Page 79 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

She nodded. It was silly to argue. He was already trapped in the godforsaken bog with her, and she could hardly do this on her own. She did not want to. He made her feel brave. Safe. He made her feel a great many things.

“I’ll draw her away and you get to the nest.” He kissed her, a quick, hard, claiming kiss. “Ready?”

He scooped up a handful of stones and slipped out from the protection of the tree. A fire feather narrowly missed him. He tossed one of the stones into the bog, and then another, farther and farther away from the nest, but near enough to be a lure the firebird could not resist.

And then he stepped out onto the causeway, as if he were not in very great danger.

Pippa kept her eye on the firebird, wondering if her own magic might protect Lachlan. She slipped off her cuff, just in case. “Go, Pippa. Now.”

She darted out toward the fallen trunk as Lachlan walked farther out into the open—and began stripping off his clothes. He pulled off his shirt, toed off his boots. Tossed his breeches aside. That strong, lean body.

Naked. In the bog that was currently trying to murder them.

And he called her mad.

There was a shimmer of gold, that telltale herald of Fae magic, and then Lachlan was no longer a naked Fae king.

He was an owl.

It happened quickly, a flash of light, and then powerful wings and white feathers. His beak was gold, his eyes the same as before: one violet, one silver. He gave a scolding screech at Pippa before diving for the firebird.

Right.

Naked, shapeshifting Fae king professors later. Stealing from a vicious, homicidal bird now.

Pippa crawled over the fallen tree, through the mists that smelled of flowers and mud and green things rotting. A toad croaked at her. “Beg your pardon,” she murmured, and eased around him, which was no small feat. The trunk was half rotted and slick with wet moss and mushrooms.

The nest was almost in reach. It was woven of willow branches and soft, trailing mosses and long golden hair. Fire burned along the rim. The flames snapped at her, virulent oranges and golds that hurt the eye. The heat choked her throat with every breath. Her magic raced, responding to the wild Fae bog magic all around her. She let them twine together, burning flames over the water, flickering at the algae and the peat as she eased over the fallen trunk.

Lachlan continued to draw the firebird’s ire.

Pippa murmured to the fire, using her own magic to push it back. She needed just enough space to reach into the nest. The fire shot high, nearly burning the tip of her nose. She gritted her teeth and stretched her arm through, curling her fingers around an egg.

The firebird shrieked.

The tops of the trees exploded into flames.

Pippa scrambled back to the causeway, where Lachlan landed, a man once more, and plucked her off the trunk when she did not move fast enough for his liking. He pulled on his clothing, covering the burn on his arm and the welt on his neck. The firebird dove at them. The green mists glowed with fire.

“I’ll bring it back,” Pippa promised as Lachlan dragged her away, covering her head with his arm.

“I’m not sure she speaks the king’s English,” he said. “Now move, woman.”

“I just stole her baby. I have to try.” The guilt of it tainted the pride that she had not been burned by the fire. It had listened to her, however briefly, even though it was not even her own. She made sure the egg was safe in a bed of reeds and grasses. The firebird was still screeching but refused to leave the rest of her eggs. The flickering glow of her anger pulsed through the fog. “I do not care for this trial.”

And that was before long, thin fingers scaly with lichen reached out of the gloomy water.

A Jenny Greenteeth.

She had green hair and teeth, and stayed mostly submerged, her eyes glinting through the fog. She would be fond of drowning anything that crossed through her bog and then eating their hearts and livers. She did not smell pleasant.

And she was grasping for Pippa’s ankle.

Lachlan swept Pippa behind him, snarling. There were scorch marks on his boots, blood on his hands. “She’s not for you, Greenteeth.”

“You’re in my bog and I’m hungry.” She clacked her mossy teeth.

“I’ll freeze your bog down to the roots.”