Fae of the North (Court of Crown and Compass Book 1) Read online

  Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is soft. I hope she doesn’t hear the hammering of my heart.

  My mind drifts, but I don’t sleep. I can’t. Not with her beside me. Her eyelashes brush the glitter frozen on her cheeks. Her eyebrows crest along her forehead and wisps of dark hair tease out from under her hat. Lacking the light of the sun, her skin is pale. And her lips…they’ll become the thing of my dreams.

  Chapter 4

  Soren

  I wake with a start when a chill washes over me. A cold hand covers my mouth and ice-blue eyes stare into mine. I have the urge to throw her hand from me, but she presses her finger to her lips. Lips I wouldn’t mind on mine.

  She mouths, “You were talking in your sleep.”

  “Did I say anything notable?” My voice is garbled under her hand. Then I smirk, the dream returning to me in disordered pieces.

  “You mentioned brown bread.” The edge of a smile teases me and then she lifts her blade, gets to her feet, and stalks through the grass.

  The sun hasn’t yet replaced the moon. The foggy marine layer drifting from the sea doesn’t reveal how close it is to daylight. I get the sense we’re not alone, but her knife won’t do us much good. I glimpse glowing yellow eyes in the murk. I grab her, knocking us both toward the trunk of the tree.

  This time I put my hand over her mouth and whisper, “Night howls.”

  Her eyes widen as the massive and muscular, blue-black outline of three dogs approach a stone in the center of the field. They might be slow-moving from a distance, but they’re as hungry for us as I am for a warm meal—brown bread specifically.

  They linger by the stone, sniffing then their figures fade against the night sky before appearing again like the mist rolling in from the sea. One lifts its muzzle and sniffs the air. Its eyes flash ochre in our direction.

  They begin stalking toward us, and I clutch her closer to me. Three sets of sharp eyes come into focus. The air chills as they near. I don’t dare look away, wishing my heartbeat were as loud as the drums that pulse from the watchtowers on the edges of Raven’s Landing, repelling them. The low growls coming from their throats remind me how unsafe the hills are. I grip the knife at my waist, but I don’t dare make the first move and spook them.

  I remember the story of a man who came shambling into the Roost at dusk, hanks of skin hanging from his bones, grisly in the low light. His wife and brother rushed to his aid, but he attacked them and sent everyone scattering. They bit two children before the drums scared them to the other side of the wall where they’re meant to scare us into staying inside the boundary. The king and his curses.

  The strange and beautiful girl beside me doesn’t flinch when the night howls are just an arms’ length away. She stares at them and then gently whispers, “Go home,” as though it’s an invitation and not a warning.

  She clutches her fist in their direction. I want to draw it back so they don’t nip, tearing her arm off, but I don’t dare make a sudden move.

  Tension rolls from her shoulders.

  They stand there a moment longer, studying us. Her voice is lower, commanding, when she repeats, “Go home.” It’s as though she’s speaking to an ordinary dog.

  One of the night howls on the side whimpers until the one in the front turns and stalks off with the others at its heels.

  When my eyes strain from making sure they’re out of sight, I say, “That was lucky.” My breath stutters. I recline against the tree as though I just crossed the boundary wall and climbed the hill, trying to catch my breath.

  “Night howls you said?” she asks.

  I’ve never heard of a night howl sparing someone, and I’ve never heard of someone speaking to them and retaining their tongue or any other part of their body. The king’s wolves have a reputation for being brutal, merciless, and constantly hungry, never walking away from the living and leaving them that way.

  “The night howls aren’t the only thing you need to worry about. There are demons too.”

  “Those I can handle.” Her startling eyes watch me carefully as a thread of light appears on the horizon, reminding me of how dangerous desire can be.

  My eyebrows lift. “We should go anyway,” I say.

  Sneaking back into Raven’s Landing is risky. However, it crosses my mind that she and I could secret off in the other direction, following our feet wherever they lead and live in some distant, strange place. I might not mind that except I’m always pulled back into Raven’s Landing despite my better judgment.

