from the others to slip back inside the manor.
Dawn was already beginning to creep over the horizon, but the inside of the manor was still dark. Lucien conjured a floating flame beside his head and crept over the dais carefully. His stomach plunged as he saw the place empty--except for a long streak of blood smearing the floor.
Bogges didn’t bleed. It had to be Feyre.
Lucien swore and followed the trail of blood down the corridor, but eventually the trail ran out as Feyre’s wound had healed over and stopped bleeding. He could smell her faintly beneath the reek of the Bogge, but it was still very fresh. He had to be right on their heels. The trail was leading to the west, but Lucien couldn’t begin to guess why the Bogge was taking her anywhere in the first place--Bogges were usually eat first, ask questions later faeries. Lucien followed them down the west corridor, tracking their scent, determined to find them--
--until another scent entirely struck his senses.
Elain.
Lucien looked out the window and saw the rose garden, and he remembered what Feyre had said. That’s where she was--that’s where his mate was.
Lucien cursed under his breath again as he looked from the corridor to the window. He was so close! How could he turn and not go after Elain? Feyre--the Bogge hadn’t eaten her on the spot, so it was likely that it was under orders not to do so. It was unlike a Bogge to conceal their meals for later. So . . . Cauldron boil him, it was a gamble, but he had to believe that Feyre would be all right long enough for Lucien to go pull Elain out. Then they could go for Feyre.
Hating himself even as he steeled himself for action, Lucien winnowed out of the manor into the garden. When he landed and righted himself, he realized something that he hadn’t been able to discern from inside.
The rose garden was . . . bigger.
A hedge had grown up over the whole section of the garden--fierce thorns and red roses like blood blocking off the avenue and all possible entrances. Lucien wondered if it was open to the air, but he had no way of finding out. Somehow, the roses were keeping Elain sealed in . . .
. . . unless they were keeping everyone else out.
Lucien’s mating bond hummed as though their connection glowed stronger with proximity. And he wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he was certain that the thorns and roses were not placed there by Elain’s captors. Rather, they sang with her magic, her being. She was protecting herself.
Lucien’s heart tightened as he drew his sword and strode toward the thorns, prepared to cut them away. But before he could get near enough, there was a rush of wind and another High Fae winnowed in between Lucien and the hedge. Lucien stumbled back in surprise, and his mouth dropped open when he saw none other than Uxía of the Dawn Court standing before him, clad in golden armor and wielding a massive sword at her side.
“Lady Uxía!” Lucien gasped in alarm. His stomach twisted as he realized what this meant. The Dawn Court forces had arrived.
“Lucien,” Uxía said mildly, her eyes looking him up and down in a predatory manner. “I was told that some enemies were lurking around the manor. I wasn’t expecting it to be you. I thought I’d find you among the Spring Court forces.”
Lucien didn’t respond to her goading statement. “I didn’t expect to see you in the garden,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be out with your mate on the battlefield?”
Uxía’s face darkened. “I go where I must to satisfy my agreement. I was told to take out the threat at the manor.”
“And do you so easily do what you’re told? That’s not how I remember you,” Lucien said in a scathing tone, flexing his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He looked the female warrior over, and the magic of his eye nagged at him. He adjusted it accordingly. “High Lady?” he asked, unable to conceal his surprise. “That’s new.” And very bad. Uxía had been a fearsome warrior before, but now? He wasn’t sure he would be able to best her. “Just let me through and there’s no need to fight.”
Uxía’s lips curled back from her teeth. “Your father would thank me for killing you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Lucien spat. “Let me through!”
Uxía extended her sword. “Not a chance.”
Lucien’s desperation clicked inside him, then, refined into a fury that drove his every moment as he threw himself at the High Lady of Dawn. She deflected his blow easily and he slammed into an ivory statue, which fractured beneath him. He righted himself quickly and dodged another blow from Uxía’s sword, the blade of which seemed to glow with preternatural light. Lucien’s rage flowed through his blood, and suddenly he was aflame, cloaked in it and yet not burning as he lunged for Uxía. Her eyes went wide at his display of magic, but she managed to dodge him. Then Lucien landed and whirled, and he summoned orbs of fire into his palms and began hurling them at Uxía, one right after the other. Her blade almost blurred as it deflected each projectile, sending them flying off to other parts of the garden and setting the plants ablaze.
