Lexa
My heart skips a beat, then another, as Kaleb releases his grip on my arm. His dark, wavy hair is tied back, but rogue strands fall around his chiseled face. Everything about Kaleb is masculine. His height–several inches taller than me–tall enough that he has to look down at me–catches me off guard, as well as the way he moves with a predators grace–light on his feet but with determination in every step, muscles flexed, the fabric of his torn shirt rippling down his middle.
I think he’s about to cage me against the rough metal wall of the sparring ring, but he steps past me, reaching for a long, wooden spear, and fists it, turning gracefully with the weapon in his hand, like it’s his toy of choice.
“You’re going to learn to use these.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t just be fighting men in the Trials.” He whips the spear around and pins the point in the dirt with practiced grace, leaning his weight against it. “You’ll be up against much worse than men.”
“There’s nothing worse than men,” I counter, and he inspects me for a moment before giving me a smirk that ignites that heat I want to scrub from my body. It tingles, mixing with the guilt currently cutting through me like a dull blade, but I’m at its mercy. Austin died less than two days ago, I think, unless I was out for a while after being taken.
I thought he was attractive, yes. Of course I did, but he felt it far stronger than I did. I don’t want to think that, but…
This strange, overwhelming feeling only grows as Kaleb postures a few feet away. Sweat glints on his golden skin, highlighting a network of webbed, interlocking scars. I bristle as my gaze slowly moves up and down his body–what I can see, at least, beyond his clothing.
My mouth goes dry when he slowly takes off his shirt, his eyes locked on mine, crumbling it before tossing it against the wall. He’s massive. A god in the form of a man, really. He’s not lean by any means but sculpted in a way that shows me exactly how strong he is. He could break me into pieces with his hands. He could toss me over the sparring ring wall. He could smother me. He could–
“You’re in Pantharas, the capital of the fae kingdom, and over the next six weeks, you’ll compete in the Trials,” he says, his voice low and monotone. “Wherever you came from doesn’t matter. Whether anyone is coming to your aid doesn’t matter. You survived the Culling, and now you’re a victor, and I chose to sponsor you because you might actually make it out of this alive if you take it seriously.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, taking in his words. He continues, “If you win the Trials, if you somehow make it to the end and become the last person standing, you’ll be granted whatever your heart desires by the king. Riches. Gold. A castle overlooking the lake where the fae promenade.” He smirks, disgust in his eyes. “Whatever you want.”
“I want to go home.”
“Then win.”
He tosses the spear. I catch it by reflex, but it feels unnatural in my hands. Lanky and light, I fumble with where to put my hands, and he just watches me, taking notes, I think, based on the look on his face as he watches the way my fingers move over the smooth, worn wood.
“You use a bow primarily?”
“No,” I rush out, trying to stab the sharp end of the spear into the ground like he did, but it’s a lot more difficult than he made it look. “Twin blades, preferably.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Everyone has their favorite choice of weapon. My mother loves a bow; my father loves his fists,” I say with a shrug. “Or his teeth or claws. I like my blades.”
He glances at the wall where the weapons rest, scanning his inventory. Crude weapons, I realize upon further inspection. The metal doesn’t glint in the hot sunlight. Everything is dull, meant for practice, and very old.
All I want to do is run. I want to shift and take off, faster than the speed of light, tearing through everyone in my way, but I can’t feel my wolf at all. My senses feel as dull as the weapons hanging on rusted hooks.
I slowly turn back to Kaleb, who’s still eyeing me closely, like he’s waiting for me to suddenly strike.
“I believe I was given Wolfsbane,” I tell him, finally just tossing the spear to the ground and closing my arms over my chest. “I can’t remember a Goddess-damned thing. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I can’t feel my wolf anymore. I can’t feel anything but–”
“Hunger?”
I catch his gaze. He nods, stepping to the side to get out of the glare of the sun as it inches above the wall of the sparring ring, casting even more unrelenting heat directly onto us.
“You won’t be able to access your ability to shift at all unless the fae deem it appropriate.”
“What?”
“You can’t shift in the Glade. There might be a trial where the king lifts his shields and allows you to shift, but until that moment, you’re stuck in this current form.”
I let my arms fall to my sides. “He’s magically preventing wolves from shifting?”
He nods. “It’s always been like this.”
“Why? What’s going on here? The wall–the Culling–the–” I point at him with a sudden realization that rocks me to my core. The pointed ears, the strength, the height and beauty… “You’re fae too, but not completely.”
“We’re called halflings,” he says dryly, like this isn’t a surprise at all. “My father was a shifter, and my mother was not.”
“You’re harder to kill.”
“I am impossible to kill,” he corrects, and playful gleam lights in his golden-hazel eyes for a split second before they darken again. “But yes, halflings are very strong. We’re bred that way on purpose. Shifter strength, agility, and aggressiveness with a side of fae intelligence, at least they believe. There’s a small army of men like me, some women, too, but generally, we’re used for other purposes.”
My mouth goes painfully dry. “That’s terrible.”
He holds my gaze. “It is.”
“And these people?” I point to the door, where life simply moves on around us. “They’re stuck here, unable to shift? Unable to hunt?”
“Yeah.”