  Instead, we stick to the thickets and trees as we descend the hills. Without the cover of complete darkness, I feel vulnerable and not because I can’t handle myself. I want her to know the stark reality she faces in Raven’s Landing and yet I don’t want her to know. However, forewarned is forearmed, at least that’s what my dad used to say.

  As we near the city walls, I slow my pace, reluctantly dispensing any sense of boyish wonder at her unexpected appearance overnight and restore the armor of survival.

  I fall into step beside her. In a low tone I say, “In this world, confidence is currency. It’ll get you through the gate, past the gauntlet, and directly into the king’s stronghold. It will also get you questioned by the patrol, thrown into the ashpit, or inked. Confidence will get you shelter, food, and a broken nose.” I rub the bridge of my own. In other words, confidence will ruin you either way.

  “A broken nose?” she asks.

  “Always hit back because they won’t stop. Fae are outcast. The inked are expendable. Magic is outlawed. The patrols have blades and arrows. The rest of us have fists and fury. Everyone is broken and no one is safe.”

  A question sits on her lips, but she doesn’t ask it.

  “If you could, I’d say just keep going, don’t stop here, but as it is there aren’t any boats and this peninsula is the end. If you want to get by you can’t stare doe-eyed at anyone. Keep your elbows out and your blade at the ready.”

  “I just want to see the king and—”

  “You’re seeking the wrong man, but luckily you found me,” I say with a smirk.

  “Are you always so cocky?” She scowls.

  Even so, in the soft light of dawn, she’s stunning. I close my mouth and then open it again, remembering where I am and who I am. There is no room for desire inside the Raven’s Landing boundary wall. I dismiss the notion entirely and harden my heart.

  “Without some cunning and bravado, you won’t last long in the Flats or the Basin, or the Docks for that matter.” I stop by a boulder and survey the guards on the wall. “I’ve been told I’m naughty, cocky, and nasty, in that order. From when I was a kid, to when I was twit, and now,” I say as an afterthought.

  She raises her eyebrows. “So far I have to agree.”

  “You hardly know me.”

  “I know enough.” She grunts.

  “I spared you and shared my dinner.”

  “I thanked you, but don’t forget I was watching you first,” she says with an arched eyebrow.

  “From the tree?” I ask, my smirk reappearing.

  “Who’s to say I couldn’t have come down and,” she draws her finger across my neck. She’s so close I can feel the warmth of her breath.

  “You wouldn’t,” I say, my pulse picking up even though we’re not moving. “You’re not a killer.”

  “I’m a demon slayer.” Her voice is cold and her eyes glisten as though she just surfaced from the water. “One got to my mother, killed her just before I was sent here.”

  “Sent here? How’d you get here? Did you fly?”

  She wipes her eyes but the glitter doesn’t fade. “I was too late for her, but I must see the king. Our survival depends on it. I have to help put an end to the curse.”

  There’s a good chance she’s fae and unlike any I’ve ever seen or heard about. “You should keep your words and thoughts to yourself.” I’m intimately familiar with the king’s ink curse.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “They’re dangerous.”<
br />
  And so are you.

  Chapter 5

  Ineke

  I follow the confident steps of the tall Viking dude. It’s like he’s certain the ground won’t shift beneath his feet and even if it did, he wouldn’t falter. Not with those boots. He’s practically a giant with a long, wild mane of hair that’s light from sunshine. He must be around my age, eighteen at least.

  My eyes flit from the matted footpath we follow to his muscular back as the surrounding hillside landscape wakes up.

  Or maybe the earth is already quaking and I’m the one off-kilter, a little shaky in his presence, a lot freaked out over the events of the last hours, and the fact that I successfully managed to ward off the night howls, which seem a lot like werewolves—thanks to Heather and one of the talismans she gave me. Good to know they don’t only work on demons.