One finally glanced up off the blade and flew up in Uxía’s face, and it narrowly missed burning her and lighting her brown curls on fire. She snarled, but by the time she blinked the bright light from her eyes, Lucien was lunging toward her calves and knocking her off her feet. She let out a grunt and went flying onto her back, but as Lucien raised his sword over her, she scissored her legs and knocked him to the ground as well. The breath left him as he hit the cobblestones and Uxía rose over him, preparing to run him through with that sword like lightning.
But then her eyes went wide, and she froze, sword poised.
Something rippled in the earth beneath Lucien and thrust up into his body, setting his bones on fire and quaking into his entire frame. He screamed as the unknown power almost overwhelmed him, threatening to tear his body to pieces and burn the remains. He had never been so hot, as though his skin were turning to ash and his organs were cooking within him. But then a cooling wave passed over him, settling the power within. The power did not depart--it lingered under his skin, but it was not conquering him. And this cooling wave--it brought with it a sensation that he could be anywhere he chose, that he could defeat death . . . that he was the master of death and departed things.
Then a final blast, and a fire so hot it was blue erupted from his entire body, blasting Uxía backward until she was flung into the thorn bushes, the hedge scratching her cheek. Lucien rose to his feet, free of trembling, free of pain, feeling more powerful than he had ever been in his life. He fixed his burning gaze on Uxía, who had righted herself, eyes wide in fear.
“Lord Beron has fallen,” she murmured, hands shaking. She regarded Lucien with pure terror in her face and she lowered her torso in a bow, casting her eyes to the ground. “There is a new High Lord of Autumn.”
Lucien’s good eye went wide and he looked at his own hands, which were cloaked in gauntlets of flame. But he knew it was true--it was impossible, and yet it was true.
He was a High Lord.
“Get out of my way,” he snarled at the High Lady of Dawn.
“We’re allies now,” she gasped, straightening. “I am allied with the Autumn Court--I intend to keep that oath. We are no longer enemies.”
“So you say,” Lucien said in a low voice, stepping closer. “Move.”
Uxía’s eyes flashed, but she stood aside from the rosebushes. “What is in there?” she asked. “What is so important that you would fight a High Lady for it?”
Lucien’s russet and gold eyes were liquid fire. “My mate.”
Uxía let out a low curse under her breath. “I didn’t know.” She took a step toward him.
“Don’t try to stop me,” he murmured, his long red hair darting in the power that was emanating from him.
“I won’t. But take this.” She extended her sword toward him hilt-first. “You may need it.”
Lucien looked her over, stone-faced, before he wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Another wave of power surged through him at the contact and a song filled his heart, a song that struck a deep and beautiful chord within him. “What sword is this?” he asked.
“The Sword of Light,” Uxía replied. “It was entrusted to Dawn Court after the first High King died. But . . . I can sense that it wants to be with you.”
Lucien said nothing more about it, but he fixed his hard stare on Uxía. “If you are really my ally, pull your forces out of this territory. Do not fight against the Illyrians, or Summer Court, or Winter Court.”
Uxía bristled. “If I defy Hybern, he will not remove the poison that plagues my mate. And my daughters.”
Some sense of pity flickered in Lucien at that. He remembered Iria, Léocadia, and Maristela. They did not deserve such a blight. “Find another way. Hybern will only poison you more.”
“I have tried!” Uxía cried, desperation finally cracking her voice. “His magic is the only way.”
“It isn’t.” Lucien stepped toward her. “Pull back your men and go home. Leave my friends alone, and I promise that I will help you cleanse your court myself when this is all over.”
Uxía’s shoulders sagged. “I will take my court away from the conflict. But if you do not keep your word, High Lord . . .” she trailed off, but Lucien could read the threat of death in her eyes easily enough.
“I know,” he said.
Uxía lifted her chin and jerked it to the hedge. “Get your mate. May the Mother save you.”
“And you.”
There was a flash of light, and in a blink a mighty gryphon stood before Lucien. Uxía spread her golden wings and lifted into the sky, leaving Lucien alone in the garden. Then, burning with a passion and a determination so strong that it outweighed all other concerns, he stepped toward the hedge, setting forth to free his mate.
-
There was no time, there was no space. There was only the bond.
Elain was not aware of breathing or being, but she was. Somehow, she lived, even though she was not sure what made it possible. She could vaguely remember choking upon the poisoned fruit offered her by her enemy, but even those details were hazy. She could remember the feeling of cold snowflakes upon her brow, but after that . . . nothing.
