“Watch yourself. We are not immune to fae trickery,” William warned. “Fae are allies, not friends, and it is easy to die at the hands of an ally out here.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

Oscar shuffled behind William, who kept that hand tight around his revolver, eyes trained on the fae’s back. Waiting. Expecting the worst.

Though mortal kings and fae lords spent months toiling over agreements to prevent the races from slaughtering each other, they did little in the face of a fae’s murderous wrath. Agreeing to fight together didn’t prevent those like Oscar from stumbling into traps. Unfortunate deaths, not murder. The fae always found ways around deals struck, even those that benefitted them.

“A woman,” Oscar remarked with a soured expression, like a toddler sucking on a lemon. “I’ve always known fae to be a rotten bunch, but to send a woman to fight ain’t right. It is a horror waiting to happen.”

“You did not witness their battles today?”

“They were not the ones I was paying attention to.”

“You should. Always.” He gave Oscar a stern look. “The stories spun about fae are tame at best. They torture and curse so as not to kill us with their own hands. Most humans take their lives once a fae is through with them. Do not believe for a second their women aren’t equally vicious. They expect mortal men to underestimate them, and I’ve met many who did not live long enough to regret such decisions. Do you understand?”

Oscar nodded vigorously, then followed to the medical tents without further incident.

A dozen tents had been pitched along the outskirts of the battle, away from filth and along the line of pine trees. Oscar took to helping others outside while William entered.

Heat suffocated the interior. Orbs of flames lit the chaos and stole the chill. The injured spilled from cots to makeshift floor beds of hay and damp cloth. The stench of charred leather and excrement burned the corners of his eyes. Nurses hurried to attend to the worst injured while soldiers scurried past carrying corpses to make room.

“William,” a cheerful voice called.

Charmaine Tuckerton hurried forward, her military uniform seared up to the elbows and caked in crimson. A bandage wrapped around her bald head, and remnants of healing remedies stained her cheek.

Towering over most, Charmaine had little trouble shoving through the masses to wrap William in a tight embrace. “What a relief, you’re alive,” she muttered against his temple.

“I am relieved to see you, too. Has anyone looked at your head injury?” He settled a hand on her temple, catching the strings that felt too tight. She had a concussion.

“Yes, there is nothing to worry about, and we need our medics to tend to the others. I have nothing more than bumps and bruises otherwise. What about you? Are you injured? I wanted to join the initial search, but—”

“Tuckerton!” Charmaine jolted at the shout of the Head Medical Officer, Marsha Montgomery.

Montgomery went by her last name only. Never liked being called Marsha because the men scoffed at her before she entered a room. One of the very few female medical officials of her status, she had to be stern and borderline cruel to survive here. That’s probably why she was barely forty and already gray as a grandmother. She glared from across the tent, wrinkled tawny brown hands covered by the blood of a thrashing soldier she kept pinned to the table.

“Cauterize this wound, now! Move it, man!” Montgomery bellowed.

Charmaine’s expression fell. William squeezed her hand. That was the most either of them could do here. Others would see Charmaine as sick for daring to say she identified as a woman. No one could fathom why one born a man, supposedly mortal representations of the Holy Soul, would want to be a woman.

“Yes, sir!” Charmaine hurried to the back of the tent. Fire crept over her fingers. An anguished cry followed the hissing of flames and smoke.

Removing his jacket and rifle, William joined nurses at a nearby cot.

Hours passed. Darkness settled. Those meant to die, had. They laid in droves outside. Forty among them wore silver shrouds to represent lost fae. Resilient rabble. Forty had been the most fae lives lost in a single battle. Although, once a man spoke of an assault where seventy fell. No one believed him, and as expected, the fae cared little for their dead.

A group of the rotten dregs converged by one of the supply carts, belonging to the human troops. They had no issue stealing, and mortals ceased arguing. Fae were easily outraged and impatient to seek revenge for the smallest slight. A selfish lot. William despised them. Their nonchalance, their disdain, the general lack to feel outside their own greed and lust for mayhem. War was troublesome enough. Fighting alongside the fae made war worse. They were good for one thing and one thing only—

Fuchsia light burst through the camp, followed by a wave of blistering heat. The fae cried out. A series of victorious chants grew in the face of shadows closing in. The fuchsia flames dimmed to flickering sparks within the palms of a pompous fae.

The bastard and his entourage stepped into their kin’s circle. His raven hair sat a glorious mess atop his head, wound loosely at the nape, and roseate eyes brighter than gems. His tattered clothes hung against a muscled form. When he laughed, it was joyous and evil and proved what the fae were good for; fearsome power. Fae wielded magic better than the air they breathed. The pink tinted fire danced between his fingertips, illuminating his suave features. A face that most would look enviously upon.

Perhaps fae were good for two things. They had always been charming to admire, flawless and magnificent. Everything anyone could yearn for, and even what they wouldn’t expect. As much as William, and many others, hated working alongside fae, none denied their grace made the sun shy. Yet another weapon in their long arsenal, a way to deceive lonely and desperate souls.

Charmaine appeared carrying the heavy aroma of disinfectant, wafting from the towel wiping her raw hands clean. “Nicholas Darkmoon,” she whispered, awestruck.

“You speak his name as if we are to be impressed,” he said.

“We should. He’s the son of a High Fae who holds tremendous power. The fae revere him, in their manner, and thus revere his son.”

“All I see is a cursed jackass who likes to show off.”

Sweat dripped from his brow thanks to Nicholas’ infernal flames. The sparks danced over his broad shoulders, flickering at his back like feathered wings. Such magic was unnatural, tainted, and wielded by the enemy they battled against. Thus, the sight of Nicholas put him on edge.

“Lockehold must have had something.” A hopeful gleam caught in Charmaine’s down-turned eyes. “I heard Nicholas was sent more as a delegate, but he has been appearing frequently during important battles. Rumors say he throws tantrums after a boring siege.”

“Only a fae would call any siege boring.”

“If I had to wager, he is in a good mood. Lockehold is the key to the Deadlands. We’ve broken through. There must be little more left to do. We can go home. I can…” Charmaine said no more, less she risks unpleasant interactions with the simpleminded.

“Albie,” William whispered. He hated using that name, but they agreed the nickname was better than her deadname so it wasn’t an utter torment to use. He pressed a finger beneath her chin, gentle and nurturing, to break that hopeful gaze away from creatures intent on snuffing it out. “Do not trust hope. She’s a painful and disappointing mistress.”

“Hope has never failed me. Hope gave me you.”

“A group of ruthless boys with a lot to prove and a pained cry brought us together. At most, a dose of dumb luck.”

“Such optimism, William. Where ever did you acquire it?” Charmaine sank to the floor. “I want to sleep through the night and have three meals a day with snacks in between. I want to… be myself. I want this damned war to be over. I want to go home,” she whispered in a breathless voice others shared in the middle of the night when they believed no one listened. William, too.

He wanted to hope. He dreamed of home, of afternoon tea, his favorite asiatic lilies in the garden, a soft bed, a mother’s comforting embrace, his brother’s teasing laughter, and his father telling him long-winded stories. What he remembered of that, anyway. What he hoped he still loved about normalcy.

He craved the life before suffering, war, and cursed fae, like the annoyed one heading their way with fuchsia flames at his back.