Page 99 of The Crimson Throne
“The potion made the lad more…pliable,” Moyra says in a rush, leaning forward to focus on Samson. “But that means he was emptier, for lack of a better word.”
“Accesssssssible,” Samson hisses.
Moyra nods, still not taking her eyes off him. Her whole body is stiff, scared.
I have never seen her frightened before. Not even when she shouted at a herd of kelpies.
“His body was accessible to someone else,” she says, standing and moving slowly backward, toward some plants drying near the window. “I’ve heard of this but never seen it. The only way he could have been taken over like this is if he was already being watched. Very closely.”
“Of course we watch the bastard,” Samson snarls. “He’s ours.”
A wave of fury washes over me, almost blinding me. “Samson is no one’s but his own!” I shout, throwing back the chair as I stand.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Moyra crushing some mistletoe leaves in her hand, tracing a ward of protection in her palm.
Samson laughs. It’s not his laugh. “He was born for a purpose. Our purpose.”
My fists bunch in my skirts, and my arms tremble with suppressed rage.
Moyra gropes toward me, still not looking anywhere but at him. I feel the press of dried leaves on the back of my neck, warmth spreading out. “Hush, lass. This potion won’t last for long. And we need answers.” I can tell Moyra is worried but wary, watching to see how this plays out.
“Answerssss.” Samson’s voice cruelly twists into mockery.
“Who are you?” I shout at his face. I hate the tears burning my eyes; I detest the way my emotions weaken me in this moment. But it’s all so horrible, and it’s gutting me—not just that I allowed Samson to be violated in this way, that he trusted me to protect him, but also because…
Whoever’s possessing him now sees him as an object, a tool. Nothing more.
And that hits a little too close to home as well.
“Have we already been forgotten?” Samson asks. His voice is almost coquettish, high-pitched and affected. But not in a false way, I think, even though the sounds are strange from his mouth.
“Who are you?” Moyra repeats my question in a stern voice, like a mother trying to get answers from a petulant child.
Samson’s lips stretch wide in a laugh. It goes on a beat too long, and then his mouth closes with a clack of his teeth so strong, it makes me wince. His red hair whips around, falling in his face, but he doesn’t brush it away as he stares at me unblinkingly. “Tut, tut, girl, you know how this works. An answer for an answer. The fae like to bargain, no?”
My mind races. Whatever’s possessing Samson used the word “girl.” Not “lass.” Girl. That’s how the English talk. It’s not much evidence—we use “girl” too, just not as often—but it plants seeds of fear in my belly.
“You’ll answer my question if I answer yours?” I demand.
“Yesssss.” Samson giggles. “Now it’s our turn to ask you a question.”
Shite—I wasted a question confirming the rules. This is exactly the type of fae trickery I detest.
“What allies have you in the fae realm?”
Loaded question but obviously a test. “None have sworn allegiance to me,” I say. A technical truth, and one I take pleasure in knowing is not the full answer.
Moyra moves beside me. To offer me support, I suppose, or to try to distract the being overtaking Samson’s body. But she doesn’t speak.
I have to be smart about this. We’ve all been speaking English for Samson’s sake, but I switch to Scots. “Dè an t-ainm air a bheil thu eòlach?” By what name are you known? I know better than to ask what the being’s name really is—no fae would reveal that. But they do have monikers of address they use, and that could help me narrow down the possibilities.
“Mòran.” Many. This being is known by many names.
And it also understands Scots.
“Thoir dhomh aon,” I demand. Give me one name.
“No.” Back to English. Interesting. “It is our turn to ask you something, bastard. When did you last visit the fae realm?”