She didn’t know where she was. She saw only blackness all around her, except for one long strip of light through the dark. It glowed, hummed--she knew it was a living thing. She longed to reach out and touch it, but she could not move her body, even in her mind. She was simply frozen, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.
Yet power leaked out of her. Some inner instinct, the magic in her blood, was compelled to protect her, and in the distance she could smell faint roses. The quiet voices that had surrounded her for days vanished, replaced briefly with a dull roaring that soon been silenced. Elain’s only true focus was on the strip of light, and if she gazed at it long enough she thought she could smells apples and smoke and cinnamon coming from it. Smells that reminded her of . . . home.
As she slumbered, she clung to that bond as the reassurance that she had not yet gone beyond, had not yet crossed the threshold over which she could not return.
She could not tell how long she had been in this darkness, but suddenly the streak of light flared and caught fire, assaulting her with the smell of roses and apples and smoke and cinnamon and home.
She was going home.
-
Lucien did not even have to touch the hedge before the tangled thorns peeled away, opening at his approach. It wasn’t his own magic, though he likely could have managed to pass through of his own accord. Rather, it was Elain--her magic, making way for him, her mate. And as the thorns peeled away, his heart almost stopped as he saw her laid out on flat stone surface between two statues, one a fox and one a fawn. Her magic had created a cover over the surface that crept out over the cobblestones and then tangled in a clump . . .
. . . right around Tamlin’s feet.
Lucien froze and his nostrils flared at the sight of the High Lord of Spring sitting against the edge of the thorny wall, his knees bent and his strong forearms draped over them. His head was tipped back and Lucien saw that he was scratched all over--his fingers raw and bloody, his claws peeking out from beneath his skin just slightly. His clothes were torn and his face hollow, as though he’d been here for a very long time.
Tamlin heard Lucien’s arrival and his head snapped up--and he went pale at the sight of his emissary wrapped in the flames of the High Lord of Autumn. Lucien extended his arm just slightly, prepared to use the sword Uxía had given him if he was forced. “Lucien,” Tamlin said hoarsely. “You’re--”
“Tam. What are you doing here?” Lucien asked, taking in the sight of his battered friend.
“They told me to bring her here. But then the thorns came, and . . . I couldn’t get out. They wouldn’t let me out.”
“How long?” Lucien asked.
“Three days.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Not so fun being locked up, is it?”
Tamlin snarled, but the spark diminished as quickly as it had risen.
Lucien sheathed his sword. “I’m not going to fight you if you haven’t even eaten in three days.” Lucien knew Tamlin. The High Lord ate like a lion. If he hadn’t been free in three days, he would surely be weak from lack of food.
“Why would you want to fight me at all?” Tamlin asked drily. “I thought we were friends.”
“Did you?” Lucien asked sharply. “Is stealing my mate away from me something you did for old time’s sake, then?” The flames dancing around him like an aura flickered as his rage flared. Tamlin didn’t answer, just looked around the ground. “Why?” Lucien rasped. “You know . . . you were there, after Elspeth, and you would do this!”
Tamlin flinched--he hadn’t heard Lucien speak Elspeth’s name in centuries. “I needed my court back.”
“You’re the one who turned it over in the first place!” Lucien said, his voice rising in volume. “You invited that poison in!”
“It’s not like you stopped me,” Tamlin said, his voice hard.
“That wasn’t my job!” Lucien spat, and his flames darted higher again. “And it’s not like you would have listened to me, anyway.”
“My mistake,” Tamlin said quietly.
“Damn right it was your bloody mistake!” Lucien snarled. “Did you once think about anyone besides yourself, Tamlin?”
“I did what I did for this court! For Feyre!” Tamlin snapped, finally rising to his feet.
“You didn’t give a damn what Feyre needed,” Lucien said, his voice a low growl. “I told you--tried to tell you--and I didn’t try hard enough. You were so concerned about keeping her that you didn’t even care that she was falling apart.”
“I’ve heard this all before,” Tamlin grumbled. “She told me herself.”
“Good. I’m glad,” Lucien said, and he turned to walk toward his mate--he was so close it was painful.
“Was I so wrong, though?” Tamlin demanded, claws inching out a little further. Lucien paused and looked back at his friend and saw that the High Lord’s green-gold eyes were slightly wild. “If it were Elain, and some other male tried to claim her . . . wouldn’t you to try keep her?”
