Priestess of Storms & Stone by Annie Anderson

Author:Annie Anderson [Anderson, Annie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Urban Fantasy
Published: 2020-03-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

The brightly lit cave was filled with every manner of Fae, but dwarves took up a large portion of the populace.

I was no stranger to Fae lore. I’d had a fascination with their stories since I’d heard my very first one. Ethereals—even the ones I hadn’t heard of—were easy to figure out. But Fae? There was always some convoluted reason for skinning someone or stealing a child or gnawing on bones. And there were so many kinds and so many variations. And I wouldn’t even start on fantasy books.

But none of them had pegged dwarves correctly.

Yes, they were short—the tallest one was no more than chest-high. Yes, they were stout—their thick legs and strong arms seemed fit for hauling rocks or mining gems. But they didn’t have bushy beards or jolly faces. No, these dwarves were battle-ready in head-to-toe armor. But they didn’t carry axes or swords. Each one had a war hammer in their hands, the dual-sided mallet fit for crushing rocks or skulls depending on their mood.

And the mood in here was three steps past hostile.

We were not welcome. Message received.

My first instinct was to draw on the earth to see if I could steal their weapons away from them. But I knew if I did that, they would never trust me.

No, I couldn’t win them over by force.

The best course of action I had was to see if I could talk them down. It wasn’t my strongest skill, but it was what I had.

Elbowing past Rowan and ignoring Aidan, my mother’s, and Alistair’s whispered threats, I walked closer to the horde, raised my hands, and sat in the middle of the floor.

“I’m called Max. We mean you and yours no harm.” Glancing around the room, I spotted a bevy of split lips and black eyes, a few broken arms, and other injuries. “What happened here? Are your people okay?”

The dwarf closest to me seemed confused, not expecting the question at all. His eye was swollen shut, his nose a bloody mangled mess. His left arm didn’t look right, either—like it wasn’t quite attached properly. He shifted his weight before dropping the hammer to his side, his one good arm barely holding onto the heavy weapon. Through what was close to a thick Scottish brogue, he asked, “You worry after my people?”

I covered my mouth with a hand, worried I’d made a mistake. Nowhere in Fae lore did it say compassion was a bad thing. “Is that not done here? I meant no offense.”

A few more warriors lowered their weapons, eyeing me with a suspicious air.

“I’m called Aramal, and no offense taken. A lass blew through here a night or so ago carrying a wee baby with her. She wanted past, but she was of demon blood, and Faerie is a dangerous place for people of that sort. When we wouldn’t let her through, she put a spell on us. Made us want to fight our own.”

None of this was good news. Like none of it. Why

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