Page 60 of The Midnight King
Killian nods, then lets out another scream as more of his flesh blackens under the influence of the anklet. His whole leg is charred black now, nearly to the hip.
“This object is poisonous to anyone with god-touched blood,” Clara says. “We can’t wait.” Rising, she reaches into a leather pouch at her waist and withdraws a coiled whip. As she shakes it out, it begins to glow. “I’m sorry to cause you more pain, but we can’t let this spread any further.”
White-faced, she flicks the glowing whip with a practiced hand.
It slices neatly through Killian’s leg just below the hip, severing the entire limb from his body.
He shrieks, clinging to me so tightly that his nails draw blood. I don’t care. I hold him as I watch his severed leg crumble into chunks of ash.
The whip cauterized the wound, so he isn’t bleeding. Clara pulls back her weapon, and when the glow along its length fades, she coils it up and tucks it away. Kneeling again, she presses a palm to Killian’s forehead.
He’s already breathing easier, now that he’s separated from the source of the agony. His eyes close, but he still clutches me as if I’m his link to life.
Finias darts back in, carrying some sort of amulet. When he notices his son’s missing limb, he snarls several words in a language I don’t know before switching back to the common tongue. “God-stars, sugar, did youhaveto do that?”
“It was spreading,” Clara replies. She’s trembling, her eyes shining with tears. “I had no choice. Heal him, Finias. You can heal him, can’t you?”
“Of course, dearest. Of course,” he answers in a softer tone. He squeezes her hand briefly, then moves in beside Killian and offers him a bright red candy. “Chew this carefully before you swallow.”
Anxiously I watch Killian chew the sweet. “Will that heal his leg?” I ask. “Can the Fae regrow their limbs?”
“Some of us can,” replies Finias. “Killian is a special case in many ways, because of his parentage and how he was born—”
“Son of a Faerie and a god-touched human, born at the change of seasons under a mirrored moon,” I say.
Finias looks at me more intently, his golden eyes warm with interest. “He told you.”
“Yes.”
“And this—” he points to the anklet, lying in a pile of black ash. “You said you wore it for a long time?”
“Yes.”
Finias glances at Clara, who nods and says, “That explains all the questions from him lately.” She turns her attention to her son. His eyes are open now, and he holds her gaze briefly before glancing away with a regretful grimace.
“I think it’s time for an explanation,” Clara says, in a tone of quiet authority. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell us about this anklet before now.”
“I asked around about it,” says Killian. “But I generally prefer to resolve my own problems rather than running to my parents. That’s how you raised us, after all. To be self-sufficient.”
“Self-sufficiency doesn’t mean you don’t ask for help!” Clara exclaims.
“I did ask for help!”
“Now then, you two,” interjects Finias. “The crisis is past, and while he heals, there is time for explanations. But first—a snack.” He leaps up, bounds over to the counter, and lifts the glass cover over a plate of frosted cookies. Taking three of them, he hands one to Clara and one to me, keeping the third for himself.
“I don’t get a cookie?” Killian raises an eyebrow.
“You’ll be eating more of the healing sweets in a moment. That’s quite enough for your system to handle.” Finias perches on a stool and crosses one long leg over the other. “And now, I think it’s time for our son’s companion to introduce herself. In fact, I would like to hear the whole story from her.”
His yellow eyes lock with mine. There’s an ageless depth in those eyes, and a keen intelligence underneath the playful sparkle of mischief. I get the impression that Killian’s father is both very kind and very, very dangerous. Rather like his mother.
“I’ll tell you everything,” I say. “But please don’t be angry with him. Whatever mistakes he made, he paid for them today.”
Clara and Finias are silent while I unfold the events of the past weeks, starting with the day my family received the Prince’s invitation. I speak quickly, summarizing large parts of the tale.
When I reach this evening’s events, Killian explains how he left the bridal reception early and hid in the Prince’s suite, in the study. He knew Brantley would go in there to fetch a book to read before bed, as was his habit. The moment Brantley walked into the study, Killian blew enchanted dust in his face to put him to sleep for a while, then returned to the bedroom glamoured as my new husband.
Throughout the tale, Clara has been sitting on the floor, holding her son’s hand. But when I finish describing the confrontation with my stepmother, she lays Killian’s hand down and rises. “This woman, this stepmother—she’s in the palace right now?”