A furious roar broke from Lucien’s lips and he whirled on Tamlin. He never decided to do it, but in the next moment his flaming fist connected with Tamlin’s jaw, and the High Lord’s head snapped back as he went sprawling across the cobblestones. “Don’t you dare bring Elain into this. Don’t you dare even speak of her!” He loomed over his former friend, watching as the burned and broken skin healed up. He had never--never so much as thought about laying a hand on Tamlin before. Tam had always been too powerful, but now . . . “You always knew, didn’t you?” Lucien asked, taking a step backward. “You knew that I could be a High Lord one day. Be equal to you. That’s why you encouraged me to turn my back on my magic.”
“It was your idea to stop using it,” Tamlin argued, flexing his jaw. But his shoulders sagged. “I suspected, yes.”
“You’re a piece of shit, Tamlin,” Lucien spat. “You spent all those years making sure you were above everyone else, that everyone knew you had the power. Even when Amarantha came, you never let anyone know how weak you were, how hard you had to work to keep your court together. Fear and debt--your favorite ways of making people loyal. Look where it’s gotten you.” Lucien raised his arm to gesture to the rest of the court outside the enclosed hedge. “Spring Court is destroyed. Literally burning to the ground around you. You handed it to Hybern on a silver platter. Just like you would have done for Amarantha if Feyre hadn’t come along.”
Tamlin opened his mouth to argue, but then his expression broke and he covered his face with a scarred hand. “She saved me,” he gasped. “Why did she leave me?”
“Because you left her,” Lucien said. “Left her to handle the trauma on her own while you focused on yourself and what you needed. Just like with me. Just like you took what you needed from me and made me think that it was helping me.” Lucien’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “I’m not your emissary anymore, Tamlin. I’m . . . I am High Lord of the Autumn Court. And if you lay a finger on me or my mate again, I will burn this entire court to the ground.” There was not a trace of doubt in his words, and he couldn’t look at Tamlin a moment longer as the bond within him urged him to finally step forward toward his sleeping mate.
“Elain,” he murmured, quenching the flame around his hand and pushing the golden hair away from her face. “My beautiful mate. Come back to me.” As his skin brushed hers, the new power within him identified something within her--the enchantment that kept her asleep but alive. It was the other side of the Autumn Court’s magic--the affinity for poison and decay and rot, as Autumn was the time of death and fading. Lucien had never been afraid of this side of this court when he was a child because it had seemed to him such a necessary part of life. He remembered being uncomfortable during his first months in the Spring Court, where nothing ever died or faded to be brought into new life. He’d adjusted, in time, but feeling this deep magic, this understanding of death and rebirth and life that had been born into his bones and now sang in his soul . . . this was who he was meant to be.
This magic would help him save her. He wasn’t sure how, but he would take her with him and guard her until he could find a way to wake her. She slept so peacefully. A tear slipped down his cheek as he continued to comb his fingers through her hair. “I’m here, pea,” he murmured, and he bent over her to press a loving kiss to her lips.
Magic thrummed deep in his soul, latching her to him through their mate bond, and he felt his new power flower from him to her through their kiss and back again--catching and drawing away the deathlike sleep that held her captive. It trembled in his bones but did not harm him, and more tears slipped down his face as he kissed her more.
A startled and broken cry escaped him when she suddenly began to kiss him back.
His eyes snapped open and he almost pulled away, but she wouldn’t let him. One hand grabbed his tunic and the other rose to his scarred cheek, running her soft thumb over the jagged skin.
He couldn’t contain it. He scooped his arms beneath her and swept her up tucking her into his chest, crying and laughing all at once. “Elain, Elain,” he murmured into her golden hair as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and buried her face into the crook of his neck.
“You came for me,” she whispered, burying herself as tight against him as she possibly could.
“Of course I did,” he said, one hand stroking the back of her head. “Of course I did.”
She took a deep breath and then pulled away from him to finally look him in the eye. “You’re different,” she said, searching his face for the change, for the power that was now rolling off of him.
“My father is dead,” was Lucien’s hoarse reply.
Realization spread across Elain’s face and she let out a little gasp of surprise before throwing herself into his embrace again. “Lucien!” she sighed, laughing in wonder. “Or . . . should I call you milord?”
“You can call me prick, pillock, bastard, or whatever you choose, as long as I never have to go so long without hearing your voice again,” Lucien said. He guided her face toward his and kissed her sweetly, spinning her around once before gently setting her on the ground. His arm kept a hold on her back, however, tucking her close to his side.