  The hillside gives way to a broad-shouldered settlement, pockets of houses and shops softly glow in the post-dawn light. A ring of sooty air hangs over ramshackle buildings spilling into the shining sea. It’s like I’ve traveled back in time or am in another world altogether. I guess I am.

  I have to keep my wits about me and don’t give myself time to process all that’s happened. I have a singular mission. I need to find the king despite what the Viking said.

  We duck under low trees and then scale a crumbling wall. He leans against it, surveying the stone on either side of us. “Let’s wait here for a moment,” he says, ever watchful. “Keep your head down. Try not to let anyone see your eyes,” he warns while looking deeply into them.

  I tremble a little inside and I want to blame him.

  We’re within the boundary of Raven’s Landing, but still high above the town. My surroundings become clearer. Lined with brick, stone, and wooden structures, the muddy veins of lanes lead toward and away from the castle. Along another stretch, buildings lean on each other, forlorn and abandoned. Sinister smoke belches from a low structure in the middle, its roof a tarry black.

  I stop our progress. “What’s that?”

  “Ah, that would be the Distijllery.”

  My brow furrows in question.

  “They make big vats of stijl. It’ll make a dowsy—”

  My face furrows in question.

  “A drunk.” He explains, “Drinking it stills the magic in even the strongest people and rots the teeth until they’re black. Leaves the mind little better.”

  My eyes widen.

  “You’ll see,” he answers vaguely, resuming his long stride.

  I hurry to keep up, but when we crest another hill, I stop again. What once must have been a grand castle perches on the footings of a mountain I must’ve crossed to get here. Stone turrets stand tall over the curved edges of a central rotunda. The palette here is drab brown and black. Mud and soot. Hunger and want. Fear and loss.

  “That used to be Fallraven. Now they call it Fjallhold and it’s inhabited by the silver king and his mage, Glandias. You’ll find no refuge within or outside its walls.” His voice is solid, like the stone surrounding us.

  The water in the moat around the castle and flowing into the sea is a mirror, a shiny reflection of the glory of what the fortification once was. “What happened?” I whisper.

  “Our ruler.”

  “Your king? How?” I ask, gesturing to everything that isn’t the castle. “You’re lying. Tricking me, some poor pigeon come to the big city.”

  “I’m doing no such thing.”

  I grab his jacket and his eyes meet mine. Behind them, I see the tenderness and concern where anyone else would see flint. “I was told that this will soon burn. You believe me, right?” I’m not sure what to believe, but my mother wouldn’t mislead me. She said the message was real.

  I hold his gaze, but also read the truth on his lips before giving my attention to the planes of his cheeks—with a scar on one, masked by the wisps of his hair—, the tight hold in his jaw, and the tension on his brow.

  “Yes. I believe you,” he says, not breaking my gaze.

  I fight the urge to run through the streets, warning people, waving my arms, and imploring them to take flight. But how? What do I need to find? How does one break a curse? Who are the others? Where is home?

  “I don’t have time for a tour of the town. I have to do something.”

  “Okay, but forget the silver king. It’s best not to speak the name. He doesn’t care if we all freeze to death, drown, and die the most horrific death imaginable.” His gaze lingers on a blanket of smoke hovering by the castle.

  “Then what does he care about?” I ask. Sure, the government where I come has its problems, but from what I’ve seen so far this place is next level.

  The Viking lets out a short, mocking jolt of laughter before his expression transforms into a stony mask. The sun, finally lifting itself over the horizon, bathes him in golden light. “Power.” As I release my grip on his coat, my bare hand brushes his large fingers.

  The fluttering sensation lifts in my belly much like the moment when he looked into my eyes and said, “You’re different.” The moment hangs between us.

  There’s a loud knell, and I startle. He puts his hand on my shoulder as the ringing continues at evenly spaced intervals.

  “The tower bells,” he says, glancing back at the stonewall. “Come on, let’s move.” He shakes his head and then mutters, “I hope I don’t regret this.”

