Page 21 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

It was an affront.

Also, exceedingly unhelpful.

Escaping between libraries was a lot more difficult if there were no blasted libraries.

Outrage bubbled through the simmering panic. But at least this end of the hall offered somewhere to run to. Very useful indeed when someone was chasing you.

Because her spell had brought her closer to Lachlan instead of farther away.

Not precisely an improvement.

And then she was too busy running from one of his owls, flapping its wings so close to her that a strand of her hair tangled in its beak. She imagined sharp talons rending her flesh, the beak snapping at her moth and tearing through the delicate wings. The flap of feathers filled her ears, rushing like water, like a violent hiss. She turned right into a corridor lit where shadows collected at her feet, along the stone walls. One of them turned to look at her.

She turned left, hoping the corridor had a window, another door, anything.

Anything but Lachlan Thorn growling her name. “Pippa Cavendish.”

He was already too close. Her spine prickled and she forced herself to keep running. He was closing in on her, footsteps echoing. The corridor led her to another hallway, a locked door that would not open, and a stone wall. There was nowhere to go. No window, nothing between her and a Fae Lord.

But there was a book. Another single book left carelessly on a carved bench next to a dish of pears.

Lachlan’s smooth voice was hard with fury. His eyes gleamed like the point of a knife. “Don’t.”

Pippa dove her for it, the spell on her tongue.

She felt the brush of an owl’s feather, the drag of Lachlan’s fingers on her wrist. Too late, too late. She was already traveling.

This time, she landed in an abandoned feast hall.

It was set out as though guests had been expected—but some years ago. Candles burned in candelabra dripping with crystals and glittering starstones. The benches were carved with owl wings. There were silver bowls of potatoes, peas glistening with butter, roasted peacock and swan decorated with their own feathers. Stewed pears in red wine sprinkled with rose petals, sugared plums, blackberries dusted with gold leaf. Glass carafes were filled with jewel-hued liquids, strawberry wine, elderflower wine, juices she could not name that smelled like summer or the perfect autumn morning. Sugar pastries were carved into nymphs and mermaids and Pegasi. There was a life-size unicorn made entirely of cake. There were bright red apples, lemons, apricots, and berries. It dazzled the eye, bewitched the senses.

When she reached for a soft peach the exact color of a summer sunset, mesmerized and hungrier than she had ever been in her entire life, Lachlan’s fingers clamped around her wrist. His grip was unyielding, hard as iron in a place that feared nothing and no one—save that iron. “Don’t,” he warned darkly.

Magic lashed through the manor like a winter’s gale, glittering at the velvet curtains, stirring the ropes of sugared violets. She knew they would sparkle and melt on her tongue. The peach would shimmer. Tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them back, returning to the stones under her feet, the impossible sky at the window, Lachlan looming behind her like an implacable shadow.

Fairy fruit.

There was a reason humans were not supposed to eat or drink when in Elphame, but she was having a hard time remembering it. She was having a hard time thinking of anything but that peach.

Lachlan’s grip tightened. “Eyes on me.”

Faery magic had nothing on a lord of the Winter Courts, a professor of Hallow. Her gaze lifted without conscious decision. His gaze pinned her to him, caught her attention. She swallowed, tasting peaches and plums and tart berries.

She heard a disappointed sigh from somewhere nearby. She did not think it was her. But she couldn’t be sure.

“Because I’ll be bound to this place,” she whispered. Something that was not quite fear but also not quite a thrill worked up the back of her legs.

And then the sound of those hooves, clear as a blacksmith’s anvil.

“You’re already bound, little wisp.”

Between one breath and the next, they were no longer alone in the ghostly feasting hall.

A stag stepped through one of the archways, ice forming around its hooves. Its rider was not just beautiful, but unsettling. He wore a crown of holly leaves on his brow, and his eyes were pale moss green, too otherworldly to be anything other than Fae. He might be forty years old or a thousand years old.

White horses made of light and cold followed. Pippa could hardly breathe; an ancient sort of panic trembled through her, the hairs on her arms and her nape prickling painfully. Dogs howled, teeth flashing in and out of sight.

The Wild Hunt.