Balor’s jaw clenched, cobalt eyes flashing with anger. I didn’t give him a chance to make any remarks, striding out of the palace and down the front steps.
I was scowling before I reached the grass. So I wasn’t to kill that smarmy prick Caom—she wanted me to kill the other one. His cousin.
Maybe I’ll kill them both anyway, I thought as I made my way towards the village, swinging my blade again lazily. The Folk who had begun cautiously creeping back out of the buildings squeaked at the sight of me, scurrying inside and out of sight.
I hated the small part of me that relished their terror. This was all I was good at. Scaring them. Killing them. I had failed Ash in all ways. I had no control over anything else in my life, but in this… in this, I was a master.
And even if I didn’t end up killing that prick gancanagh, I could at least make him piss himself with fear. The idea of it chased away the constant hollowness in my gut for just a few moments. The task in front of me allowed me to focus—to channel my cold, murderous anger towards my mother and brother into something I could actuallyachieve. My fingers twitched around the hilt of my blade, the scar that ringed my forearm throbbing.
The village was utterly silent as I walked slowly down the street between the buildings. I didn’t rush. I could feel their eyes on me, watching in terror from windows and doorways. They were all wondering who I was here for. They were all wondering who could have done something to anger the Carlin.
Even though outwardly I was calm, my steps slow and measured, the all-encompassing urge to obey the Carlin’s order—to carry it out—filled me like a swarm of angry wasps. That feeling wouldn’t go away until I’d fulfilled her order. It made me tense, made my skin itch, made my head feel too full and clouded, but somehow sharply focused at the same time.
It was awful, but a feeling I was all too familiar with.
When I veered right towards the dressmaker’s, I heard a terrified shriek from within. Satisfaction burned like insidious frostbite in my chest at the pathetic sound.
They had locked the door in an attempt to keep me out. I booted it open, hearing the wood splinter under another terrified squeal from the back of the shop.
I stepped inside and stopped. The last time I had been in this place had been with Ash at the Winter Solstice. We had kissed in the tiny, curtained-off dressing room, both of us still wearing our Solstice crowns.
My teeth clamped together, chest aching so fiercely the pain nearly made me hunch over. Grief kept me frozen in place for a minute, until the faint whimpers from somewhere past the bolts of fabric filtered into my ears.
I pictured Caom’s smirking, smarmy face. His teasing smile as he touched Ash’s arm. His drunken, lustful gaze following Ash at every pathetic party he had been forced to attend.
Still palming my sword, I pulled free the green-gold dagger Ash had given me for my birthday. If I was going to kill that gancanagh, I was going to do it with the blade Ash had gifted me.
Despite the fact that I hadn’t moved an inch beyond the threshold of the shop, neither of them ran at me. Neither of them made an attempt to fight me off. I could hear one of them weeping, though I didn’t know which one, while the other frantically tried to shush them.
“Come out and face your fate,” I said in a bored voice, not bothering to specify who I was talking to.
The weeping increased in volume. No one moved. I let out an audible, irritated sigh and stepped deeper into the shop, my boots thudding on the wooden floor.
One of them squeaked in utter terror. I could hear their fast, wet breaths escaping in shallow spurts from behind hands clamped to their mouths in an attempt to muffle the sounds. My gaze tracked with disinterest over the curtain drawn across the doorway to that tiny dressing room. It twitched.
“I’m only here for one of you, but I could instead stab blindly into that curtain to ensure I get the Carlin’s intended target.” I examined the blade of the beautiful dagger Ash had given me as I spoke, my voice flat. “It won’t be my best work, but it will get the job done.”
One of them whimpered, and the curtain twitched more violently. Hushed, frantic whispers drifted over as I slowly sauntered closer.
“Do you know why I’m here, gancanagh?” I drawled, stopping when the curtain bulged out.
The tall, rake-thin shop owner was shoved from behind it, landing in a heap at my feet. My lip curled as I stared down at his whimpering, curled up frame before lifting my gaze to the heavy curtain. The prick, Caom, panted with fear behind it, staying perfectly still now that he had thrown his cousin to the wolves.
“P-please,” the shop owner whispered, drawing my attention back to him. His dark hair was damp with sweat, white shirt sticking to his chest and armpits as he lifted his hands pleadingly. “Please, I’ll—We can give you money. We can—”
He jerked back with a shriek when I lunged down to snatch up his sweat-damp shirt, hauling him closer to the dressing room. Ripping back the curtain, I stared down at Caom’s quivering frame, his face white and drawn with terror beneath slicked-back blond hair.
My fingers twitched around the hilt of my sword, the urge to stab this gancanagh in the gut or throat near overwhelming. He’d tried for months to get Ash into his bed. For that alone, he deserved to die, even if there was a tiny chance that his motives had been purer than I suspected they really were.
He had wanted something more from Ash. I was certain of it. He had been playing his own game.
“The Carlin has ordered your death,” I said with no inflection, still staring at Caom even though I wasn’t speaking to him. I relished seeing the last of the colour drain from his face, turning him grey. “For your slight against her. Against your ruler. Are you prepared?”
“W-who?” the fae in my grip whimpered, twisting futilely. “Who? Which of us—”
He stopped speaking abruptly, but I didn’t look away from Caom for even a second. The blond fae stared back up at me from his huddled ball on the floor, face shiny with sweat.
“No,” the other fae whispered, then started trying to scramble back. “No—Ankou, please, not me—”