  He plows down the middle of the lane ahead of me. I scurry to keep up, not because I’m slow, but because I’m considerably shorter. His confident stride suggests that he rules Raven’s Landing and not the king. However, I imagine if that were the case I’d smell brown bread baking, whatever that is, and the windowpanes would be whole and polished, reflecting the rising sun instead of plastered with soot.

  The Viking seemed gentler on the hillside than when he crossed the boundary wall. Once inside the city limits, he transformed into someone else, perhaps hardened by trying to survive in this rough place. I’ve never seen anything like Raven’s Landing and am equal parts awed and repulsed, curious about how there can be so many people and buildings in desperation and dilapidation while also wishing to go home to my own city with its shady alleys and dark corners. But they were mine. I knew them. I’m not sure how to get back there. Anyone who calls this place home will soon have to say goodbye too.

  He pauses on a street corner. “We’ve come into Raven’s Landing a roundabout way,” he says, lowering his voice, “To avoid the patrol, but that there is the Roost,—where I live now,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder at a checkered settlement snug against a hill. “You see Fjallhold—the castle of course—, then the Flats with the Distijllery, the Basin, and the Docks.”

  We pass a man supporting himself on a cart. A vicious leer like a demon hissing reveals rotten teeth. From somewhere inside a derelict house a baby wails.

  “It used to be better. It’s only gotten worse. Dad was a fisherman. We lived over there, Battersea,” he says, pointing vaguely to the area beyond the Docks. “That’s the breakwater and what’s left of the pier.” Two parallel structures, one manmade and one naturally formed jut into the ocean.

  “Your father was a fisherman?”

  He nods. “One of the best.”

  “He’s not a fisherman anymore?” I ask gently.

  “No, he was sick. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to recover and there was no medicine and the healers were too afraid of the silver king to do anything, he asked me to do the merciful thing and bring him to the water. He sailed away on a raft at midnight. I’ll never forgive myself, but he was happiest out there and I guess there’s a chance he made it to the Westlands.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, forcing away tears at my own recent loss. It feels so raw. So unreal. “My mom is gone too. I never knew my dad.” I knot my emotions deep inside.

  A woman with milky eyes reaches for me, pawing at my jacket.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he says. “It’s what Dad wanted. The alternatives, the slow waste that you see
around here—” He shakes his head dismally.

  Despite the grime and dirt, glass and mirrored surfaces are everywhere. As the sun rises higher, it features the same blemish as in New York. Twin peaks mark the entrance to the Distijllery and act like two giant mirrors, reflecting the ugly city back on itself. I catch a glimpse of my eyes, shining and damp, as I pass a shop. My hand brushes beneath them. Where did that glitter come from? It looks like I was out at the clubs with Tiffany. I can’t get it off. A chill swells under my skin like reverse goosebumps.

  The scent of want in the air instead of breakfast cooking like the pancakes my mom made for me on my birthday. Was that just a couple of days ago?

  Mud and waste line the streets and narrow alleys suggest secrets and danger. The briny scent of the sea presses against the chilly air as he continues toward the water. I shiver even though it can’t be as cold as it was when I was on the ice.

  A kid with dark hair and ruddy skin bumps into me. Before I regain my footing, the Viking dude’s strong arms pin the kid against a brick wall with one hand while he pats him down with the other. He pulls out a thin copper necklace. “This yours?” he asks me.

  I shake my head no.

  He frowns at the kid, swinging the necklace inches from his face. “I recommend you return this to the rightful owner.”

  He digs into the kid’s other pocket and pulls out the rope that appeared in my hand while I was on the ice.

  I nod. “That’s mine.”

  The dark-haired kid spits at us. He has lavender eyes like my mother.

  “That’s rude.” The Viking thrusts the kid harder against the wall, wipes his arm and pulls a slim glass bottle from the boy’s pocket, and says, “Lay off the stijl, you’re too young to stink of uselessness.”

  He lets the kid down and with a thin arm, the kid punches him in the gut. The Viking doesn’t even flinch. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, towering over the thief and holding him steady with one hand.