“Why haven’t you put an end to it? You’re their Alpha King.”
It strikes a nerve. His jaw twitches, and he finally breaks from the stare that’s been pulling me apart, piece by piece. “You’re not here for a history lesson. Pick up the spear and get–”
The door opens again quite suddenly, and Chastan reappears, this time with an elderly man, and Kaleb immediately stiffens. The old man looks at me and gives me a kind, grandfatherly smile that instantly shatters my heart. I think of my dad, then my grandpa, Isaac, and feel suddenly so utterly far from home that my knees go weak. Bile rises in my throat–fear, something I rarely feel. Something wholly new to me.
I only notice Kaleb staring at me with his eyes narrowed in what might be concern when Chastan says, drawing back his attention, “You’re being summoned to the gate.”
Kaleb cuts him off with a wave of the hand. “It’s the extra wood for the pyres. Otto, go down and tell the men putting the pyres together to meet me at the main gate to start moving logs down into the pit.” He glances at me before saying to Chastan, “Take her home. We’ll continue this tomorrow after the men return from the hunt.”
***
I’m not sure how to pass the time. My mind wanders and reels over how to get out of this situation, how to save Meg and Chessie, and my family back home, while I pace the snug, wood-lined bedroom Lis set me up in. It’s sparsely furnished and stifling in the heat of the day–early afternoon, from what I can tell. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I think that might be common around the Glade. No one looks well fed other than Kaleb and men like him–halflings. I wonder if their fae heritage has something to do with their size despite the nutritional odds stacked against them.
I only leave the room when I hear female voices through the floorboards. For a moment, I’m sure I hear Meg and race downstairs, panting as I skid to stop in front of the two unfamiliar women now cowering and owl-eyed behind Lis, who frowns up at me, a large basket of fabric at her feet.
“Sorry,” I murmur, and turn toward the stairs, but she stops me with a light touch on the arm.
“Don’t be. And you two, don’t be rude,” she chides the two young women still looking at me in awe. “This is Lexa, and she’s not as scary as she looks.”
Uh, thanks?
“Elise and Miriam were just stopping by to pick up a part for their loom. I had some extra fabric to give them, but they’re being awfully picky,” she continues with a hint of annoyance, and the young women, both mousy blondes with bright green eyes–maybe sisters, possibly twins–whip around and move to the door so swiftly they stumble over each other on their way out, slamming the door behind them, and leaving the fabric behind.
Lis sighs heavily, shaking her head.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t. You saved me, honestly. They’re beautiful girls but pea-brained, just like their mother.”
I clamp my lips together at the insult, especially from someone as innocent looking as Lis. She’s not innocent, I realize for maybe the second or third time. Lis is kind of mean. I like that about her. She reminds me of Maeve.
Lis is the queen of this house, just like Maeve is the Queen of Eastonia. I’m sure they’d get along.
She pats the swell of her belly as she looks at the door with another long, dramatic sigh, but my eyes are on the basket of fabric at her feet.
“Um, are you really not going to use that?”
“This? It’s just scrap. I was thinking of making rags–”
“Can I have it?”
“Why?” The accusation in her tone is sharp, but I get it. She doesn’t trust me. Yet. She’ll come around.
“I can sew. I need to make a new dress for the Trials. Mine got ruined.”
“You want to wear a dress during the Trials? Kaleb already has someone making you a set of armor. I’m actually supposed to be taking your measurements. I could do that now.”
“No need. And I don’t need armor. I just need some fabric, some leather cord, and a needle and thread.”
She looks me up and down in an appraising fashion that makes me wonder if she believes someone like me is able to sit still long enough to stitch fabric together.
“What? You don’t think a giantess like me can handle a needle and thread?”
“I’m just surprised. That’s all.” She motions to the basket. “It’s yours. Take it. I’ll give you some needles, but I’m going to count them in case you think you can slip one under your pillow and kill us all in your sleep.”
She tilts her head down a very narrow hallway with a door at the very end, which opens to a storage room, but in the corner there’s a loom, a tapestry half woven but covered in dust, like it hasn’t been touched in many years.
I watch her from the doorway as she gathers the supplies I need, but my eyes dart to the loom again. It’s the same as they all are–the same design, the same outcome.
I learned to weave from my aunt Freya. She’s the best at it. An artist. All of the girls my age did when we were young. It was part of our schooling. Some traditions didn’t die even with my modern father at the helm of our pack.
“It belonged to Kaleb’s sister, Alice,” she says, noticing my stare.
“Belonged?” The word cracks, splitting. I clear my throat.
“Alice died a few years ago in childbirth.” She rises, placing a small sewing box in my hand. “Ten years ago now, actually. I can’t believe it’s been that long.”
“How?” Something aches deep in my chest. I can’t put my finger on it, can’t find where the pain comes from. It’s like the grief lingering there doesn’t belong to me.
Lis takes a moment to reply. I’m about to apologize for prying when she says under her breath, “Female shifters cannot have fae babies.” Her eyes meet mine. She must see the question in my eyes because she continues so softly I almost miss it, “The wings, you know. They get stuck. Halflings always come from fae mothers. Alice was not fae.”
I have a sudden image of the twin scars along Kaleb’s back before I shove it away.