Page 59 of The Midnight King
“Take it off him,” I whisper. “Take it off.”
“I can’t take it off now,” hisses my stepmother. “You fucking fool. I knew you were keeping secrets, butthis? Consorting with a Faerie? You little whore, you’ve ruined everything!”
She pounces, climbing on top of me and gripping my throat. My limp fingers fumble over her straining hands as she brutally cuts off my breath.
Killian bellows with pain as he lunges forward. He grips my ankle where the band once was, and I feel a sensation of freshness surging over my skin as he cleanses the toxin.
The efforts costs him dearly, and he screams—a scream of pure agony, from a mind riven by the madness of pain.
Whatever it cost him, his magic works. With the toxin gone, my control over my body returns almost instantly, and as my lungs tighten to the brink of explosion, I reach for the lamp. With all the strength of the arm that has scrubbed her floors, ironed her clothes, and carried her laundry, I smash the lamp into the side of my stepmother’s head.
She topples aside, dazed. I throw her off me, off the bed. Tumbling after her, I strike her skull again with the lamp. I don’t want her dead, yet—I won’t put Killian at further risk. But I want her unconscious, unable to interfere while I try to save him.
He’s lying on the bed, his face a rictus of pain. More of his leg is burning now, the charred blackness spreading up toward his knee with frightening speed. The heat of the magical reaction is burning away his clothes, scorching the sheets.
“Killian.” I hold his face between my hands, choking on the sobs that stick in my bruised throat. “Killian, tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you. Can you do any magic?”
“No,” he gasps out. “It’s gone too far now.”
“But your gift of walking between realms—that’s different, right? It’s not Faerie magic, it’s something else. A god-touched gift. Can you portal, Killian?”
His only answer is a broken groan, rattling from the depths of his lungs.
Seizing his body, I drag him upright. He’s lighter than a human male of his size would be, thank Fate, or I wouldn’t be able to manage it.
“Make a portal, Killian,” I urge him through my tears. “Make a portal to Faerie, right now. We have to get help from your parents. Please. Now. You can do this, youhaveto do this, because if you die,fuck you. I can’t exist without you, you stupid fucking bastard, you idiot, you asshole—”
I barely know what I’m saying, but it works, because the air in front of us shimmers in a way I recognize. I don’t think twice—I drag him forward, and we fall through the portal into Faerie.
17
Killian and I tumble onto the smooth hardwood floor of a shop outfitted with shelves, barrels, and bins, all of them brimming with candies of every imaginable shape, size, and color. I barely notice our surroundings, though—my gaze fixes on a tall Fae male with pink hair and blue dragonfly wings. He’s standing beside a counter, sorting wrapped candies into different bowls.
As we crash to the floor he spins around, alarm in his golden eyes. The alarm turns to stricken terror when he sees Killian writhing and groaning in my arms.
I know that terror. It’s the same fear I felt when I discovered my father, dead and bloodless in the garden.
“Clara!” yells the golden-eyed Faerie, but he doesn’t wait for whoever he called to arrive. He drops to his knees beside Killian, pinpointing the cause of the pain in an instant. He grips the anklet, hissing with pain as it scorches his own hands.
This must be Killian’s father, though they look the same age. There’s an undeniable resemblance between them.
“You can’t take the anklet off,” I explain tearfully. “I wore it for years. He tried everything to get it off me, and now…”
“We have to counteract the effects.” The winged Faerie leaps up and darts around the shop, snatching sweets from various drawers before returning to Killian. “Open your mouth, son. Eat this.”
Killian shakes his head and gasps, “Won’t help.”
“Try it,” insists his father.
Killian tries, but he’s choking on his own screams. I hold his head, sobbing, my tears falling on his beautiful tortured face.
A pretty, slender woman with long brown hair rushes into the room. There’s paint on her fingers and a few smudges on her face—green, blue, and purple. “Finias, when you use my name like that it makes me fear the worst—” She stops, her face blanching. “What happened?”
“The anklet,” I sob out. “She took it off me and put it on him. It’s hurting him, please, please…”
“Finias, get that amulet Krael lent you,” says Clara sharply. “The one that allows Fae to bear the touch of iron for a while.”
He bolts out of the room while Clara takes his place beside Killian and assesses the situation. “There’s more than iron at work here,” she mutters. “Much more. Is this why you’ve been asking so many questions about coercion objects?”