Elain’s eyes went wide as she saw Tamlin still sulking there, looking up at Lucien and Elain with a shocked expression. “Lucien . . . where are we?” she asked, her fingers clutching his leathers.
“Spring Court,” Lucien said. “But the High Lord will give us no more trouble.” The words were a threat as much as a statement, and he began to guide her past Tamlin and out of the hedge.
“Wait,” Tamlin rasped. Lucien paused and turned back to him. Tamlin did not rise to his feet but rather shifted onto his knees. “I’m done.”
“And?” Lucien asked, preparing to turn away again.
“No!” Tamlin said, and he snatched at Lucien’s armor. Lucien snarled and whirled so that Elain was on his other side, far from Tamlin. “I’m done with this. All of this. You--I have never seen you happy like that, Lucien. And it’s my fault. This is all my fault. I’m an utter failure as a High Lord and I . . . I’m done.”
Lucien held back the quick tongue of his that wanted to agree with Tamlin’s declaration. The plea within the words gave him pause. “You . . . you want to give it up?” Lucien had heard of this happening, though he hadn’t seen it in his lifetime. It was possible for a High Lord to give up his mantle and was often the way things had been done in the past, before war and bloodshed had become a more common way for the title to pass on to heirs. Lucien’s father had sworn never to give up his title unless one of his sons proved worthy, though he was always very unclear about how he planned to measure that ‘worthiness.’ Lucien was in no frame of mind to wonder why the power had come to him or what might have happened to his remaining brothers. But what Tamlin was talking about . . .
“You have no heir,” Lucien reminded him. “You don’t know who the power would go to.”
“I have a idea.” Tamlin’s eyes shifted to Elain, who clung even closer to Lucien.
“Elain?” Lucien’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t that he thought Elain wasn’t capable of it, for he was certain she was, but for Tamlin to suggest it . . . when he had so adamantly insisted that High Ladies were not a possibility . . .
“I just spent three days locked within her hedge made of my own mother’s roses,” Tamlin ground out. “She’s powerful, Lucien.”
“I know she is,” Lucien snapped. He turned to her and said softly, “I know you are.” He shifted and held her gently by the shoulders. “Would you want this?” he asked. “Would you want to be a High Lady?”
“Like Feyre?” Elain asked quietly. Lucien nodded. Elain swallowed and he could feel her trembling. “What would . . . what would happen to me?”
“I’m rather new to the whole thing myself,” Lucien said softly, “but whatever happened, I would be here for you. We’ll figure it out together.” He pressed a feather-light kiss to her cheek.
“I never wanted this,” Tamlin said to Elain. “But I have failed my court. You . . . maybe you could save it.”
Elain glanced away from Tamlin and fixed her exquisite brown eyes on his. “What do I need to do?” Lucien gathered her in his arms and squeezed, quickly and tightly, before stepping back from Tamlin and drawing the sword that Uxía had given him. The song filled his heart again and Elain gasped at the sight of it. “That song!” she said. “I . . . I know it! That’s my mother’s song!”
“The fae song,” Lucien murmured. His head was too tired and muddled to piece it all together, but he bade Tamlin to hold out his forearm. “The process requires the intervention of another High Lord,” he explained for Elain’s sake. “A slight cut on his arm, and then the magic will flow out and choose its next master. If Tamlin is right . . . that will be you.”
“Do it,” Tamlin growled, holding his arm closer to the blade.
Sorrow filled Lucien at the sight of his former friend brought so low, and he could not decide if Tamlin was being noble or a coward by this decision. But it didn’t matter, not once Lucien lowered the blade to the High Lord’s skin and sliced it open, allowing a river of red blood to drip to the ground. Words were not required--the intention was clear enough. And when the blood dripped on the cobblestones, a flower of golden light bloomed from where the drops fell. Then the light stretched up, up, expanding it tendrils outward as though searching for its next master. Lucien held his breath--it could still very well go to someone else.
But the tendrils extended themselves toward Elain, wrapping around her feet and her arms, crawling up her like living vines until the light touched her heart. Her eyes went wide and she gasped, and Lucien dropped the sword as he thrust out his arms to hold her up. She shook, just as he had when the power had filled him, and Elain grit her teeth and took deep breath as the power rocked her. Flowers burst from the ends of her hair and finger tips, and golden dust poured out from under her skirts and filled the early morning air around them. Then she slumped, and Lucien held her up.
