Page 62 of The Blood Queen

Silence reigns. The fae princes lift their eyes from the device, staring right at me now, realization coming in a slow stretch like fog clearing with morning’s heat.

No, no, no—

Sweat prickles down my spine, and I immediately react though they’ve not done a thing yet. Blackness tries to sweep in, self-defense, instinct wanting to overwhelm me, but I shove it down hard. Not now.

Not yet?

Will I have to fight them? I can’t. Alyth needs them more than she needs me.

My breathing ratchets up.

She lifts one hand toward Drest, beseeching, has the other stretching back toward me. “Father—”

“Daughter.” His voice is cold. For the first time, he’s the prince his title demands, stoic and controlling and livid. “What have you done? He’s a Red Cap? You brought a Red Cap here?”

Alyth sweeps her gaze over the fae princes. All of them echo Drest’s fury and betrayal. All of them start to reach for weapons or magic.

Maybe if I surrender? If I prove somehow I’m not that kind of Red Cap.

I start to raise my hands, palms out. Start to sink to my knees.

How long will this delay us? How much time will me trying to convince the fae court of my innocence cost Alyth?

Without looking at me, she seizes my wrist. “Run.”

I obey.

We launch ourselves toward the door.

The fae princes don’t seem to have expected us to just flee. There’s a long pause before we hear a howl of rage. By then, we’re in the hall, barreling up the slick polished floor, racing past a startled half-goat maid holding a tray of pastries, a brownie checking a scroll. The early hour right after the ball makes the halls empty save for necessary servants like these, so by the time Alyth and I bolt across the grand entrance hall where we were first led into the palace, we’ve only just started hearing the clang of feet behind us, the shouting of “To arms!” and “Don’t let them escape!”

“Shit, Alyth—” I try to talk, but she throws me a cutting glare.

“Not your fault.” She slams up against the massive double doors that’ll let us outside. But when she tugs on one, it doesn’t budge. Magic glows faintly around both doors, a heady, wavering lilac.

“They’ve barred the doors,” I guess, breathless already.

Voices carry from back the way we came. This entrance hall is one big circle with multiple archways leading in. A servant peeks their head through one, sees us, hears the angry voices coming our way, and ducks right back out.

I face the hall, bracing my hands wide in front of Alyth, ready to protect her from—

From her own damn people.

A head-to-toe shake ripples through me, noxious resignation making my lungs ache. “I’ll hold them off. You need to find another way out. There’s gotta be a window somewhere or a servant door.”

Behind me, she’s moving, doing something to the door, to the magic. “Shut it, Samson.”

I flinch and risk a glance at her. “You gotta get to the High Blade. Your task is more important than I am. This isn’t—”

“I said shut it,” she snarls, then thrusts her arms forward, and the whole mess of lilac magic around the door shatters.

Through the archway leading back to the armory, Alyth’s father appears. The fae princes cluster behind him, magic glowing around some of their fists or their raised weapons.

They’re gonna attack Alyth.

They’re gonna hurt her.

Because of me.