Chapter Six

 

 

Boyd lounged in his seat, his bruised knuckles locked together on the table in front of him. A pasty commanding officer sat across from him, looking over the report from the Forest Caves. Usually soldiers who ended up in a stark-white room like this were all clammy-skinned or wobbly-kneed because they’d done something wrong and were facing punishment. But Boyd didn’t break a sweat.

Philip always got onto him about not noticing or caring enough when he was in trouble. He could imagine being given a hard time for this—for not preparing enough or for not sprucing up first.

He could imagine how Philip would explain seriously why he should respect the law, why he should be concerned. Then he’d wave it off, and they’d have a drink and listen to a match on the radio. Just like that, all would be right again.

But he knew he wasn’t in trouble now; there would be nothing in any report that would incriminate him. The gun he’d used to dispatch Walker had been the one he swiped from Iain, a deserter, which no one would question. The dwarf’s magic could easily be blamed for any friendly fire that happened. And the only witnesses left were on General Callaghan’s side of things.

“’S like I told you in my initial report, Commander,” Boyd said, his mouth quirking into a smile. “It’s all there. Former Warden Callaghan confiscated my gun from me, shot Commander Walker, and fled the scene with the faery suspect.”

 

Shortly after the soldier finished reading his papers, he dismissed Boyd and told him to await orders. General Callaghan would be arriving soon, and he’d requested Boyd in his battalion.

As Boyd walked from the room and down the hall toward the canteen, he twisted his identity tags around his fingers and squeezed the metal until his palm stung. He realized he was angry.

The Iron Guard may not blame him for what had happened at the caves, but General Callaghan certainly hadn’t seen it that way. There was no mistaking the disappointment in his voice when he’d last called. It would be Boyd’s fault the faery had slipped his grasp.

The canteen was as stark and white as the interrogation room, but it was crowded with rowdy soldiers in training who were laughing riotously and the silent infantrymen who glared or shook their heads at them. Boyd got a tray of food and took a seat at an empty table beside another that was full.

As he ate, he overheard the conversation at the table next to him.

“I can’t picture it myself. An Iron Warden, dying in a blaze of glory, facing down a monster like that Fachan? And all that other nonsense from that radio call—it’s complete rubbish.”

“Especially being—what’d they call him—a Fancy Prancer?” another asked.

“That’s ’cause his name was Prance. It doesn’t mean anything else.” An older soldier interjected patiently. “And it’s true what happened. General Windsor confirmed it. He’s the one who got the call.”

Immediately the soldier’s words were drowned out by the others calling him a liar.

Boyd stopped eating midbite. He lowered his fork and knife, cutting his eyes over to the table.

One of the younger cadets asked thickly, “He confirmed that we’re going to war against the Summer Court?”

“No, you daft— He really did get that call from the Deserter and the Rogue Faery. The Deserter really is accusing the Iron Guard of assassinating the king. Prance was the one who started the rumor in the first place.”

Boyd’s tray slid across the table and crashed to the floor before he even realized he was throwing it. The group beside him looked up, startled.

“That’s not true.” Boyd stood abruptly, knocking his chair back.

“All right, mate,” the older soldier said, holding his hands up. “Just having a laugh.”

Boyd jabbed his finger at them, grounding out, “It’s not bloody funny either. Is it?”

“No—not in the slightest.”

“Brilliant. That was Prance’s brother…,” one of them said as Boyd turned away from the table.

He thundered out of the canteen, blindly, pushing down any thoughts that came to the surface of his mind. He had to focus on General Callaghan’s next orders. He had to focus on making Philip’s death mean something.

* * *

 

passed the security checkpoint, and stepped out of his truck. The base was located near the Peak District in a forested area. The ground used to house a church that was now in ruins, and what was currently the base was once a factory warehouse. The rules of sacred grounds still applied to Unseelie Fae, no matter how long the church had been in ruins, and they could not walk upon the land there.

The woods were lined with silver birch trees that were just shedding their yellow leaves. The bark was peeling off like layers of paint, their black knots like blank, staring eyes. As Alan walked deeper into the woods, he felt another set of eyes on him.

“I hope no one spotted you.” The Master’s voice weaved through the forest like smoke; the birds singing overhead immediately stopped and all went silent. “What would your little army think if they saw you walk into the deep, dark forest to meet me? I daren’t guess.”

“I’m alone.” Alan’s eyes narrowed as he glanced about for the voice’s origin.

“How very profound.” The Master stepped out from behind a tree directly in front of Alan, dressed in black like a shadow. “Oh, you meant more than metaphorically alone.”

Alan raised his eyebrows. The Master was usually dressed in strange, old-fashioned clothing like a gaudy Edwardian painting. However, now he was wearing modern black trousers, a black T-shirt that looked too thin for the autumn weather, and combat boots.

Not missing Alan’s reaction, the Master threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, forgive me. I’m going to a festival, you see, and I thought I’d dress the part. It’ll be fun. In fact, I’m meeting our dear boy there.” The Master’s mouth stretched into a wide grin. “I’ll just be completing our arrangement and taking James off your hands—”

“You lying snake.” Quick as a flash, Alan struck out and grabbed the Master by his neck, shoving him back against one of the birch trees. The tree shook, and leaves scattered down around them.

The Master’s pale throat bobbed under his hand, and he squeezed harder as he felt a laugh vibrating, Alan’s hand shaking from the effort of keeping himself from crushing him.

The golden eyes like shiny coins widened briefly before the Master choked out, “Darling, you can’t kill me. If you could, then our arrangement dies with me—”

“Our arrangement,” Alan ground out, “is a farce. We agreed that the boy would be the exchange. Not her. She was never meant to be part of this.”

“Can you not even say her name?”