“Elain?” he murmured. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and looked up at him, and his breath was robbed from him as he saw that there were now flecks of gold added to the beautiful deep brown of her eyes. And, as though she hadn’t been beautiful enough, that golden power that had always lingered around Tamlin now clung to Lucien’s mate, and when she straightened . . . she looked like a queen. The wind in the garden seemed to caress her cheek, react to her presence, as though releasing a long-held breath.
Lucien then looked at Tamlin, and . . . it was painful to see his old friend so reduced. The glow upon his skin was gone, the power that had so defined him gone. He was simply High Fae now--not a High Lord, nothing more than ordinary. When being more than ordinary had been all that had driven Tamlin for centuries . . . this was a stark change.
“I’m glad . . . I’m glad I was right,” Tamlin gasped, his arm buckled around his torso. He was hunched over and didn’t look up, but Lucien thought he saw a relieved smile on his face.
“So am I,” Lucien said, wrapping his arm around Elain’s waist. They both stiffened at the tremendous power than flowed between them now, but it was a quick adjustment. “Let’s get you out of here,” he said to Elain. He looked sadly down at the former High Lord. “Good luck, Tam.” Then he turned his back on him and led his mate down the avenue of the garden, seeking the best path to safety. As they walked, the fires around them were doused and new flowers sprung up with each of Elain’s new steps. She was radiant--a queen.
His queen.
“Elain,” he said, taking her hand. “We need to go in the manor. Much has happened, and we need to go find your sister.”
“My sister?” Elain asked.
“Feyre,” Lucien clarified. “She came with me to save you, but a Bogge got her, and--”
“What?” Elain snarled and vines came whipping out from her shoulders like extra limbs. Lucien tightened his grip on her arm.
“It’s not too late. We can find her,” he assured her.
“Find her, perhaps, but save her? That’s another thing entirely,” said a voice from behind them. Lucien whirled and instinctively tucked Elain behind him, but from the corner of his eye he saw her hand grip his shoulder, and from her second knuckles there emerged what appeared to be razor-sharp thorns. His gaze focused back on their visitor, and he tasted bile in his mouth at the sight of Jurian, clad in battle armor and looking as though he had just stepped off the battlefield.
“Turn around, Jurian,” Lucien spat. “Leave us be.”
“Well, that makes little sense,” Jurian huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I need her.” He jerked his chin toward Elain and Lucien snarled. “All three Archerons. That was the bargain.”
“There is still time. You can’t take her now.”
“I made no bargain with the High Lady of Night,” Jurian reminded Lucien, taking a lumbering step forward. “I can take her whenever I please.”
Lucien’s hair and skin lit aflame again, coating both him and Elain, harming neither of them but threatening any who dared to come nearer.
“Now, no need for that,” Jurian said, clicking his tongue. “This can really be quite easy, High Lord. I have Feyre Cursebreaker. My delightful Bogge secured her for me. If you and your mate come along, she won’t be harmed and we can all take a little trip together.”
“A trip to where?” Elain snapped.
“To visit an old friend of mine,” Jurian replied mildly. “A little bird told me you always wanted to go sailing, Lady Elain. Allow me the pleasure of escorting you on a trip.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you!” Lucien growled, his flames growing higher.
“Well, that’s not polite of you,” Jurian taunted. “Shouldn’t she make her own choice?”
Lucien felt Elain’s grip tighten. “If I go with you, you won’t hurt Feyre?”
Jurian smirked. “She will not die by my head.”
Lucien hissed at the obvious manipulation, and he could see in Elain’s eyes that she heard it, too. Still, she said, “My mate comes with me.”
Jurian rolled his eyes. “You Fae are so possessive. But, very well. If the High Lord consents.” The mocking tone in Jurian’s voice was unmistakable.
Lucien looked at Elain, fear filling his eye but finding solid determination in her gaze. “Together,” she murmured, gripping his hands. Unable to hold himself back, he pressed his lips to hers, communicating all his fear and love and hope and dedication through the one gesture.
Jurian gagged from behind them but Lucien and Elain both ignored him. Then, gripping hands so tightly it was as though they were holding the world together all on their own. “I agree,” Lucien said. “We will go with you. But,” he said, “if you lay a single finger on my mate or her sister . . . I will reduce you to ashes where you stand.”
“Is that a promise?” Jurian’s lip curled.
Lucien locked eyes with him. “That’s an oath.”
Then the High Lord of Autumn and High Lady of Spring walked through the burning garden, hand-in-hand, unafraid and united . . . into the hands of their enemy.