“I would have thought it was beneath your station to deliver packages.”
Indeed, the parcel is simple, wrapped in thick burlap and heavy in my hands.
“I thought you might not wish to be alone when you received this one,” she says.
My heart gives a little lurch, and I turn the parcel over in my hands.
It’s addressed to Gunter.
I feel as though the chicken blood I drank with dinner is crawling up my throat. The taste of Gunter’s blood cakes my mouth, dribbling from my lips. The coppery sourness of it burns like acid.
Gunter’s last words play on repeat as I lay awake, making me hate myself even more.
I just hope one day you might forgive me
He’d claimed that he’d never been able to replace my father, but it wasn’t true.
I hadn’t wanted him to—not at first. Not when it felt like a betrayal of the male who had sired me, raised me, loved me.
But my father would have wanted me to have a father, if I couldn’t be his son.
And I was Gunter’s son, through and through.
I’d spent the past few years bargaining for my blood family, but I’d forgotten to protect Gunter.
And in the end, he had apologized to me.
“I’m sure you have better things to do,” I say to the queen, refusing to let emotion twinge the impact of my words.
It’s easier than it should be—to keep your voice even when you’re numb all over.
The queen reaches out to me, and this time when she caresses my jaw with her fingers, I don’t have to fight back the cringe.
Because I feel nothing.
The disgust, the anger, the horror are gone.
All that’s left is the fact that I will be the end of this female.
There’s something about that fact that comforts me.
“I know you’re hurting, Farin. It pains me, too, to think of poor Gunter. He was in my life long before he was in yours, you know.”
That little jab almost gets me, almost makes it past the layer of ice caked around my heart.
But the queen is not welcome anywhere near my heart, so it glances off.
“If you wouldn’t mind allowing me to open it in private, I would be much obliged. Gunter was like a father to me, you know.”
The queen’s eyes flash with hurt, because no matter how she’s tried, she’s never once been able to get anything close to a term of endearment from me.
I find satisfaction in her pain.
“There’s something I wish to tell you,” she says.
I arch a brow in answer.
“Losing Gunter, almost losing you...it occurred to me that, had I been more forthright with my intentions, with my knowledge earlier, perhaps you would have experienced greater success.”
“I don’t see how your knowledge could have benefitted us, given the fact that you’re incapable of imparting it coherently.”
The queen flinches, but she stands with resolve and continues all the same. “There is a Rip, a tear in the Fabric of the Realms, that lies within the town of Rivre in Charshon.”
I cock my head. On the inside, I’m wondering how the Council meeting last year ended up in the same place as the Rip, but I don’t say as much. Instead I say, “The Rip is a legend. A myth to convince humans that fae are otherworldly creatures, come to this realm to rule over them.”
The queen goes on, ignoring my interjection. “The Rip has since been closed, by an ancient and terrible magic. The Old Magic.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “But there are those who would see it opened. Who would unleash the Others that roam within the Nether upon Alondria.”
“And is that what you want with the parasite?” I ask, quite aware that the queen believes the parasite boasts the same origin as her ever-elusive Old Magic. “To use it to open the Rip and corral a herd of bloodthirsty creatures to do your bidding?”
To my surprise, the queen’s eyes widen. She looks genuinely hurt. “That has never been my intention. If you only knew…” She strides across the room and steels herself against my desk. “It is my sole desire—no, my sole purpose—to protect Alondria from the realm that lies beyond the Fabric.” She shakes her head, swallowing. “I suppose I cannot blame you for being unaware of what I’ve sacrificed to ensure that Rip remains closed. It’s not as though I’ve confided in you the details.”
A shadow, cast by my tapping foot, bounces against the wall.
“I have on good information that it was the Old Magic who originally sutured the Rip. While he is accounted for and appears safe with the Queen of Naenden, there are others—siblings, if you will, of his. The fae have long since diluted magic by absorbing it within ourselves, but the magic that resides in a select few humans, magic that maintains its force of will—the damage that magic could do…”
“You’re saying Blaise could open the Rip?” I ask, skeptically.
“I’m saying any of them could open the Rip.”
