Page 98 of The Crimson Throne
Samson’s head droops, his eyelids shuttering.
“What did you do to him?” I ask Moyra. I trust her…to a degree. As a witch, she wasn’t born with magic, but she does have an affinity for it, and she’s able to twist the threads of power with the help of herbs and plants. I don’t really understand her knowledge or her practices. I have always just appreciated the results she produced.
But if she’s playing with Samson’s well-being—
“Aye, he’s fine. Just a little safer,” Moyra says.
“Safer?”
“That lad has no curse on him.” The witch scoffs. “The only magic he has in him is in his blood.”
My heart thunks, thinking about the fits he told me of, the violent blackouts.
“Anyway, you should know better than anyone that when it comes to the fae, best to be sure what you’re dealing with before you consider who.”
I blink at Moyra. Actually, that’s not what I think at all. Kitty is herself first, a brownie second. Is that what the witch thinks of me—that my blood determines my soul?
Moyra continues blithely on. “The potion I gave the lad will make him a little more amenable.”
“I don’t like this.” I don’t like the way Moyra is talking or that she drugged Samson like that.
But we do need answers.
“Sam,” Moyra starts.
“Samson,” I correct.
Samson’s head lists toward me, his eyes cracking open.
Moyra snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Here, boy.”
“He’s not a dog,” I mutter.
“Were you telling the truth? You think you were cursed as a wee one?” she asks.
“Yes.” His voice comes out low, thesdragging out in a hiss.
“Who told you that you had a fae curse on you?”
“My father.”
“Is he fae?”
“I think he must be.”
Moyra looks at me. “He can only answer what he knows to be the truth, nothing more. But that curse lie—I wanted to make sure he wasn’t tricking you, Alyth dear.” She squints at Samson. “Do you know what kind of fae you are?”
“No.”
Moyra turns to me again, frustration evident. “He has so much power, but it’s repressed. I don’t understand it.”
Samson straightens in his chair, his head twisting eerily. “There is much you don’t understand, witch.”
The tenor of his voice is different, the way he holds himself. Moyra’s attention sharpens. “Who are you?”
“What’s going on?” I ask, shocked.
A thin-lipped smile stretches across Samson’s face, his mouth curling in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
