Silver Borne

Bran held me at Darryl’s, when I would have hurried on because I wanted to find Adam.

“No,” he said. “I want you to look here for a bit. Can you find Darryl’s co

I looked and looked. I found Auriele’s rock nearby, but I couldn’t see anything. Finally, in desperation, I picked up Darryl’s rock and saw that it moved Auriele’s, too—as if they were tied together . . . and then I couldn’t understand how I’d missed the blazing gold rope between them, it was so obvious. Maybe I’d been looking too hard for a silver garland and instead their bond was very different—softer, stronger, and deeper. Unlike the pack bond, it wasn’t tied onto the rocks; it originated in one and ended in the other.

Bran took me by the elbow. “Okay, quit playing with them. You’re making Darryl unhappy. I have another one to show you.”

He led me to the center of all the strands of silver.

All but buried in the pack magic was a very, very black rock. It radiated anger and fear and sorrow so strongly it was hard to go near it.

“Don’t be frightened,” Bran said, and there was a rough affection in his voice. “Adam has been frightening quite enough people lately. Look and tell me what you see.”

This was Adam? I ran up to the rock and put both hands on it. “He’s hurt,” I said, then corrected myself. “He’s hurting.”

“Where is your mate bond?”

It lay in the snow, a fragile and worn thing. There were a lot of places where it had been roughly knotted, just to keep it together.

“Hastily made in need, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” the Marrok said, “but that was compounded by rough handling by a bunch of idiots. Most of whom should have known better.”

I could see that around the knotted places, the rope was worn, as if a dog . . . or a wolf had chewed on it until someone had tied it to keep it from breaking.

“Henry isn’t in the pack anymore,” said Bran. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed. I’ve brought him to my pack for a little one-on-one. In a few months, I might let him go out on his own again. Most of that mess is his doing.”

But I wasn’t worried about the chewed sections anymore.

“It’s broken,” I said, kneeling in the deep snow. In front of me the rope came to an abrupt ending, as if sliced by a sharp knife. I’d thought that the reason I hadn’t been able to feel Adam was still the overload from when he’d thought I was dead. Though it had been recovering from that, hadn’t it? When had I lost the co

It hurt to know that it was broken.

“Now, that,” Bran growled, “was cut by black magic.”

His voice was so strong in my right ear that I turned—and got a glimpse of something huge and awful that didn’t look anything at all like Bran in any form I’d ever seen.

“I couldn’t see how it would be possible until Samuel told me there was a witch involved. Between the witch and the queen, they found a weakness and broke it,” he told me. And then, in a curiously amused tone, he said, “And I don’t scare you a bit, do I?”

“Why would I be afraid of you?” I asked—but my focus was on the broken rope. Would I hurt Adam if I touched it?

“Go ahead,” said Bran. “He would give anything for you to touch it again.”

“Mine,” I said. “Mine.”

But I still didn’t touch it.

With that superior humor he occasionally used, which made me want to hit him every time, Bran said, “I’m sure he can find someone else who wants it.”

I grabbed it with both hands—and not because I was worried there would be someone else, no matter what Bran thought. But because we belonged together, Adam bound to me, me to him. I loved it when he let me make him laugh—he was a serious man by nature and weighed down by the responsibility he held. I knew he would never leave me, never let me down—because the man had never abandoned anything in his long life. If I hadn’t taken the gold rope of our bond, I knew Adam would have sat on me and hog-tied me with it. I liked that. A lot.

“Mercy!” This voice wasn’t Bran’s. This voice was demanding and half-crazed. A short pause, then much more controlled, Adam said, “About damned time. Found you. Mercy, we’re coming to get you. Just sit tight.”

I wrapped his voice around me and held on tighter to the rope between us until it settled into my bones, and I didn’t have to hold on anymore. “Adam,” I said, happily. And then added, because he’d know I was teasing, “Took you long enough. You were waiting for me to get myself out?”

I looked around my field of snow, by then littered with cheery garland and glowing rocks. I closed my eyes and wrapped the feel of pack around me like a warm cloak. I felt the fairy queen’s magic touch the golden rope I shared with Adam—and this time it was the queen’s magic that shattered.

MY GAZE WAS LOCKED WITH THAT OF THE TRAPPED forest lord. He blinked, and I jerked my eyes down—and saw that my arm was still dripping blood. From the amount I’d lost, I hadn’t been out of it for more than a few seconds.

“There,” said the fairy queen. “Now you are mine.”

I blinked at her and tried to mold my features into the stupid expression I’d seen on the other thralls as she cut the ropes that held me to the chair.

“Go to the kitchens and get something to wipe the blood off the floor,” she told me.

I stood up and started walking. She quit paying attention to me, because I wasn’t interesting anymore. I started walking a little faster because I saw my gun on the floor by one of the benches, where someone must have kicked it. I suppose that made sense. There weren’t many fae who could have picked it up without hurting themselves. None of the thralls would dream of using it—but I could see that the fae might hesitate to have a thrall dispose of it.

I picked it up and turned around. Slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the fae in the room—who were all looking at the fairy queen and not at her new thrall. The queen was leaning over the arm of her throne, talking to her witch. I shot the queen three times in the heart. The witch was watching me and smiled as I pulled the trigger.

“Huh,” said a voice right next to me. I turned my head and had to look down at a human-seeming child who appeared to be no more than eight or nine years old.

She smiled at me. “And they were afraid something would happen to you if we waited until everyone could come to the party. Just like a coyote to spoil the fun for everyone.”

The last time I’d seen this fae, she’d been playing with a yo-yo in the front yard of a murder scene she was guarding. I didn’t know her name, just that she was plenty powerful, people were scared of her, and she was a lot older than she looked.

For an instant I almost saw something completely different standing beside me, then she smiled at me, and said, “Not my glamour you don’t, Mercedes.”

The other fae in the room didn’t move, frozen in the moment of the fairy queen’s death.

Yo-yo Girl walked forward to the dead queen, and I followed her. The witch had grabbed the body and was taking handfuls of the queen’s blood and painting it over the silver thrall necklace around her neck.

“I don’t think so,” said Yo-yo Girl. She bent and touched the remains, and said something that might have been a word. The queen’s body turned to dust.

Yo-yo Girl started to back away—and then saw the forest lord in his chains beyond the throne. Somehow I don’t think that she’d seen him before reducing the queen to so many ashes.

The silver ring popped off the witch’s neck—only to be replaced by small fingers. I heard only the echo of a whisper, then the witch was dust, too. Yo-yo Girl took a handful of the resultant gray mass, lifted it to her mouth, and licked it like an ice-cream cone.

“Yum,” she said to me. Her hands, her clothes, and her mouth were covered with ashes. “I love witches.”