House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(9)

“We were trapped for five hundred years, Fallon. And then again for twenty—”

“I’m not spending the best years of my life trapped in a cavern in the clouds, away from civilization.”

Lore releases a muted snort. “Are we not civilized enough for your taste?”

I joggle my head.

My father doesn’t seem to mind my comment as much as Lorcan, because what he plucks out from all I said is: “The best years?”

“Unlike you, I’m not immortal.” My origin smacks me upside the head. “Or am I?”

“As long as your magic is bound”—the Crow King gazes toward the glassed-in openings that overlook the dense spill of the Racoccin woods—“you are not immortal.”

My father swallows, probably because my unfortunate state reminds him of my mother and her bound magic. “Another reason you must stay here, ínon. No harm can come to you up here.”

“No harm, perhaps, but also no good,” I mutter, calculating how many slippers I’ll go through pacing these stone hallways. “I will grow dottier than a Fae high on sprite urine.” At Kahol’s rumpled brow, I add, “I’ve not tried it; I was merely told about its effect. Besides, I’m not Fae so pee probably wouldn’t affect me. What will affect me, though, is being trapped up here. I’ll develop highland fever. You do not want that. Trust me. Ask my friends. They’ll tell you how impossible and maddening I can become.”

Come to think of it, losing my mind may incite them to toss me from their nest . . .

My predicament draws a smirk to Lorcan’s lips. “It is not your predicament that amuses me, Fallon, but your thought process.”

Kahol makes a choking sound, and his face reddens . . . purples. Oh, Cauldron, what did he ingest?

“Lorcan!” I yell because Lore’s ass is still in his seat.

Kahol lurches to his feet so suddenly that it topples his bench. The bang thuds as loudly as the frenzied beats of my heart as I also leap to my feet, ready to vault over the table and pump his chest. I’ve only just found the man. I cannot lose him to—to—

I scan the food platter to figure out what he could’ve eaten . . . an asparagus? A carrot? I cannot lose my father to a vegetable.

He’s immortal, Fallon. Lore’s words douse a little of my anguish. “You will not lose him to produce.”

“No.” My father’s brow glistens with fury. “No!”

I don’t—I don’t understand . . . “What’s going on?”

Lorcan tips his head, golden eyes steady on his friend’s. “I meant to tell you.”

My eyebrows bend in confusion.

“You meant . . .?” My father spits, barking out a laugh that freezes the torrent of adrenaline inside my veins. Sober again, he sweeps both his palms down his face, smearing his black makeup some more, and growls like a Selvatin leopard.

“What the underworld is happening? Is this some side effect from being a crow-shaped block of obsidian?” Although my voice is high-pitched, neither man pays me any mind.

No. Is that a smile in Lorcan’s mind-voice?

I’m probably imagining his internal delight, because he sports the look of a bad tidings’ carrier.

“You know how it works, my friend.” The king is calm, calm, calm, whereas my heart has morphed into a thieving halfling being chased by an entire battalion of Fae, and a couple serpents. “You know one does not choose.”

“Sí mo ínon!” I sense my father’s roaring something about me being his daughter.

“I’m aware, Cathal, but it could’ve been worse. She could’ve ended up mated to Aodhan.”

Color leaches from Kahol’s streaked face.

“Who’s Aydawn, and why are we discussing me being mated to that man?”

“For all my desire to bring my Crows back from Shabbe, I wouldn’t mind leaving that one behind.”

Okay, so Aydawn is a Crow, and apparently not a favorite of Lore’s. It doesn’t ferry me any closer to understanding what has gotten my father’s armor in a twist.

Kahol squeezes his lids shut and drops his head back. He seems to be imploring the sky for strength. “If you hurt her, Lore, you better pray for Mórrígan to lend me mercy.”

“Have you met your daughter? Odds are rather high that I’ll be in need of your pity more than your mercy.” Lorcan utters this with a kinked smile that my father does not return.

“Can one of you please explain what the underworld’s going on?” When Lorcan pins me with his citrine stare, my hands find purchase on my hips. “What?”

“I need—” Kahol’s throat dips. “I need to fly.” He looks at me, then at Lorcan, and then he says something that includes my biological mother’s name, Mórrígan’s, and a whole lot of headshaking, before he streaks across the tavern, liquefying to smoke long enough to squeeze under the closed doors.

I grab every piece of information that’s been tossed my way over the course of this strange get-together and stir, trying to smooth the lumps, but many remain.

“Do you remember when you mind-walked into that memory of Bronwen and me on that hill?”

“Yes. She explained she could not marry you, which disappointed her father.”