When Alan let go, the Master gasped and slid down the tree. But he soon recovered, brushing off his clothing. “You’ve found us out then? Our little charade is over?” The Master tutted. “Ah, women can never keep secrets.”

“James told me.”

The Master’s demeanor changed in an instant at the mention of the boy. He leaped upright, smiling, and spoke to himself as if Alan was not there. “He figured that out, did he? Perfect. Wonderful. It’s just as I thought…”

“What else have you been lying about?” Alan growled.

The Master noticed him again, his head snapping up. “Why do you ask? Honestly, I didn’t think you would care at all. Why do you care?”

He studied Alan with such scrutiny that Alan had to turn his head. He felt like an animal in a jar under lights, prodded.

“Fascinating,” the Master said. “Is that why you’re such a poor, wretched mess? Because you think I didn’t do as we agreed—not completely?”

“I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

Is that it? Is that what’s been… tormenting me? Alan wondered.

That did not seem right. It wasn’t just the lying. It was much more than that.

The Master took slow, careful steps, his hands raised as if Alan were some dark creature instead of a man. “Look at you. Your property is burned to the ground, your sons have betrayed you, and your wife…”

Alan felt his face twitch. He clenched his fists at his sides, watching the Master as he circled around.

“Oh, your lovely little wife has fled from you with all her might and shudders at the thought of you. So, if you were to kill me, for example, all you’d have left are memories. And we both know you’re not strong enough to bear that.

“And without being able to complete your glorious war, well, everything you’ve worked for your entire life, everything you’ve sacrificed, will have been for nothing. All for naught. I don’t scare easily, but that thought makes my insides quake.”

Then the Master reached into his trouser pocket and produced something that gleamed in the speckled light through the shade of the leaves. “I found this shoved in a filthy hole in my fireplace.”

He tossed it to Alan, who barely caught it against his chest. He sucked in a breath at the sight the tarnished gold wedding band with a red garnet gem at its center.

“Kallista left that at my estate,” the Master said. “Before she stabbed me.”

Alan’s pulse quickened. Why was he thinking of her? He felt no love or hatred or anything discernable. Instead, she was a song stuck in his head; her constant presence in his mind was as insistent as a heartbeat.

“Something has gone… wrong,” Alan said. “You did not do as I asked. Not completely.”

“Calm down, drink some tea, and don’t worry your dear English head about it,” the Master said. “I took from you what you asked—the proof of which is at my estate.”

“Then why—?”

“I think you already know.”

Alan closed his fist around the ring. Then he resolved not to look at it again before placing it in his front jacket pocket and buttoning it securely.

“It’s touching, honestly.” Clasping his hands to his chest, the Master tilted his head and said, his voice mocking, “Kallista has always been your true heart.”

It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t strong enough to do what must be done. There had to be more steps to take to ensure he could finish this war.

Flexing his bandaged hand, Alan glanced up at the gray sky through the veil of leaves. “What do I need to do to remove any doubts, any weakness?”

The Master’s golden eyes lit up, molten with frenzy. Then he paced around, restless and buzzing. “Oh, a challenge! I do love a challenge. But this—I’ve never seen what something like this could do—”

“You do have a solution.”

“It is more of a failsafe, actually. Should you find yourself faltering in your mission or should you fail along the way, this will certainly remedy your failings.”

As Alan took a breath, it swirled in the cold air around him in a shudder.

There was a flash in the air, the acrid and electric fetor of magic, and then something appeared in the Master’s grasp: crystal so snow-white it seemed there was pure winter in the Master’s hand—cold, dead winter.

“The essence and power of Unseelie magic, the Winter King and all his beautiful monsters…” The Master held up the crystal between two fingers.

The smell and sight of it reminded him of the magic Alan had felt during the Cataclysm. Swallowing down his revulsion, he asked, “What do you want in return?”

“This I’ll give to you for free.” The Master held out the crystal to him. “I want to ensure that the Winter King’s demands are obeyed, no matter the cost. So if you falter again, shatter the crystal.”

Holding out his bandaged hand, Alan accepted it. The crystal was surprisingly heavy in his hand, and the air around it crackled with energy. “What does it do, exactly?”

The Master stomped his feet on the ground like a giddy schoolboy. “That,” he finally said, “is a wonderful question to which I have no answer. Yet.”

The sound of lumbering footfalls through the brush interrupted them.

“General Callaghan—?” Boyd’s gruff voice called through the forest.

“Your dimwitted thrall’s looking for you.” The Master’s tone was dry. “Does he know about us—the bond we have? Because I’d imagine this would be difficult to explain otherwise.”

Just as Boyd crashed through the trees, the Master vanished before his eyes. But not quickly enough.

The moment he vanished, birds began to sound their calls again, and a breeze whispered through the leaves.

“General Callaghan?” Boyd gaped. “What was—?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

Boyd stared, slack-jawed, where the figure had just been. His chest rose and fell raggedly, and as his bloodshot blue eyes fixed on Alan, as desperate as always, the general’s mouth twitched in disgust.

Ignoring Boyd, Alan shoved past him as he walked back toward the Iron Guard base.

“That thing—his eyes—!” Boyd followed behind like an obedient mutt, his steps loud and clumsy. “It wasn’t human.”

“Well spotted, Prance.”

He heard Boyd suck in air in disbelief, but he was no longer concerned whether or not Boyd knew the truth. It was almost over, and soon nothing would matter at all.

“I thought—”

Alan whirled around to face his soldier. “You have one last chance to prove to me that you’re worth the trouble of keeping you around. One chance. If I were you, that’s the only thing I would be thinking about. Or do you need another reminder?”

Boyd looked stricken, his head lowering. “No, General Callaghan.”

“Good. Then gather your supplies. We’re heading to the Peak District at first light.”